Page 8 of The Love Hoax
Seeing the flight attendant’s back to me, I venture a quick text to Caroline, sending heart and kiss emojis. The guilt is nearly paralyzing. I am sitting next to Caroline’s empty seat.
I pull my e-reader from my bag and try to get absorbed in the latest thriller I downloaded. I can’t concentrate. I wave over a flight attendant and ask for a double vodka and orange juice, earning a fleeting brow lift in return. After all, it is only 9:30 in the morning.
Minutes later, I drain half my drink and close my eyes.
The next thing I know, we are landing in Reno.
I pullmy carryon behind me. The vibe in the airport is nothing like that of LaGuardia. It is much more relaxed. If you don’t account for the slot machines in the terminal.
Who needs to gamble on their way to baggage claim?
I look out the vast windows at the surrounding mountains, the tallest of which are already snowcapped. I am excited for the days ahead despite being alone. Since the boys have flown the coop, I’ve adjusted to more solo time. At first, it was hard coming home to a quiet apartment but in time I learned to value my space and freedom.
Still, good company always makes trips like these better. Maybe I’ll make friends out on the trails.
I extract my bag from the baggage carousel and make my way outside to the rental car shuttle.
Twenty minutes later, I am seated behind the wheel of a shiny black Porsche Cayenne with all the bells and whistles that looks like it just rolled off the showroom floor. Chrome grills, heated seats and steering wheel, fancy nav system. The vehicle could probably drive to the top of El Capitan, I muse.
It’s afternoon in New York but I decide against calling Caroline in case she’s resting. Instead, I text Paul. I had forgotten I had his contact information until moments ago.
He responds immediately.
Caroline is resting comfortably. She will need surgery to repair a broken bone in her right leg. The doctor expects her to be off her feet for the next several weeks while she has physical therapy. She asked me to tell you not to worry. She has a lot of drugs in her system and she’s high as a kite.
I frown in concern, second-guessing my decision to leave New York.
Too late now.
I fire up the ignition, the engine roaring to life. This car is a beast.
I pull out onto the road, taking in the desert, the mountains, the electricity in the air. I have a couple of hours ahead of me until arriving in Yosemite Village. On the highway, I spot the speed limit. 80 mph.
I hit the accelerator and head south.
Chapter Seven
Adam
Iwash up and wipe the condensation off the mirror, catching my reflection and noting several scrapes on my taut muscles. I dab on antibiotic cream and cover them with bandages. My chest and shoulders are broader, my arms thicker after back-to-back climbs. I do a chest wiggle. The ladies wouldn’t be able to contain themselves.
Yeah, right.
The only available women I have seen at Yosemite Sam’s are the seventy-year-old twins who volunteer for the park service. The pickings are slim out here in the wild.
But hope springs eternal and I have an unexpected second wind. Skipping the actual shaving part, I pat on my father’s aftershave, glad I swiped it during my last visit home.
I ruffle through my closet, making a mental note to call the cleaning service as I find a clean pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, donning them carefully as to not to jostle the bandages. My bodyaches but it’s a good ache. From a day spent on the mountain, pushing myself to the limit. Now I need to decompress.
I’ve spent the last five years ignoring the judgmental comments of people asking how I can be outside all day climbing mountains rather than making a proper living.
Never mind that I spent a decade developing a tracking app that was acquired by a multi-billion-dollar company and used by every driver on the European continent. I am set for life. Financially, anyway.
I recall the jaw-dropping moment when the purchase fee came through. I decided right then and there that I wouldn’t change. I look around at what I refer to as my ‘cabin,’ and laugh to myself.
Okay, at least I haven’t changed, mentally.
The sprawling home set amid a copse of California black oak is nestled within one of Yosemite National Park’s three private communities. It boasts soaring wood-beamed ceilings, state-of-the-art appliances, and a luxurious décor. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the surrounding mountains.
