Page 13

twelve

MOLLIE

After a long, hot shower to get the camping trip off me, all I really want is to crawl into bed. But Nora and Sophie told everyone tomorrow’s my birthday, and also invited themselves along on my axe-throwing date with Hunter. And I hate to miss any time with Hunter—it’s so limited.

When I woke up this morning to the gentle way he rubbed my shoulders and encouraged me to consciousness so I could crawl back to my tent before anyone else woke up, for those first few sleepy moments I imagined it was the first morning of many. Hunter and I, waking up like this. Hunter and I, whispering together at night before we both fall asleep.

Briefly, I thought we were at the beginning of a long journey together. I went back to my tent and cried softly to myself for a few minutes, with no one around to see. It’s not that I’ve never faced heartbreak before. It’s that this one seems so unnecessary. Who am I to travel to the middle of nowhere and meet the man of my dreams?

Anyway, my friends tell me I need to squeeze the last bit of juice out of my 20s.

Everyone else shows up when we get to the axe-throwing place—Scott, Tyler, Zoe, and even Tom. Hunter acts a little different when Tom is around, stiffer and less aware of me. So I’m not thrilled to see him—or any of them, turning me into the center of attention.

Their presence does apparently mean free drinks. The owner of the axe-throwing alley comes out with a pitcher of draft beer, shouting, “I hear we have a birthday!”

“Dirty 30!” Nora cheers.

And then Tom pulls out a box of assorted pastries. “These are from Dorothy. I stopped by before the cafe closed and she gave me everything she was going to throw out. No offense, Mollie. She also sent along a cupcake for you.”

He lights a single candle on top of the cupcake and everyone in the venue sings before I blow it out. It’s incredibly embarrassing and also really nice. I can’t remember the last birthday I had where a group of friends got together and sang to me. I was probably a kid.

Let this birthday be the beginning of a decade where I really live, I wish silently. My 20s were full of trying to live up to who people wanted me to be—my mom, my friends, even myself. Now I’m ready to be a grown up who knows who she is and isn’t afraid of that reality.

Sharing two lanes, we all line up and throw axes. I am by far the worst at it. Even Nora and Sophie hit the target most of the time. My axes are still going wide, not sticking, or landing on the outside edge. At least I still feel like a bad ass every time I pick up an axe; that’s what keeps me going.

That and the way Hunter asks every time before he puts his hands on me to adjust my form.

Tom, who has not stopped refilling his plastic cup since he got here, finally asks about it. “Aren’t you two dating? She’s probably OK with you touching her, Hunter.”

Tyler and Scott both guffaw.

Behind me, Hunter’s skin goes hot after the comment. I know he’s not thrilled that his boss thinks he’s “dating” me. Hunter’s need to impress Tom—to show him he can do more—reminds me of me. If Tom doesn’t think he’s a professional, he certainly won’t give him more responsibility.

“Consent is important,” Hunter says stiffly.

“Aww,” coo Nora and Sophie.

“Why hasn’t someone scooped this guy up yet?” Sophie murmurs to Nora, at the same time Tom is protesting that he believes in consent, too.

“Because he lives in a remote town and works a seasonal job,” Nora replies dryly.

“Oh, right.”

Hunter’s job isn’t seasonal, though. He and Scott are the only employees Tom keeps on year-round. Hunter told me Tom can’t afford more than that. If I told them that, I’d probably have to tell them they work just under the minimum that would require Tom to provide them benefits. And they’d be appalled. I was shocked when Hunter mentioned it. He added that Tom’s insurance would cover things like accidents. “I’m not totally reckless,” he insisted.

Of course, I know Hunter is far from reckless. Still, Sophie and Nora might not see him the way I do.

“Mollie, does Hunter need to ask every time he helps your form?” Tom is still trying to make his point.

“It’s fine, Hunter,” I tell him, trying to smooth things over.

Scott laughs. “Mollie, would I need to ask before every time I corrected your form?”

I make a face at him. Of course he would. I like Scott, but I don’t want his hands on me. Especially right now, when he’s half-way drunk and trying to start trouble. Nora is laughing at him, encouraging him to keep going.

“It’s OK, you know,” Tom announces then. “I know you boys date around. It makes sense you would meet people while working.”

While I’m watching Scott exchange a smirk with Tyler, I catch Hunter’s grimace out of the corner of my eye.

“In fairness, I’m only dating the one girl,” Tyler offers. “And we didn’t meet on the job.”

“I worry about other things with you,” Tom says, mouth quirking.

“Hey! Like what?”

“And I don’t worry about Hunter dating a nice young woman who went on one of my tours,” Tom continues, ignoring Tyler. He looks at Hunter and claps him on the back, swaying into him a little. “You’re a good kid, Hunter. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That doesn’t leave very much off the list,” Scott teases.

Tom nods and wipes his brow. “That’s true. But I don’t have to tell you not to do anything Hunter wouldn’t do, now do I?”

Scott snorts. “You mean, like anything fun?”

“No seriously, like what?” Tyler insists, returning to the topic.

Tom turns to him and starts to explain or soothe him, but I ignore them in favor of Hunter, who whispers in my ear, “Are you ready to go?”

Nora, Sophie, and Scott are starting the dance party portion of the evening. The owner is gathering up axes and hurriedly putting them away. “Yes, definitely,” I say.

We go back to Hunter’s room at Tom’s place. With the house empty, I wander around a little more than I did last time. There are Uncrustables in the freezer and a lot of different kinds of deli meat in the fridge. The pantry is full of trail mix and peanut butter. The bathroom smells a bit like a wet dog, and there’s a book about orienteering on the back of the toilet.

“Are you done exploring?” Hunter asks when I join him in his bedroom. He’s stretched out on his bed reading a book, and puts a bookmark at his place when he looks up at me. I wonder if this is what it’d be like if we lived together: me always catching Hunter with a book. I like the way he looks, relaxed and unconcerned about me being nosy.

“For now,” I tease. “It’s funny—it’s easy to tell what stuff is yours versus the other guys.”

“You think?”

“You can test me later.” I climb onto the bed and stretch out parallel to him. He smiles at me and moves some hair off my face that’s fallen there. “What are you reading?” I dip the cover of the book he’s holding toward me. It’s called The Art of Letting Go.

“It’s a book about rewiring your brain.”

“Hmm…Is it working?”

His smile is a little sad. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s pretty hard to do. What needs rewiring exactly?”

“Oh, my worries about the future, I guess. My asking questions like…what happens next? And what does this mean.” He strokes the back of my hand where it rests on the bed between us.

“Those all seem normal to me.” Those same questions are on almost constant repeat in my own head. About Hunter, about life. Are we actually going to talk about us ? I’m not sure I’m ready. That conversation may lead to talking about our ending, and I don’t think I’m ready for this to end yet.

“Normal,” he agrees, gaze skipping past mine to the other side of the room. “And maybe not helpful.”

I nod and flop onto my back. His pillow smells like him. Like the outdoors and some kind of harsh soap. “Do you worry about things like your job?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning over me to put the book on the floor by his bed. “I worry about how long I can do it and what I will do after I can’t anymore.” He stays like that, half resting on me and half on the bed beside me. I like the weight of him over my body, the sense of safety it gives me.

“What did you want to be when you grew up?” I ask him.

“A cowboy.” He smiles. “And I kind of am now, in some ways. Still, when you’re a kid, you don’t think about all the problems that come with a career, do you?”

“No kidding. I wanted to be a coffee shop owner.”

“Like Dorothy?”

“Yes, exactly like Dorothy. Then I learned about profit margins and overhead. And discovered having a cat in your cafe is a health violation and giving away food is taking money out of your own pocket.”

He laughs. “Was that your vision? A cat and giveaways?”

“That’s how Barbie always did it.” I grin back at him. “She always had time for other hobbies, somehow, too.”

“So you became a paralegal instead?”

“Yeah.” I feel defensive, even though Hunter’s question wasn’t particularly probing. He’s tracing his fingers up and down my torso, making my insides turn to water. “It’s stable and didn’t take much extra school.”

“And do you have time for hobbies?”

“What hobbies. I don’t have hobbies.” My hobbies are brunch on Sundays and sleeping as late as I possibly can. My life back home is boring in the worst way: it lacks inspiration.

“Well, now you do. You have to keep up your axe-throwing.”

I imagine inviting my friends in Denver to go axe-throwing. They’d go once, I’m sure. Mostly to drink and post on social media that they were there. No one would take it as seriously as Hunter does. “Yeah.” I sigh.

“Where did your mind go just then?” Hunter asks, brushing his fingertip down my hairline. “You looked all sad.”

Of course he noticed. I can’t say, “I’m going to miss you.” So I reply, “I was thinking about dreams. And goals. And how I don’t really have any as an adult.”

He shakes his head. He carefully moves more hair off my face, laying each strand gently on the pillow beside my head as if each piece has nerves. “That’s not true. When you wake up in the morning, how do you want to feel?”

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and think about my first thought when I usually open them. I usually wake to an alarm and the tension of knowing I have to get up and accomplish so much before I go sit at my desk for the rest of the day. “At peace,” I say finally.

“I read a book once that said happiness is making decisions that align the most with your values. Being at peace might be the same as happiness, defined that way.”

Opening my eyes, I imagine Hunter’s face being the first thing I see in the morning and what that would feel like. “Huh. What do you want when you first wake up in the morning?”

He smiles. “Other than breakfast?”

Shoving him a little without actually pushing off me, I protest, “Hey, we were having a serious moment!”

“Yeah, I know. But I think I want the same thing. I mean, I want adventure. I also want to come back to my room and be able to open a book and disappear into it. I want to know there’s a peaceful space waiting for me at the end of the day.”

A vision comes to me of Hunter curled up at the end of a day with a book—maybe after showering, the ends of his hair still wet—and me snuggling up against him, his nook my pillow. I squirm a little, burrowing into the picture.

“You cold?” he asks, and starts to pull the blanket up around me.

“No, just ticklish,” I answer, which of course leads to him tickling me in earnest. I hope the house is still empty, because my giggling gets loud.

The feeling of Hunter above me is so intoxicating—on top of already being a little tipsy from this night—I forget to keep laughing and nuzzle into his skin. He slides his body down mine, rumpling my clothes, and starts unbuttoning my pants.

“You don’t have to…” I begin, expecting little resistance to my out.

“Are you kidding?” he says. “I’m exploring.”

I put my hand back down on the bed. “I support your adventures.”

“Yes. That’s something I like about you.” He smiles up at me. And I can’t believe I somehow found myself the adventure this man wants to go on.

Then he dives in, touching his lips to parts of me that have been neglected by most of the men I’ve slept with before. It’s not popular anymore, this heady dive into a woman’s core. At least according to brunch conversations with friends.

Hunter makes it exactly what he said: an exploration, his tongue reaching deep inside me, his lips running up my center. My job is to let him map the inside of me. To open for his probing fingers, to respond to the gentle scrape of his face against my thigh. He feasts, learning every inch of me wringing out all the pleasure. No man has ever made me feel so wanted, like I’m the air he needs to breathe.

I come like that, my back arching away from the bed, Hunter’s head between my legs. If my life were a book, I’d want this moment to be the epigraph to my 30s. The inspiration for what’s to come. I hope he left a trail to find his way back again and again, because I want him to live there, nestled close to me.

When he slides inside me, I rub my entire body up the length of him, trying to cement this moment in my head. I craved this feeling last night—of Hunter’s bare skin pressed against mine, of his length inside me—as though I’ve already grown addicted.

His scent as I tuck my nose into the spot between his neck and shoulder reminds me of the best things about winter: it’s fresh and clean, like fresh snow. I bite down on the soft flesh there, unable to help myself, needing to mess up that perfection a little. Wanting to own a little bit of it for myself. He grunts against me and comes almost immediately, and now I know something about Hunter’s body, too: that he likes a little possession.

There’s something very different about this casual hook-up; it’s nothing like encounters I’ve had back in the city. It’s in the way Hunter knows my body so well already. The way he makes sure I’m warm after we both come. And how, even if I have to let go at the end of the week, I’ll want to remember this forever.

The next morning, I wake to find Hunter snoring on his back beside me. I watch him for a little while, smiling at his unconscious ease, before I have to get up and use the bathroom.

The house is quiet. I think everyone else is still asleep, so I tiptoe to the kitchen to find some water.

Tom is sitting at the table, surrounded by maps and gear, drinking coffee. He’s wearing a pair of reading glasses. “Pot’s still on,” he offers quietly, not even changing expression when he sees me.

“Thanks,” I murmur, very aware that I’m in an awkward space between Hunter not wanting his boss to know about us and his boss knowing and not caring.

“Sit down,” he adds, after I’ve filled a mug with coffee. It doesn’t sound quite like an invitation; more an order. But almost every time I’ve heard Tom speak, he sounds like he’s giving orders. So I hesitate.

He takes his glasses off and gestures at the table, his gaze steady on me. So I sit.

“Hunter’s not as hard as he looks on paper,” Tom says bluntly, not waiting for me to take my first sip. I pause with the mug held in both hands, half-way to my mouth. “He’s softer than my other guys. Easier to hurt. Oh, not out on the trails. In here.” Tom puts his hand over his heart.

Not sure how to respond, I nod.

“I’m a bit protective of all my guys,” Tom continues. “But Hunter’s special. He dedicates himself to everything he does. And everyone.”

Not sure how to respond to being someone Hunter does , I stay silent.

“All I’m saying is, let him down easy when you go. Don’t do that thing they do in the city—the ‘ghosting.’ Please.” He makes quotation marks around the word, pursing his lips like it’s dirty. I feel the same way about the practice. It dawns on me that it would be hard to ghost someone in a town as small as Telluride. You’d see them on the street or at the grocery store whether you wanted to pretend they didn’t exist anymore or not.

“OK,” I say. Hesitating, I add after a moment, “I can’t guarantee he won’t get hurt. I can’t guarantee we won’t both get hurt.”

The older man surveys me. “That’s a true statement if I ever heard one. For a city girl, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

I’m not sure if I’ve ever valued a compliment more than this one. Hunter’s scary father figure approves of me, at least a little.

He holds up the reading glasses and shakes them at me. “Hunter does too. He’s the one who told me to get these glasses, you know that? I put it off for so long and he was right, they change everything.”

A good idea can change everything . The phrase lands in my head suddenly, startling me with its insistence. I don’t know where that came from. It’s like I woke up 30 and suddenly started giving myself inscrutable advice.

“At least you’re in it together,” Tom adds. He puts his glasses back on and goes back to what he was reading, seeming to dismiss me. I start to stand before his final comment, said almost to himself: “That counts for something at the end.”