Page 66 of Unhurried Hearts

“No. She’s a grown woman. She can make up her own mind.”

It might have taken her more than fifteen years, but she’s making the right choice.

“She needs me. As a man I’m the head of the family.”

Thinking of my mom having the courage to leave him makes me stand a little taller. He’s not here and he doesn’t have any power over me.

“I’mher family.” I bite my lip at the wave of emotion.

“No. You’re a whore living in sin.”

“I’m a person living my life with someone who makes me happy. I hope to hell my mom can do the same.”

“Hell is exactly where you’ll be headed if you don’t repent, young lady,” he spits.

“Fan-fucking-tastic, Thad. It’ll be a picnic so long as you’re not there. I’m blocking your number. And leave my momalone. Bye.”

The tirade that explodes from the tinny phone speaker is loud and hateful. I’m shaking so hard from telling him off that I grab my backpack and boots and don’t slow down until I’m in my car with tears streaming down my face.

The passenger seat is littered with damp tissues when I pull into the gravel lot next to Chris’s Jeep. An angry playlist and a good cry helped clear my head, but I need to be wrapped up in Chris’s arms. Patting down my pockets and then the centre console to search for my phone, I curse myself when I realize I left it behind. I was so dead set on getting away from Thad’s verbal abuse that I forgot to bring the phone with me. The idea of him ranting away to a dead line, red in the face, is almost enough to make me smile.

Sucking in a deep breath, I give myself a pep talk. “Get it together, Anna. It’s over.”

“I’ll catch up,” I say with confidence, lacing my boots up one at a time with a foot on top of my tire.

The moment the ground beneath my boots transforms from pea gravel to soft earth I begin to relax. Painting has always been a nice outlet after a bad day but moving the adrenaline through my body is way more effective this time. Every step over the layers of damp earth and rotting leaves helps me breathe deeper. I’m going to catch up to Chris, tell him everything, and then sit side-by-side onthe familiar cliff as we watch the sun begin to set. I set a quick pace, figuring I’m only a few minutes behind. My thighs burn and sweat gathers along my neck to the point I unzip my fleece to cool off. My stomach growls, bringing me back to reality. Maybe Chris will have cinnamon rolls again. My mouth waters at the idea. The forest looks so different with winter around the corner. Bare deciduous trees are nestled amongst the evergreens, last year's birds' nests revealed. I practically inhale the banana from my bag while I take a break on a moss-covered log, not really caring that my butt is getting wet. I have to be close to the top, I think, tucking away my water and continuing. After ten more minutes, I pause. With Chris I distinctly remember the last bit of the hike getting rocky and steep, opening up before we emerged at the summit. That day the strong sun beat down on our faces and sweat dripped down my back despite wearing a t-shirt. The path I’m on is dense and flat and not very familiar at all. My breathing is coming in gulps and gasps, my palms are sweaty so I rub them against my leggings.

“You’re good. You’ve got this, girl,” I say, hating how small and unassured my voice is in comparison to the sounds of the forest.

For the second time today, I pat my body down in search of my phone before remembering I don’t have it.

“Oh, fuck.” I breathe through a burst of panic.

I shiver, drawing my arms around myself. The fleece that felt too hot and scratchy in my condo suddenly feels as thin as silk. I glance up at the sky. There’s no watercolour sunset ending my hike this time. The sky is bruised black and blue and a gust of wind cuts through my leggings.

Mauled by a cougar.

Exposure to the elements.

Death by darkness.

Listing your potential causes for death probably isn’t the right mindset for surviving a situation like this, but knowing my worst-case scenarios haven’t happened yet gives me hope. I haven’t encountered any bears, cougars, or other predators out here. They’re probably cozied up in their dens, a hundred times smarter than me. Every time my body works up a bit of heat the wind blows it away. I find the biggest tree I can that isn’t far off what Ithinkis the trail and lean my back against it, grateful for the small amount of windbreak. I would kill for a glow stick right now.

“What would Chris do? Think, Anna.”

Not get lost in the first place, obviously. But that attitude isn’t going to help me. I drag my bag over, suddenly wishing it still weighed twenty-plus pounds. Systematically, I begin to search through pocket after pocket. There aredozens of compartments, some I’m sure I’ve never opened. The biggest parts of the pack are empty. A pocket on the hip belt produces an empty protein bar wrapper. When I move on to the pocket on the other side of the belt, something shifts with a metallic click. Hope bubbles in my chest as I unzip it.

“Oh my god.”

Chris’s fire starter. On the last morning of our trip we kept getting…distracted and when we packed up I grabbed anything I could find to speed up the process. The tool is two pieces joined by a sturdy length of cord. Chris briefly explained it to me while I watched him build our fire. When you scrape the striker against the special metal it makes a really hot spark. Terrified to lose it, I tuck the tool back in the pocket and get to work finding rocks and some sticks that are hopefully dryish. I’m about to make my first ever fire and failure isn’t an option.

Chapter thirty

Chris

Ipick up the pace, eager to reach the Jeep and head to Anna’s. Based on her text earlier that she might not be able to make it, she must have had a busy day. I’ll pick up some supper and we can spend the evening curled up together. Maybe I’ll have the courage to tell her Isaac and I contacted the seller on the Pebble Beach house. I’m already unclipping my small day pack and trying to decide what sounds best to eat when I register the familiar car right next to my own. A smile stretches across my face as I break into a jog. As I draw nearer and see that the car is empty, my face falls. Her phone goes to voicemail. I lean against her vehicle, utterly confused. If she’s on the trail,how come we didn’t pass each other? My chest aches with every minute she doesn’t come into sight.

“Fuck this.” I storm to my tailgate, throwing it open to take stock of what I have.

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