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KIT

KILIMANJARO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

W hen I reach the gates of hell, there will be one familiar face.

Miller West.

He’ll still be indecently handsome even then, no matter how old, no matter how uncomfortable he finds the temperature. He’ll have that same snide fucking smile on his face, the one I’d kill to throw a punch at.

“Little Princess Kit,” he’ll say, as if I’m still his girlfriend’s irksome kid sister and not a fully grown adult. “Fancy meeting you here.”

It’s also what he’s just said to me now, at Kilimanjaro International Airport—the last place I’d ever have expected to run into him.

Naturally, he’s in a perfectly cut suit and looks like a million bucks, while I look like someone who just flew for nineteen hours—which I did—and barely survived the experience.

At least I fit in. He’s the only person within two hundred yards who isn’t dressed for a safari...or a nineteen-hour flight.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand with the grace and good humor he came to expect from me long before he broke my sweet sister’s heart.

He looks at the sea of people around us with wide eyes, as if seeing them for the first time. “I’m sorry…do you own this airport? Is it private? I was unaware.”

He’s the same smug asshole he was at twenty-two, when he first entered our house in his dumb Vineyard Vines pullover and khakis, too self-assured for his own good.

I was seventeen at the time, and I hated him on sight. I hated him more than I’d ever hated my worst high school enemies or Maren’s loser dad. I hated him as much as Jacob, my former stepfather, or most of my mother’s ex-boyfriends, which was a little unfair since I’d yet to witness Miller hit a female or call her a dumb whore at the dinner table.

I couldn’t entirely explain the extent of my hatred, even to myself. But it’s starting to make sense now. He’s as snide as ever, a decade after he left our place in the Hamptons and dumped my sister by text a few hours later. Maren cried for a year straight afterward. I don’t know why I’m even speaking to him.

“Forget I asked,” I say with an aggravated sigh, turning toward baggage claim. “I’m glad you’re here. Stay forever. The weather’s lovely, and the dollar goes far. You fit right in wearing that suit, too.”

“As opposed to you, Blondie?” he asks, reaching out to gently tug my ponytail. “You don’t actually think you’re fooling anyone with that faux-casual outfit? Those sneakers alone probably cost a grand.”

“Spend a lot of time shopping for women’s clothing?” I ask, picking up my pace. “I’m not surprised.”

It sounded like more of an insult in my head. I’d meant to imply he was a douche. Instead, I now sound like a transphobe. This is what Miller has always done: brought out my bad side, and somehow made it worse.

He’s still unruffled, strolling casually beside me, while I’m walking as fast as I can to get away from him and am incredibly winded. This does not bode well for climbing Kilimanjaro over the coming week. “I have two sisters, if you recall,” he says.

“I wouldn’t recall because I make a point of hearing as little about you as I can.” I glance at my watch as if I’m in a hurry and veer toward the bathroom. “Well, it was as lovely as ever to see you, Miller, by which I mean it wasn’t , but I’ve got places to be.”

“Good luck, Kitten,” he says softly. There’s a note of regret in his voice—one that makes me want to glance back at him, though I refuse to do so.

Wisdom comes with time. Perhaps he’s finally realized that Maren was The One Who Got Away. Sure, since they broke up ages ago, he’s dated a variety of women just as glossy and perfect and leggy as my sister, but none of them could have been as wonderful.

So I hope he misses her. I hope he misses her every fucking day for the rest of his natural life, the same way I suspect she’s still missing him. And I really hope this is the last time I think about Miller West, because this trip sucks enough on its own.

I enter the bathroom and go straight to the sink, splashing water on my face and studying my weary reflection, newly irritated that my father is making me do this.

The hoops I’ve jumped through in the vague hope of one day leading Fischer-Harris Media never seem to end—I’ve worked in the mail room, I’ve worked as an admin, in ad sales, in marketing—but those made sense: they’re all departments I’ll one day supervise or pieces of the eventual job I’ll take on myself. Climbing a mountain, however, is part of very few job descriptions—certainly not my dad’s—and if he actually needed this article, Kilimanjaro is a gig every writer at Wanderlust wants.

There’s also the more than suspicious timing. “So, you’re sending me away when you know Blake’s about to propose,” I accused. “How convenient.”

He sneered, of course. He always sneers at the mention of Blake. “And you’re so deeply, overwhelmingly in love with him that you’d say yes?” he scoffed.

It annoyed me, the way he made it sound preposterous. I was even more annoyed that he was right. I was not deeply, overwhelmingly in love with Blake but more…in love enough , which is preferable. Deeply and overwhelmingly leaves you broken when it ends. Or willing to look the other way when he shoves you during an argument or drinks too much.

I like Blake, but he sure as fuck won’t throw a dish at my head and get away with it the way Jacob did with my mom.

“If you actually care about him,” my father continued, “then perhaps you need to let a few things go before you say yes. Anything less isn’t especially fair to Blake.”

And I could have argued that my dad doesn’t give a shit about what’s fair to Blake, but I also knew he was right, which is why I didn’t fight this harder, why I didn’t insist I needed more than three weeks to get ready for a climb people spend a full year preparing for.

Right now, though, I sort of wish I had.

I head down to baggage claim, where a man in a Smythson Explorers tee holds an iPad with my name on it.

Another daughter would be grateful her father had sent her here and had chosen the most luxurious Kilimanjaro outfitter to take her up the mountain.

This daughter remains pissed off she was forced to come.

“Hi,” I tell him with a small wave. “I’m Kit.”

He nods his head. “I’m Joseph. If you’ll point out your bag, I will get it for you.”

I feel silly—if you’re theoretically fit enough to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, you’re fit enough to lift your own bag. I’m also several inches taller than this guy, but since I’m not here willingly and have not adequately prepared for this climb, I guess I won’t waste my energy arguing.

While we wait, I reach for my phone to tell Maren about the encounter with Miller but think better of it. She’s already unhappy in her marriage. If I tell her he’s here, she’ll spend the entire night peppering me with questions. She’ll want to know how he looks, if he’s single, if he seems lonely, if he’s asked about her. She’ll allow herself to hope that Miller has missed her, that seeing me has reminded him of what they had.

Maren is like that—a dreamer—which is how she dreams herself into abysmal relationships like the one she’s currently in. She fills in all the hollow spaces with what she hopes might appear there in time, ignoring one key fact: few men turn out to be better than they seemed when they were trying hard to make you like them.

I’ll tell her when I get home. Or maybe I won’t even do that. She thinks about him too much as it is. I see it in her face every time she discusses her miserable marriage—that wistful thing, as if she’s watching a different life unfold. “The problem is that I married Harvey when I still wanted someone else,” she’s said more than once. And we all know exactly who she’s referring to. A decade after it ended, it’s still about Miller.

I point out my camping backpack and small suitcase when they descend onto the carousel. Inside there are multiple clothing changes, a sleeping bag, hiking boots, and the little I’ll need above and beyond that to survive the next eight days.

I would argue that what I actually need is a Four Seasons and a pool, but apparently, we are limited to fourteen kilos each on the way up, so that’s probably off the table.

Joseph lifts the bag and nods toward the doors. He doesn’t appear to be struggling under the weight, but I still hope Miller isn’t around to witness this moment of me looking very much like the spoiled Manhattan princess he believes I am.

And to be honest…the spoiled Manhattan princess I actually am. I did fly here in business class.

“Have you been to Africa before, Miss Fischer?” Joseph asks as we walk through the doors.

“Once, when I was—” I step outside and a wall of pure heat and humidity slams into me. It’s February back home—when I left, it was thirteen degrees. Here, below the equator, it’s the height of summer. And feels it. “I was, uh, fifteen when I was here last.”

“But have you climbed Kili?” he challenges, as if he already knows the answer. Perhaps because he’s assessed the designer outfit and the carefully highlighted blonde hair and decided that I’m not the sort of person who willingly takes on extra adversity but rather the sort who pays people to handle the adversity for her. This is fair. I am exactly that sort of person.

“Not yet,” I reply with a half-hearted grin. “Ask me again in a week.”

He gives me another beneficent smile, the sort that says he’s not optimistic about what he’ll discover in a week either, and I have to crush yet another moment of self-doubt. Sure, on Reddit, there are a million posts from people who trained for a year first, people who then said nothing can prepare you for it. But Mount Kilimanjaro isn’t fucking Everest. There’s no three weeks at base camp, no need to ice climb or cross glaciers by rope or fear avalanches. It’s a walk. A long uphill walk . And I just ran the New York City marathon three months ago—it’s not like I’m a couch potato.

There are probably worse gigs , I tell myself, as Joseph opens the door of a black Mercedes Sprinter Van. Not everyone gets to take a trip like this, all expenses paid, and...

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” says Miller West as I step inside.

Miller West. Here on my bus, full of people planning to climb Kilimanjaro with the mountain’s best tour group.

Okay, maybe there aren’t worse gigs.

My head jerks from him back toward the door, hoping I’ve stepped on the wrong bus. I must have. Because there’s no way this suit-wearing asshole is actually planning to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, unless he can somehow fuck it for a summer, then text to say it’s not working out.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. For once, the snide smile is gone.

I glance toward the excited people already on the bus, laughing and comparing hiking boots, and slip into the seat across from his. “What are you doing here? In a suit .”

“I’m in a suit, since you’re so desperate to know, because I came here straight from a meeting in Germany. I’m not planning to climb in it.”

There’s so much here to respond to. First of all, I was not desperate to know. Second of all, I want him to die in a fire.

This has always been my issue with Miller West. Too many goddamned things to say at once.

I roll my eyes. “You expect me to believe that you, of all people, love nature so much that you’ve signed up for this of your own volition?”

“Everyone loves nature,” he says. “And why are you here? Does Kilimanjaro potentially have a reputable news source your dad can turn into a gossip rag?”

My nostrils flare. My father did that once , but damn if Miller didn’t have it locked and loaded for the day we ran into each other.

“It’s none of your concern,” I reply, turning away from him and pulling out my phone.

“Have you even trained for it?” Miller demands. “Your occasional ski trips and Peloton rides aren’t the groundwork you need to ascend to eighteen thousand feet.”

Jesus. My sister dodged such a bullet with this guy.

“Thank you for mansplaining altitude to me, West, but I think I’ll be okay.”

“No, you won’t,” he says, his voice hard. “Go home.”

I gape at him. “Are you serious right now? Do you actually believe you can command me to leave like you own me? You couldn’t even command me when I was seventeen.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly, as if he’s been caught at something. “I never attempted to command you when you were seventeen,” he mumbles. “But if you want to die, by all means, be my guest.”

The bus takes off and he starts furiously typing on his phone. I’d tap out a text of my own, except the person I want to complain to is Maren, who’d grow hopeful and dreamy-eyed in response, picturing him confessing his love for her over some fireside chat with me.

Dad

Why is Miller West telling me to make you come home?

My head jerks up. “You texted my dad ? Are you fucking crazy? I’m twenty-eight years old. What’s he going to do? Ground me?”

Miller’s hazel eyes are cold, unrepentant. “I’m hoping someone with a little sense will prevail since you clearly have none, and I assume he’s still paying every last one of your ridiculous bills. Maybe you’ll listen to the sound of purse strings tightening.”

“I work for his company and I’m here on assignment. Not all of us are trust fund douches.”

I have a trust fund too, but he probably doesn’t know that. It works.

I pick up my phone.

Because he’s the same fucking asshole he was ten years ago.

Dad

You tell him, Kitty Cat.

I sigh. If my father had orchestrated all of this, it couldn’t have worked out better than it has: he’s forced me to go on this trip with no preparation and has now set it up so I’m fighting to go on this trip, refusing to give an inch.

The only reasonable course of action is to pretend Miller’s not here and push him off the mountain should the opportunity present itself. Because I’ll need character references when it happens, I turn around and introduce myself to the couple sitting behind me, who tell me they’re taking this trip as a ten-year-anniversary gift to each other.

“It beats spending money on diamonds,” says Daniel, the husband.

“Only one of us actually thought that,” replies Deb, his wife, with a tight smile.

Will Blake and I be like this when we hit ten years? Misunderstanding each other, full of silent resentments and failed expectations? I doubt it. Mostly because I don’t expect an awful lot. Entering marriage with low expectations seems somewhat wise. My parents now have eight marriages under their belts between the two of them—maybe the number would be smaller if they’d been more realistic. If they’d chosen a partner the way they’d choose a colleague, weighing the risks and benefits, studying their qualifications.

“Which route are you taking?” asks the woman.

I blink rapidly. I’m not entirely unprepared for this trip. I know it will take six days up and a day and a half to get down. I know the altitude we’ll reach, and what I need to bring.

But I didn’t realize there was another way to go up.

“Route?” I ask blankly. “There’s more than one?”

Across from me, Miller’s jaw drops. “There are eight routes. Do you seriously know this little about it? How could you be so unprepared?”

I give him the finger before I open up the trip email on my phone. I turn to Deb. “My employer booked the trip. Lemosho? Is that a route?”

Miller blows out a breath and starts texting furiously again. “Yes.”

“Which route are you doing?” I demand.

“Lemosho,” he grunts, facing straightforward with his jaw set hard.

Fuck.

This is a disaster on so many levels. There’s the fact that I don’t want to spend eight days with him, but there’s also the guilt.

Because no matter how awful Miller is, Maren would be happier with him than she is with Harvey.

And I might be the reason she didn’t end up with him.