Page 34 of Every Beautiful Mile

“They look like kind of lonely, don’t they?” Marin asks as we eat dinner that night.

“I guess if you lived in a desert for three hundred years, you’d see a lot of things come and go. I wouldn’t expect them to be anything but lonely.” I study the big weathered cactus next to the Avion. “If you live long enough, you’re bound to outlive a lot of what you love the most.”

I zip the ring on the chain around my neck as I look at the desert around us. It’s the kind of place that conjures sadness by simply just existing. Cracked earth, fiercely spiked cacti, and balls of dry branches scream the harsh truth that it’s a place of both survival and death.

A familiar reminder that the two always seem to go hand in hand.

***

“I bet Dad wouldn’t have put this on his list if he knew how awful it was going to be.”

We are somewhere north of Pheonix as Finn wipes a rag across a shallow cut on his shin.

My face puckers. He’s right. We’re panning for gold in some mostly dried-up creek bed, and it’s miserable. The sun is hot, the rocks are sharp, and the hour we’ve been out there has given us nothing.

“Do people ever find anything?” I ask the woman who calls herself a Gold Guide before I chug from my water bottle.

The sour woman’s voice is snippy, “Of course they do! You think I’m running a scam here?”

Her skinny body sits in a lawn chair under what I assume is the only tree in the state of Arizona and her beady eyes narrow.

“If gold was that easy to find, everyone would be rich!” she says, like I’m an idiot.

I just nod as she takes a drag from her cigarette and flips the page of her magazine.

It’s forty-five minutes later when Marin yells from somewhere up the creek.

She finds gold.

We leave that day with the smallest fraction of an ounce of gold flakes in a tiny plastic bag.

***

In bed that night, I finally respond to Ethan’s email. I don’t know why it’s taken so long—that’s a lie, I do. It’s taken so long because even though we are writing about work, there’s a personal undertone to how we talk that feels foreign. Wrong. Because he’s funny. Because he’s a man. Because he’s not Travis.

And yet, I write an email anyway.

Ethan,

There’s a lot to unpack here, but let me just say, more alarming than you letting your kids loose on alcohol, is you not knowing how to make a cocktail. When you own a restaurant.

I actually forwarded your email to American Restaurant magazine and I’m sure they will be writing a redaction for your piece based on your lack of qualifications.

My favorite drinks to make are the classics, and then I just barely tweak them to make them something special. Have you ever had a daiquiri? I’m sure just reading that you imagined something that’s frozen, slushy, and entirely too sweet. That’s not how the cocktail started. It originated in Cuba, actually, and the recipe is extremely basic and simple but so light and fresh. You should have one of your bartenders make one for you and tell me what you think.

What about you? What’s your favorite meal to cook? And do you have a simple version? I’m in a tiny kitchen situation at the moment, but I’d like to try it. Without the Maine ingredients, of course.

I pause, rereading, and realize I haven’t included a single thing about my dad’s request. I add:

Thanks again for all your help with ingredient sourcing. I’ve sent all the information to my dad, but knowing him, he’ll either have follow-up questions or completely abandon this idea.

Penelope

Fourteen

With a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and coffee in hand, I crack the door open, eyes lifting sleepily to the horizon.

I stop, stunned. My coffee stills midair before even making it to my mouth.

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