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eleven

HUNTER

Mollie and her friends will be at the bar, and they’ll be talking about me. I know these things like facts. So I’m reluctant to go out with Scott and Tyler. I do anyway, hungry for more time with Mollie and, OK, yes, more information.

Am I merely part of her “summer adventure story” or is there more to this?

They’re at a hotel rooftop bar in the middle of the main strip of town. We’re only about four stories up, as high as buildings in Telluride get, but it’s still open-air. The air is crisp, having cooled down after sunset. The women are wearing jackets. Tyler brought Zoe, who I recognize immediately by her signature red scarf.

Sophie, who is apparently about to move to a state where weed is illegal, is asking Zoe about her vape pen. Scott is flirting with Nora, as usual. And Mollie is asking Tyler why he moved to Telluride—making him shift foot to foot.

“I retired sort of abruptly and needed a change,” he says, a line I’ve heard him use before when he’s trying to get out of this topic of conversation. I come up behind him and clap him on the back.

“Hi, Mollie,” I say, without moving closer. I’m pretty sure we’re not in a “greet each other with a kiss hello” relationship.

Her smile up at me makes me wonder. “Hi, Hunter.” We stare at each other for a beat too long, and Tyler looks between us with eyebrows raised.

“Um,” Mollie goes on. “I was asking Tyler why Telluride? I mean, it’s gorgeous. But it’s so small and doesn’t it get snowed in during the winter?”

“We get plenty of snow here,” I agree. Of course the idea of living in Telluride sounds ridiculous to a city girl. I try to ignore the twinge from her criticism—it’s a reminder she won’t stay. “Does anybody need another drink?”

“You sit down,” Tyler says quickly, taking the opening I left him. “I’ll get us all a round.”

Tyler is one of those people who came to Telluride to escape. He doesn’t mind being cut off from the rest of the world. That was one of his goals, as a man who once appeared on many front pages and TV news programs. He doesn’t like explaining that to strangers, either.

I sit down on the bench beside Mollie and she smiles at me. Again, it crosses my brain that she’s waiting for a more robust greeting. I’m not sure, so the moment passes. “Have you ever lived anywhere else? Or are you addicted to the adventures?” she asks.

“Yes, nailed it.” I reply, even though it’s not quite that easy. She’s right that living in Telluride isn’t easy, even as a local. It’s hard to find sustainable work and housing here. “At first it was just seasonal work, from back when I was a teen. I actually started as a ski instructor. And then I met Tom and started helping during shoulder season. Eventually, he was able to offer me a year-round job. It made sense. I’m lucky. I get to do work I love full-time.”

“It can’t pay very well, though, right?” Nora sits down on Mollie’s other side and Scott crashes onto the bench beside me.

“Do you need a drink?” Scott asks me. Now it’s my turn to be saved by a friend. Obviously, I don’t like talking about my salary or how little I’m saving for the future. Or how my body will eventually give out and I’ll be out of work, much like Tyler—who at least had a more lucrative career before that happened.

“Tyler’s getting them,” Mollie says.

“I’m going to see if he needs help,” I say, hopping up.

The question I’m running away from is a fair one. And Nora’s probably making sure her friend doesn’t get any long-term ideas about “a fling.”

Standing at the bar with Tyler, I glance back at them. Nora and Mollie are laughing at something Scott said. Scott and Nora’s flirtation is clearly so flimsy it will blow away by the end of the week. And that’s probably what Mollie wants from me, too. I know it’s what Nora and Sophie want from me for their friend. I’m really trying to be that for Mollie—if only so I can spend more time with her.

It would be easier if I was that kind of guy. The kind I look like to them: the happy-go-lucky, not-worried-about-tomorrow kind of guy. The truth is, I worry constantly. How late is too late to start a 401k? What skills am I building that I can lean on in the future? Who am I going to grow old with?

It won’t be Mollie. She’s leaving at the end of the week. But instead of telling myself I’m wasting my time with her, I’m greedy for the time we have. I wish we were alone right now, instead of in this crowd.

“You’ve got it bad, huh?” Tyler says, startling me out of my staring contest with the future I can’t have.

“Oh, um…”

Shrugging, he hands me two pint glasses. “I’m not going to tell you to be careful. Sometimes something unexpected turns into the most fun you ever had. Maybe you should go with the flow. For once.”

Go with the flow . Tyler’s words dance inside me as my eyes meet Mollie’s. For a moment the rest of the bar disappears and all I see is how her entire face brightens with her big smile. A big smile that feels like it’s only meant for me. “Yeah, I’m good at that.”

Pulling me back into the conversation, Tyler smirks. “Think of it like a river you’re navigating. You have to go with the current. Plus, steering around obstacles can be the best part.”

“Is Mollie the river in this metaphor?”

“Mollie’s in the boat with you, man.”

Following Tyler back to the table, I wonder about his advice. Is Mollie in this with me? Watching her raise her head and smile at me again as I come nearer, I want to believe she is. After only a few days knowing her, I’m not sure and I don’t know how I’d ask.

“You two are so cute,” Sophie says. “Stop pretending you’re not super into each other.”

Mollie and I freeze.

“This isn’t high school; you don’t have to update your social media status,” Sophie goes on. “We get it. You’re in a situationship. It’s fine. You’re allowed to touch.”

I sit back down beside Mollie, carefully not touching her. I don’t know what she wants here. Am I supposed to deny it?

“We’re the ones who told you to have some fun this week!” Nora adds.

“Well, in that case,” Scott says, and switches sides on the bench to sit so close to Nora he’s practically in her lap. She laughs and shoves at him.

“Yeah, we’re…yeah.” Mollie bites her lip.

So I put my arm around her. After all, I want what I can have while it’s here.

She tucks in under my arm like she’s cold, and holds the hand that’s draped over her shoulder.

“Awww,” coos our group of friends. Then they turn back to their various distractions. Like it’s no big deal, what just happened. Like we didn’t declare ourselves in the middle of a fucking tragedy.

My body relaxes involuntarily with Mollie pressed up against me, despite the torrent of emotions ripping me up inside. This feels like where I’m supposed to be, even though I know our future. But I like the feel of her in my arms too much to protect myself from the pain.

I’ve decided Mollie needs a chance to enjoy riding the bike, so the next day I take her on a flat gravel trail without any features. I watch her as closely as I can while we go down the trail, single-file in some places, and catch her smiling more than gritting her teeth in concentration like she did when we were mountain biking the other day.

I like seeing her happy when we’re together.

Unfortunately, the weather doesn't cooperate. It’s sunny and warm in the morning when we set out, but rain clouds roll in around the time we stop for lunch. It doesn’t sound like a thunderstorm, so I find us a pair of large trees to shelter under.

How do I tell Mollie it’s OK for her to enjoy this kind of ride more than the other one without sounding patronizing? I try asking, “Was this ride more fun than the last one?”

She laughs. “Thanks for taking it easy on me.”

“Well, it’s less technical, but a long ride like this probably takes more endurance. You’re getting in a great workout for your heart.”

“You always have a positive spin.”

Shaking my head, I survey her, noting she’s not quite meeting my eyes. “You don’t have to be good at everything.”

“I’m in no danger of that!”

The way I see Mollie is, she’s brave. She doesn’t pick things up easily and she knows it, yet she’s willing to try anything—and keep trying when she doesn’t succeed. It’s not something I see much, working with men who have muscle memory for basically any athletic activity and mostly gave up on anything else. Tom has more or less stopped doing math—because he’s not good at it—something that alarms me every time I see his paperwork. He keeps track of income and expenses on two separate spreadsheets that rarely see each other. And won’t let me streamline the system. It’s how he avoids beating himself up for what’s not going well.

Unlike Tom, Mollie dives in whether she thinks it will go well or not.

“I think it’s great that you don’t mind being bad at some things.”

She makes a face at me. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean…” I rub at the nap of my neck. “It’s hard. To admit you’re not good at something. And then to keep doing it.”

“The definition of insanity? Expecting a different outcome?”

“It’s also OK if you want to stop. You don’t have to do all the activities this week, you know. If you’re not enjoying it. We don’t even have to keep axe-throwing.”

“I like axe-throwing with you,” is all she says.

“You’re not just saying that because…” I pause, reluctant to inadvertently criticize her.

“Because?” She looks at me. She sniffs, her nose likely running as the sweat evaporates off our bodies.

“Well, because it’s what I want to do. I don’t want to be like your friends, getting you to do things you don’t really want to do all the time.”

She makes a face and looks away. I’m worried I annoyed her with my inability to keep my thoughts to myself. My worries to myself.

“It’s not that,” she says. “I might not be axe-throwing if it wasn’t for Nora and Sophie, or I might not still be axe-throwing if not for you. But I like that. I like getting the chance to do something I wouldn’t normally do because of the people I can do it with. It’s sort of a luxury to keep going back over and over. My friends in Denver would give up after one try. And I’d decide I was bad at it and never go back again.”

“You could spend a lot of time only doing things once,” I observe. Most of the people who come on our adventure tours do that. They try things once, decide they know enough about it, and probably spend the rest of their lives talking about that one time they did it.

“I’m kind of tired of that shallow life,” Mollie says, so quietly I almost can’t hear her over the rain. “I could stand to go deep on a few more things.”

And then it starts pouring. I don’t think the afternoon shower will last long, but it’s turned the air chilly and Mollie and I are both wearing summer clothes—padded shorts and light jerseys. I can’t believe I didn’t pack rain jackets. Of course it’s going to rain in Telluride in the afternoon. But they weren’t in my pack.

I offer her my arm to nestle under for warmth and she does without hesitation. We stand under the trees, shivering and looking out at the puddles forming, and I wonder if she feels the same way I do: that we’re lucky.

Last night, I started reading a book about the art of letting go. It says that knowing you can’t hold onto something can make it seem even more precious—and that in itself is a good reason to be willing to let go. Holding on can be a hindrance, the book claims.

Even though it’s not going to last, in this moment, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere except right here with Mollie. She’s putting out heat next to me, which probably means she’s freezing, but she’s smiling out at the weather. And she’s holding onto me.

Maybe, if this were forever, it wouldn’t feel as good to me.

This is something I'm not good at: enjoying a moment that won’t come again. Damn if I’m not going to try.

The Trouble Trio are trying to convince Mollie not to be nervous about the overnight stay in the woods.

“Well, when was the last time you spent the night on the ground?” She finally asks, logically. “In bear country?”

“Oh come on, we don’t have to worry about bears.” Standing safely in the lobby of the adventure center, one of the guys looks completely confident in his incorrect statement.

“We are definitely camping in bear country,” I volunteer. “That’s why we’re bringing a bear can.”

“A bear can?” repeats Sophie, sounding doubtful.

The guy trying to score with Mollie puffs up. “They’re more scared of us than we are of them.”

“That might be true, but when there’s food involved, it changes the equation,” I say. I’ve given this spiel a hundred times. I look around to ensure everyone else in the lobby is listening. I’ve caught their attention by talking about bears, an animal most of them would have never seen outside a zoo. “The most important thing is to keep the bears from associating food with humans. That is dangerous for both us and them.”

I sit them all down in front of the laptop I set up in the lobby and have them watch one of the educational videos my friend Valentine made. It teaches about bear safety, and since it’s fast-paced and cut for social media, it’s fun to watch.

It’s only an overnight trip. We’ll drive deep enough into the mountains not to hear highway traffic and then walk a few miles, in a loop that will bring us directly back to the car the next day. We’ll see an alpine lake and a waterfall on the trip, as an incentive. But it’s an easy trail with mild elevation gain and we’ll be back tomorrow.

Still, Scott and I prepare like we’re going to war.

Besides the bear can, the most important thing I’m bringing on this trip is pain meds. I know from experience there’s going to be a lot of complaining about the weight of the backpacks and the miles we’re putting in—even though we set a slow pace.

I look over at Scott, who rattles a bottle he’s putting in his bag at me. I grin and rattle mine back.

I’d like to catch a moment or two alone with Mollie this trip. Maybe take her up above the waterfall, where we don’t usually take the group for fear of eroding the trail with too many feet. I haven’t talked to Scott about it, worried he’ll tease me for breaking the rules. I’ve warned him before to put distance between himself and women on these trips, where they might feel the forced proximity like a threat. It would be fair for him to remind me of that advice.

Mollie had asked me if we could share a tent and I had to tell her I didn’t think it was a good idea. But I liked that she’d asked.

When we head out, everyone is in a cheerful mood. Sophie, Nora, and the 20-something Trouble Trio whose names seem interchangeable are rowdy in the back of the van we drive to the trailhead.

Within two hours into the back country hike, there are complaints. They’re the usual ones about the weight of the bags, even though Scott and I are carrying more than our share of the weight for the trip. And there are doubts about the elevation gain, which is gradual but steady. I remind everyone of the beautiful lake we’ll see later today. “It’s an alpine lake. It’s above tree line.”

When no one is looking, I check in with Mollie. She’s been quiet so far on the hike. “Feeling OK? No hot spots in your shoes? How’s the bag fitting?”

She shakes her head, eyes on her feet. “I’m OK. Ready to get there.”

“We have another couple of hours,” I warn her. “Let me know if you need a break.”

She nods. She acts determined to tough it out, which worries me. Complainers are annoying, but at least they’re not going to suffer in silence. The quiet ones are the ones who let blisters form that prevent them from walking or sneak food into their tent that attracts wildlife.

I would be checking on Mollie either way, and this tells me something about her. She’ll tough it out even when she knows better.

Even more reason for me to keep our relationship—or whatever it is—light. I don’t want her to feel trapped in a relationship she’s only in for the sake of her friends. I don’t want her to make bad decisions while suffering in silence.

Scott is leading, so I do a count and check on the stragglers at the back of the group. Nora and Sophie, surprisingly strong hikers, are keeping up with Scott. The boys still trying to impress them are marching along at the front of the group, too. A mom and one of the teenagers are at the back. I offer them some encouragement and offer to take something out of their bags to lighten the load. They both refuse.

Bringing up the rear of the party, I spend some time thinking about how to get some alone time with Mollie that isn’t irresponsible.

Everyone forgets about their complaints, at least for a moment, when we get to the lake. It glows blue from the glacier melt and the sun hitting it perfectly in the late afternoon.

“Can we set up camp here?” asks the mom. Someone always wants to know this at this point in the trip.

Some of the guys start taking off their bags.

“We can’t camp here,” I warn. “It’s too exposed and no one can poop this close to the lake.”

“Eww,” a chorus responds.

Scott laughs and I shrug. “That’s the reality.” I glance at Mollie to see if she finds my earthy topics gross, but she’s simply listening. She hasn’t taken her backpack off.

One of the other women has an expression like something horrible has dawned on her. “Are there bathrooms where we’re camping?” Apparently, someone didn’t read the literature we gave them. Valentine has another video on this topic I should have showed them.

Smirking, Scott just his chin at me to answer. “There are no bathrooms out here. And we need to pack it out, so we have wag bags and a shovel.”

Several people groan.

“We really are on an adventure,” Mollie murmurs. I like her even more in this moment.

We eventually make it to our planned camp site and start setting up. Some of the guys need help setting up their tents or pounding in stakes, but don’t ask for it, which is why Scott and I carry extra stakes to use once participants have bent theirs beyond use. We let them work out their frustration for a while and help people who will accept it. People like Mollie, who quietly asks me whether she needs her rain fly or can keep it off, so she can look out at the stars once it gets dark.

“I recommend you put it on.” My mouth drags down. “We might get a shower and it helps with insulation. Also…” I lower my voice and peer around to make sure nobody is listening. “This way, if you sneak out of your tent in the middle of the night and come to mine, nobody will be able to tell you’re not in there.”

She smiles. And puts on the rain fly.

We cook soup for dinner and pass around crusty bread. It’s one of the easier meals to make and carry on a short, one-night trip that’s still warm and comforting. A couple of people brought their own freeze-dried meals that they abandon in favor of real food. A few people complain about the lack of a campfire, even though we’ve told them over and over that there’s a drought.

After, I give them all the spiel—again—about locking up all the food and changing into different clothes to sleep in. I know a few of them are freaked out by the thought of bears entering our camp in the dark, and I let them worry about the unlikely event. Better than being too casual about putting food away.

I try to give Mollie a conspiratorial look before she climbs into her tent, and it’s ruined by the headlamps we’re both wearing. I end up shining my light into her eyes, which she ducks away from. “Sorry,” I whisper, wincing.

Before climbing into my own tent, I check in with Scott. He walked the perimeter of the camp site and double checked the bear can. We counted everyone getting into their tents for the night. Everything’s safe enough for us to close our eyes.

“Noticed you set up your tent pretty close to Mollie’s,” he comments wryly as we look up at the sky, darker and more full of stars than the one over town.

“Coincidence,” I shrug.

“Sure,” he says, a smirk in his voice, before he leaves me to turn in.

Slipping into my tent, at first I hesitate over zipping the flaps closed. My phone has no service out here, so I can’t text to ask Mollie whether she’s coming. I climb into my sleeping bag and listen. The camp is quiet, still.

It’s a little chilly with the tent open to the elements, so I reach to close it right as I hear the sound of a tent nearby unzipping. It’s hard to tell whether it’s coming from the direction of Mollie’s. It could easily be someone else, already needing a pee.

A minute later, someone pulls at the flap of my tent. My heart stops for a second, the darkness and all the talk of bears getting to me. Then, against the gentle starlight, I make out the outline of Mollie. She throws her sleeping bag in, squeezes into the tent beside me, and zips it up behind her.

“Hi,” she whispers, so soft I almost can’t hear her even though her face is right next to mine.

“Hi.” I match her quietness.

“Is this still OK?” she asks, pausing with her hand still on the zipper. “I can try to leave before anyone else gets up. Do you think you’ll wake up first?”

“I usually do.” Her warm breath against my lips is making me hard. I can’t stop it. My dick seems to think that a tent surrounded by other people is the perfect place to have sex. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Tomorrow will bring more complaints and a return to the real world, but right now that all seems far away. Mollie and I are in our own bubble, where nothing can reach us.

“It’s cold,” she murmurs, biting her lip. “Colder than I expected.”

“Get in and turn over,” I whisper, trying to overcome her second-guessing.

She zips herself into her sleeping bag and turns her back to me so I can spoon her the best I can, still cocooned in my own bag. I long for the feel of her skin against mine. Instead, I rest my cheek on the cold, plastic-y lining. She kisses the hand that’s holding close to her chest.

When she bumps her butt into my groin, snuggling closer to me, even with the layers between us, I smile. I like the closeness of this tent and the quietness all around us. I even like that we can’t do much more than hold each other. This intimacy is more than I’m used to on a hiking trip. I could get used to it.

But I shouldn’t.

After a few minutes like that, and as I’m almost drowsy enough to sleep, she breaks the silence.

“How do people fall asleep out here?” she asks softly. “It’s so quiet.”

I snuffle against the back of her neck. “That’s one of the things people like about it.”

“No, I know…OK, please don’t judge me, but I usually have music or TV on when I fall asleep.”

Snorting, I snuggle her closer to me. “Does it help to think about all the animals out there living their lives, just beyond this tent? It’s like a wildlife soap opera out there.”

“Um, no. That doesn’t help me to think about animals right outside our flimsy tent,” she hisses.

“Do you need a distraction? I think we’ve established you’re very reward-motivated. Maybe I can help.”

She stills. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” I whisper, slowly easing the zipper on her sleeping bag open. “Is this too cold?”

She shakes her head, the wisps of her hair brushing against my nose.

It takes some quiet maneuvering, some muted grunting followed by checking in with each other that our limbs are in comfortable positions, until I can get my arm deep into her sleeping bag.

It’s hot inside, pressed close against her skin. My nose is up against her neck, under her hair, where despite the rigors of the day I still get the scent of coconut.

I wiggle my hand down toward her core, Mollie shifting her body around to help me get there. I don’t need the help; I memorized the map of her the other day. It’s forever stored in my mind—the curve of her hip and the feel of the soft tuft of hair along her pussy filed with important things like the best route to summit Mt. Sneffels and how to change a tire.

My hand traces the route now, in the darkness of the tent, finding its way to where she’s already wet for me. I listen to her short breaths and can feel her chest moving under my arm. “I bet you’re not thinking about the wildlife now,” I murmur into the shell of her ear, causing her to emit a slight gasp. A bear could pass right outside our tent and so long as it didn’t stick its nose inside, neither of us would care.

We’re both silent, only the slide back and forth of my shirt on the vinyl material of her sleeping bag hinting at the thrusting I’d like to be doing. I’m so hard, she may be able to feel me poking her in the back despite the double padding between us.

I’ve never had sex in a tent before. I can smell the arousal, trapped in this close space with us.

Kissing her neck, biting a little, whining softly against her skin, I rub her little nub of nerves and flex and bend my fingers so that I can reach into her. Her tiny gasps are muted, an attempt to keep this between us, and I love that. As much as I love hearing her loudly moan for me, I love hearing her keep us quiet too. I want it all with Mollie.

Desperately, I want her hands on me right now, but this is so good too. I can taste the way the skin of her neck is growing hotter. I can feel her clit swelling. Her breasts are heaving against my arm.

When she comes, she goes rigid and then collapses against me. I carefully pull my hand back out of her pants and her sleeping bag, shaking off the tightness. Instead of bringing my fingers to my mouth, I roll onto my back and shove my hand down my own sleeping bag, using the slickness of my hand to try to bring myself some relief.

Mollie, cocooned in her bag, huffs as she rolls over. Once her chin is tucked between my neck and shoulder, she whispers, “Let me do that.” And shoves her hand down my front.

“Fuck,” I hiss—too loudly. I try to remember who our nearest neighbor is, and then I’m distracted by Mollie’s soft, cold hand around my dick. She runs her fingers up and down my shaft, then around the hair at the base. She grasps me, taking the weight of me in her hand. Then she does it again.

She’s mapping me, I realize. The way I did her. She’s taking time to learn my body, and I give her what she needs: I softly respond to her exploration, releasing huffs of breath when her curious fingers go somewhere I particularly like. I close my eyes and let her feel her way, using her hand to tug and swirl, running a finger over the sensitive head, making me swell even further in my pants.

It doesn’t take long.

I come inside my underwear like a teenager, and thank goodness I brought an extra pair on this overnight trip because I’m going to need them.

She curls up against me, tucked into her bag, and “hmms” softly in my ear. “I think I can sleep now.”

“Hmm…” Words are too difficult for me.

She drifts off quickly, her breath growing even against my neck. Now I’m the one thinking about how quiet it is between us and how there are more and more words being left unsaid.