Page 69 of Every Beautiful Mile

Worse than me not having an answer to his questions is the fact there’s amusement in his voice.

He thinks this is funny.

I try with desperate, angry chops of my paddle to get away from him, but he’s like a barnacle that won’t let himself get scraped off. He’s everywhere I am with a few smooth, calm strokes.

I give up and accept that for three hours, he’ll be next to me, looking like he does, while I try to pretend I don’t look like I do.

Ahead on the river, Austin, Marin, and Finn tie their tubes together and cluster next to Derek, who paddles his kayak. We’re far back enough I can’t hear their conversation, but their regular bursts of laughter bounce off the water toward me and wrap around me like a cozy sweater. They’re having fun. That fact alone makes everything a little more tolerable.

“So, you’re still here,” Ethan says as he paddles.

“Aren’t you observant?”

“Well, you said last night you were leaving today. Unless that’s just what women say that drive across the country to see men they find in magazines.”

Bastard.

“That’s not what happened!” I snap. “And we were supposed to leave, but the spot in Bar Harbor we’re going to doesn’t have a spot for us until next weekend. Finn wanted to stay and do stuff in the mountains, and I think they like being at the Inn instead of the camper anyway—not that I blame them there.”

I tilt my paddle to follow the slight bend in the river.

“I see.”

His board gently nudges into mine.

We’re quiet for a few minutes as we float, long enough for some of the tension to leave my shoulders.

“The trees are so thick across the hills and mountains here. It doesn’t look real. It’s beautiful. You were right when you said there’s a pull.”

Willow branches gently bow along the riverbank in the breeze.

A fly fisherman stands up to his knees in the water and waves to us before casting. The quiet whizzing sound of the line and soft splash of the fly hitting the water play on repeat as we quietly float by. It’s an ethereal kind of beauty.

“I love it; it’s home,” he finally says. “I know you saw places more impressive than the Androscoggin out west.”

He rests his paddle on his lap and faces me.

“Hmm. The Colorado River in the Grand Canyon comes to mind. Most of us won’t see anything like that again, but this is more peaceful in a way. Different.”

“I would imagine the Grand Canyon is a lot more exciting than this,” he says, chest rumbling with a laugh.

I turn to look at him.

“Different rivers dance differently with the earth, I guess. Some carve huge canyons and leave crazy rock formations. Some move sand quietly and smooth rocks. It’s not about the river or the land. It’s about how the two of them work together to become what they will.” I pause, imagining the smooth pebbles that lay on the bottom of this river and specks of sand that no doubt started their journey somewhere else. “If the Colorado River was in Maine, it never would have made the Grand Canyon. The ground wouldn’t have allowed it, I don’t think. It’s hard to say one is more impressive than the other. Just… different.”

“Like the people we meet,” he says, surprising me enough that I turn to face him.

“A man I met said the people we meet and how they shape us—love us—were the rivers that ran through us. I liked that. Understood it somehow,” I say, looking off into the distance, letting myself travel back to that rocky ledge at the Grand Canyon, feeling the slightest tinge of Travis’ absence.

A swell of laughter and sequence of splashes from the kids brings me back to the moment. I smile as I watch them—Marin twirling her tube around as her legs dangle over one edge, head dropped back toward the sky on the other. Finn’s long arms fold under his chin as his body drops through the center of his own.

“So, how was your date?”

I thoroughly hate myself for caring enough to ask.

“Last night was one of the best nights I’ve had in a while,” he responds, smugly.

"That's nice," I say, meaning anything but.

---