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KIT

DAY 3: SHIRA 1 TO SHIRA 2

11,500 feet to 12,800 feet

I t’s still dark when Joseph wakes me with his gentle morning greeting. My eyes open and for a half second, I just stare at the tent’s ceiling, wallowing in misery.

After my hard nap yesterday afternoon, I found myself unable to sleep. It was nearly two when I finally unearthed the handy stash of sleeping pills I’d brought, but the four hours of sleep I managed was not nearly enough.

Though it’s freezing, I force myself to strip off the base layer inside the toasty sleeping bag since I’ll get warm as the day goes on. I slide on the hiking pants and a T-shirt, grabbing my jacket before I exit the tent.

“You’re not wearing enough clothes,” Miller grunts, walking up beside me. “We’re ascending and then doing an acclimatization day hike farther up from there. You’ll need a base layer.”

I roll my eyes. It’s six o’clock in the fucking morning and he’s already bossing me around. “When I need a man to comment on my wardrobe choices, I’ll time travel back to the eighteen hundreds when it was socially acceptable behavior.”

“While you’re time traveling, you also might want to revisit the start of this trip and tell Alex you’ve got a boyfriend,” Miller adds. “Or maybe you just like the attention.”

My jaw falls open. Once again, there are too many things to say.

One, how does he even know I have a boyfriend?

Two, I don’t like the attention, and how dare he suggest it?

Three, he sounds kinda jealous.

“He’s just being friendly, weirdo,” I reply. “I’m sure it’s a foreign concept to you.”

“Pull your head out of your ass, Kit,” he replies just before we reach the tent. “He’s not being friendly .”

There’s eggs and coffee and fried bread and sausages once more. I’m not really in the mood for it again so I only have the coffee, ignoring Miller when he hisses at me to eat.

After breakfast we set out, crossing the Shira Plateau, which is relatively flat. Aside from the peaks in the distance, the only vegetation is brush and these weird, twisty trees with what appears to be hundred-pound pine cones at the top. I still manage to trip several times, however.

Maddie walks beside me, explaining how deeply she did not want to come on this trip. “We normally do a winter trip to the Caribbean,” she grouses. “I wish we’d just stuck to that.”

I wish they had too. She hasn’t seemed to struggle much with the altitude yet and her oxygen level was good this morning, but we’ll hit thirteen thousand feet during today’s acclimatization hike and tomorrow’s will take us to fifteen thousand feet. If she has a seizure while we climb the Barranco Wall on day five, she could plummet to her death before anyone realizes it’s happening.

You’re not a fucking doctor, Kit. Keep your concerns to yourself.

“Where do you like to go?” I ask.

“We went to Anguilla last year,” she says. “It was amazing. Have you been?”

I nod. “Yeah. I was just there last spring, actually.”

I went with Blake. It wasn’t a terrible trip, but it wasn’t my favorite. He was laughing at stupid shit on his phone—dogs knocking over babies or people throwing cold water on a sleeping sibling—and he kept demanding I put down my book to watch.

Eventually I told him I had a headache just so I could go back to the room and read in peace, and there was a part of me that thought, Should I be doing this? Should I be with someone who’s this different?

But…I’ve watched my mother and Maren fall madly in love before. Year after year I saw them come waltzing into the house after a first or second or third date with someone who was, ostensibly, perfect. Men who were endlessly charming and loved Matisse or happened to have been at the same party a decade prior in some far-flung place, and it all seemed so…meant to be. Like something from a movie.

And then I watched each of those relationships implode, because it’s not real, all that seeming soul-mate-ry. Being at the same party as someone twenty years prior means nothing. Lots of people love Matisse. And lots of men will say they love Matisse or your favorite band, place, movie, or activity. They’ll say whatever it takes, and you’ll discover a couple months later that he actually was confusing Matisse with Monet, that he only knows one song by your favorite band, that he thinks your favorite city is overrated.

If you’re a romantic, like my mom and Maren and even my father when he’s in the throes of lust—typically with someone he’ll stop wanting six months later—you can convince yourself of anything.

So why not just pick the guy you can still stand at the six-month or one-year point, when all the illusions have faded away? Why demand that he like Matisse, enjoy reading, or want to ride a bike? He won’t be doing any of that shit with you eventually anyway.

Blake and I get along. We agree on the things that matter. But I don’t need him to remember my birthday, which is good because he probably won’t. I don’t need him to act as if I hung the moon because he’ll eventually notice I didn’t hang it correctly.

Maren and my mother drown every time a relationship falls apart. I’ve drowned myself in advance, so at least it won’t come as a shock.

Gerald points out a road as we cross over it. “That’s for medical evacuations,” he says, looking at me. “Just so you know what road you’ll be returning down.”

“I hope karma comes for him,” says Maddie.

“I’m open to helping karma along if you are,” I reply like the sociopath I am.

We reach Shira Two around noon. It’s shrouded in mist, but more protected from the winds than Shira Camp One was, so there’s no dust. From the cook’s tent, I smell something delicious, and I no longer care what they’re serving me. I was wrong when I said I’d be willing to starve all week just to avoid Miller catching me leaving the bathroom.

I’m beginning to suspect I said a lot of things simply because I had the luxury to say them.

We’re served kebabs and a stew I’d politely decline if there were any other option. My sports bra and T-shirt—both damp with sweat—cling like a cold, wet rag in the chilly air.

Yet another thing I’d like to take back…the way I mouthed off to Miller about not needing his input. Because now I can’t change without proving him right.

“At two,” Gideon announces, standing at the head of the table, “we will hike up to acclimate. Then return to sleep here.”

Hike high, sleep low . This concept felt a lot more acceptable to me back when I was hearing it stated on YouTube. Now that I’m here, I’ve got to say I’m not a fan.

I get inside my tent and, giving up the last shred of my pride, strip out of my wet clothes and don a base layer. I’m sound asleep when the porters call to us an hour later to do our extra hike. I’d give almost anything to avoid going, except that would just make tomorrow more difficult in the thinner air. And it’s not as if Miller would let me get away with it anyhow.

I pull my clothes on and go out to join the group.

“Well, here’s the sleepy little straggler,” announces Gerald as I approach. “If we get caught in the rain, it’s on you.”

“You just got here thirty seconds ago yourself, Gerald,” says Alex.

“I’m moving a lot faster than she is, however,” Gerald replies, turning toward me. “I mean, I heard you and Miller on the bus. Did you even train? Because it’s not fair to the rest of us if you didn’t.”

I open my mouth, ready to tell him to fuck off when Miller steps up beside me.

“She’s a quarter of a century younger than you,” he growls, straightening to his full, towering height. It’s subtly done, but there’s no mistaking the quiet show of force, one that says you can stop or I’ll make you stop . “That’s all the training she needs.”

Of course, it’s partly his fault that Gerald is now getting on me about this— he’s the one who’s been pointing out my failings publicly. But he also defended me and did it in a far less ruinous way than I would have.

I’m beginning to see why my dad forgave Miller. His ridiculous charms are even starting to work on me.

We begin to climb, boulder after boulder, and the mist hangs so heavy that it’s like walking through a fine shower. We keep going until we finally reach a flat plain of rocks. Below us, the tents look orderly and colorful while, up close, they’re chaotic and messy.

Much like life, then: pristine from a distance and messy and imperfect up close.

I wonder if that’s why Maren has idealized that summer she dated Miller—because it’s seen from afar. Because she’s forgotten all the insecurity she felt—all the moments of wondering why he didn’t call and worrying that he didn’t like her as much as she liked him. I remember them, but I guarantee she does not.

“I’m starting to wonder what we’re even going to see when we get to the top,” says Stacy, walking along beside me. It’s been a constant topic of conversation: what the weather will be like when we summit because we are two and a half days into this trip and haven’t seen Kilimanjaro once. It’s a lot of effort for something that is entirely dependent on chance.

I smile. “I guess I should say it’s about the journey, not the destination, or something like that, huh?”

“Well, honestly, it’s sort of true. Now that Alex is out of the house and Maddie’s away at college…getting them for a full week like this, all to ourselves, is a rarity. Of course”—she glances over her shoulder to make sure we’re not overheard—“between Alex’s obsession with you and Maddie’s crush on your friend, I’m not sure we’ve really got all that much of their attention here either.”

I guess that means Miller was right. And Maddie’s apparent crush doesn’t thrill me either. It’s a small pulse of irritation dead in the center of my chest. I’m tempted to warn her about Miller, but I don’t know why. Yes, he screwed my sister over, but that was ten years ago. A third of his life. I’ve changed a great deal since then, so I guess he could have too.

So if I don’t need to warn Maddie off, why the hell do I still want to do it?

On the way back, it begins to rain. We all quickly open our bags and drag out jackets before continuing on through the slippery mud. What was already not fun is now freaking miserable—our daypacks are waterlogged, the air is impossibly thin, and we’ve got to wipe rain out of our eyes every two seconds just so we can see the next steps in front of us.

Naturally, Gerald is glaring at me, as if my thirty-second delay made the difference.

The porters are still warning us to go “ pole, pole ” during the slick, muddy descent, but I’m hell-bent on not being last today. I refuse to give Gerald more ammunition and I ? —

My feet slip. I flail wildly, trying to stop my fall, but there’s nothing to hold onto and I land hard, flat on my back. For a moment I lie there, too stunned to be embarrassed, my head throbbing.

“Ouch,” I whisper. Then: “Oh God.”

My hair. My fucking hair. No shower for another five days and the ground is slush beneath me. I’m going to be caked in mud for the rest of the trip.

Miller drops to his knees beside me, heedless of the mud he’s getting on himself too.

“Are you okay?” he demands, his brow furrowed. He almost gives the impression of someone who’s intensely worried.

I raise a brow. “Don’t pretend you care.”

He smiles. “Maybe that wasn’t care. Maybe I was hoping I could finally say I told you so .”

I laugh quietly. “Go ahead then.”

“I plan to say it repeatedly once I’m actually sure you’re okay,” he says. “But that was a hard hit. Can you stand?”

I nod and sit up. I’m about to reach around to assess the damage to my hair when he stops me. “Leave it alone,” he says gently. “There’s hot water at the camp. You can wash it there.”

For someone who hasn’t talked to me in over ten years and couldn’t possibly know anything about me…he seems to know exactly what I’m thinking a whole lot of the time.

He grabs my arms and effortlessly hoists me up just as Gerald comes charging back up the hill.

“Well, that’s a shock,” Gerald begins. “Look who’s holding us up again.”

Miller rounds on him and takes a single, threatening step forward. “Gerald, get back down the hill and keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“You can’t threaten me,” says Gerald.

“I just did,” Miller replies, “and I assure you I can back it up.”

After a moment of tense silence, Gerald stalks off down the hill and Adam slaps Miller on the back. “I was sort of hoping you’d hit him, but that worked too.”

Miller glances at me. Discomfort is etched in his features, as if he thinks he went too far.

I guess he sort of did. What I don’t understand is…why.