Page 42 of Every Step She Takes

Sadie

It’s not a banging that wakes me up this time, but a buzzing. I scramble through the sheets, trying to locate my phone, and my hands collide with something solid and not at all phone-like.

It’s Mal. We fell asleep in the pushed-together beds, watching episodes of Forever Home , and when I peel open my eyes, I see that she’s still topless, lying on her back with her legs spread wide like a beautiful corpse.

Her jaw looks unhinged, and her pillow is wet from her sleep drool, and I can’t believe this imperfectly perfect woman touched every inch of me last night.

I watch her almost imperceptible breaths, and then I remember my buzzing phone.

When I finally find it on the nightstand, it’s my sister’s face on the screen. I slink out of bed as quietly as I can.

“Hello?” I whisper into the phone once the bathroom door is closed behind me.

“Sadie!” Vi shouts, and I hold the phone a safe distance from my ear. “What the hell?”

That seems like my line. I hunker down on the closed toilet and wait to see why she’s calling me at five thirty in the morning.

Vi cries out. “I thought you were dead! You’ve been dodging my calls for days!”

I have not been dodging her calls. I didn’t answer one phone call, because I was in the bathtub.

“I’m fine,” I grumble, half-asleep.

“If you’re fine, then why haven’t you posted in two days?”

Ah . That’s the real reason for her call. She’s not worried about me. She’s worried about her brand .

I haven’t posted to Instagram or her blog since Vila Praia de ?ncora, since the night I kissed Mal on the beach. Guilt and anxiety braid themselves through my body. “I’m so, so sorry Vi. I got really busy.”

“Busy?” My sister screeches. “Doing what ?”

“Um, well, this is a trek, so I’ve been walking a dozen miles every day.”

“You knew that going into this,” she snaps.

I want to argue, but I swallow the words. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

And I hate that I’m apologizing to her, especially over this.

I’ve walked nearly a hundred miles with all my belongings strapped to my back; I’ve endured shin splints and back pain, and I’ve still kept going.

I’ve learned how to care for my blisters and how to order coffee and how to live in the goddamn moment, no thanks to her.

I’m learning how to be okay with not knowing, okay with discovering, okay with asking for what I want. Kind of. Almost.

And still, in the face of my sister’s displeasure, I apologize.

My need to please her, to care for her, eclipses everything else.

“I’ll make sure to get caught up on posts today.”

Vi huffs petulantly in the way only a younger sister can. “What’s going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve worked twelve-hour days your whole life, and all of a sudden, you can’t juggle a few fluffy Instagram posts with a leisurely walk?”

We walked nineteen miles yesterday, and we’ll walk sixteen today, but I don’t tell her this.

“You’re being cagey,” Vi presses, and I almost tell her everything else instead: everything about Mal and my sexual identity crisis and the queer adolescence. I almost tell her about the kiss on the beach, and I almost tell her what it felt like to be touched last night.

Vi is bisexual, and I know she’d understand, that she’d be supportive. But for some reason, the idea of saying any of it to her feels as impossible as being honest about the trek. “I-I’ve just been… spending time with people on the tour, and, um, you know… socializing and stuff.”

“Holy shit!” Vi gasps. “Was Mom right? Did you actually meet a guy?”

And here she is, handing me the perfect opportunity. All I have to do is tell her the truth. “Uh, yes, actually… sort of…” I sputter. “I… I met a… a guy.”

I drop my head into my free hand as Vi squeals on the other end. “Fuck yes you did! Is he Spanish?”

“Portuguese,” I say hollowly. At least that is true.

“Hot damn! Tell me everything ! What’s his name? How did you meet him?”

“His name is Mal… colm. Malcolm,” I lie, and the horrible thing is, I’m enjoying this. After years of my sister grilling me about my love life, I finally have something to share. Something that will earn her approval. “And he’s on the tour.”

“Wait, he’s on the queer tour?”

“Yep. He’s… he’s bisexual.”

“Hot,” my sister says, and it sounds like the verbal equivalent of a fist bump. “But isn’t the tour only for queer women?”

My mouth keeps moving separately from my brain’s will. “There was a mistake with his registration, and Inez let him stay. It was a whole thing. It’s not important.”

Vi whistles. “You’re all flustered!”

“It’s… it’s a casual thing.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Vi snaps. “I can hear it in your voice. You’re, like, in love with him.”

“It’s been nine days, Vi. I’m not in love. That would be ridiculous.”

“The heart wants what it wants,” my sister trills, and I feel even worse for lying about what I really want. “And you want this guy bad . I can just tell.”

“It’s just sex, okay?” I blurt. “It isn’t serious. It has to end when we get to Santiago.”

Vi tuts into the phone. “I can’t picture you having a casual sex arrangement with someone.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know everything about me,” I tell her. And then, for the first time in my life, I hang up on my sister.

Around the third mile of our journey to Vigo, I realize how desperately I need a rest day. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Esposende, and that was eighty miles ago. Even though I haven’t touched alcohol since our night out in Vila Praia de ?ncora, I still feel hungover.

It’s a bone-deep exhaustion that makes every step forward a struggle, and I get the impression I’m not alone in feeling this way.

Vera falls farther behind than usual, and she’s not even taking photos of the Spanish coast. Ari lingers behind with her, sitting down on every bench we pass.

Rebecca asks for a bathroom after every mile, and I suspect it’s just so she can have a break.

By the halfway point, Ro’s crankiness reaches new heights as they beg Inez to let them take a taxi to our lodgings in Vigo.

Even Mal has lost some of the spring in her step.

She stays by my side all morning, content to go slower with me.

We haven’t talked about last night, but it doesn’t feel weird like it did the morning after our first kiss.

Instead, the quiet feels charged with our shared secret.

I catch her staring at me, and we both smile.

When Inez has her back to us, Mal briefly holds my hand.

When no one else is watching we kiss in a bathroom stall, in the line for coffee, in front of a sculpture of a rainbow whale made from recycled plastics.

I don’t know what we’re practicing with these secret kisses, but with each one, I learn a little bit more about what it feels like when I want someone.

The way my heart strains in my chest, the way her scent fills my lungs, the way her touch makes me feel at home in my body in a way I’ve never experienced before. And those goddamn butterflies .

So, I take whatever secret kisses I can get, and the rest of the time, I enjoy her unwavering presence by my side.

Only Stefano seems unaffected by the relentless pace, and by lunchtime, three people have taken him up on his offer to carry their bags. He’s got a pack affixed to each side of him, and he looks like a bellhop in backpacker hell.

“Rest is critical,” Inez tells us at lunch. “We are pushing ourselves physically, mentally, and spiritually on the Camino, and we all must nourish our bodies with rest.”

No one says anything, but at least half the table groans.

“For the next two nights, we’ll be completing a homestay experience outside of Vigo, and during that time, I want each of us to reflect on what refills our cups.”

“Wine, usually,” Ro deadpans, and everyone but Inez laughs.

She purses her lips and shoots Mal a strange sideways glance. “Funny you should say that, given where we will be staying.”

We aren’t staying in the city limits of Vigo, Spain. Shortly after lunch, we turn off the Camino and walk along a two-lane highway for a few miles. We move away from the coast and head inland toward open fields and countryside.

Eventually, Inez leads us away from the highway and up a winding dirt road.

“Where, exactly, are we staying for the rest days?” Mal asks from beside me as we twist around another bend in the road, and there’s a sharp edge to her voice I haven’t heard before.

“You’ll see shortly,” Inez answers.

“No, seriously,” Mal bites out. “Where the fuck are we going?”

Ro glares back at Mal. “Whoa. Relax.”

The road winds past terraces of grapes, and Mal curses under her breath with every step. I can’t figure out how she’s miserable over a rest day in this picturesque place.

The dirt road curves one more time, and as the group crests a hill, a black gate comes into view, stamped with the monogrammed initials CQ in gold filigree.

Behind the gate, we glimpse a mansion on a lush green hill overlooking the property.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Mal shouts as Inez presses an intercom button beside the gate.

“Are you okay?” I whisper to Mal, but it’s drowned out by Vera asking, “Wait, are we staying at a Quinta Costa vineyard?”

“I’m going to kill her,” Mal grumbles, and I’m not even sure which her she’s referring to. I reach out to put a hand on her elbow to calm her, but she’s still poised like a spring about to explode.

The intercom buzzes, and the gate opens in a grandiose arch. “I’m sorry, Mal,” Inez says in a low voice. She rattles off a few rapid sentences in Portuguese, but they don’t change Mal’s dark expression.

Inez shifts her focus back to the group. “Quinta Costa is the largest producer of Portuguese and Spanish wines, with twelve wineries spread out across the Iberian Peninsula.”