Page 48 of Every Step She Takes
Don’t.11:53 p.m.
Mal
I do not comprehend
11:54 p.m.
Michelle
I know it’s a foreign concept for you
But sometimes, people experience attraction and they don’t act on it11:59 p.m.
Mal
That doesn’t sound right12:00 a.m.
Michelle
And if that doesn’t work, then every time you look at this woman’s mouth, think about your dead dad and the multimillion-dollar company you just inherited12:11 a.m.
Mal
But I don’t want to think about that…12:12 a.m.
Michelle
Yeah. That’s kind of the point.12:18 a.m.
ELEVENVIANA DO CASTELOFriday, May 16, 2025
Sadie
It’s only a haircut.
There’s nothing profound about it, nothing revolutionary. Yet I keep reaching up to confirm those eighteen inches are really gone. I keep catching sight of myself in passing windows and remembering that I left all that hair on the bathroom floor in Esposende. When I see my reflection, I both don’t recognize myself and feel like I’m seeing myself for the first time, somehow.
I don’t look better, exactly. Mal used kitchen scissors, after all, and the ends are choppy and uneven in places, the slightly crooked bangs loudly announcing that I’mgoing through something. But I love the haircut all the same. It makes me feel rebellious.
It makes me feel the way it did when Mal forced me to leave behind all the items in my pack that weren’t serving me. I’m lighter, my steps easier, my head clearer.
I don’t look better, but Ilikehow I look better, and I didn’t realize that was possible.
The walk from Esposende to Viana do Castelo is the most beautiful part of the journey so far. We walk through quiet, cobbled streets on our way out of town in the morning, past lines of children making their way to school, past white churches with terra-cotta roofs and blue tile accents, past lovely town squares that sparkle in the early morning sun.
We all pose for a group picture in front of a blue-and-yellow sign with a dozen different directional arrows (Santiago: 208 kilometers), and then the group falls into its usual walking pattern, with Stefano jogging ahead and then looping back to walk with Inez and Mal at the head of the group, like he’s an overly eager dog that doesn’t want to wander too far from his owners. Ari bounces between Mal at the front and Vera at the rear, where she always is because she stops every few yards to take pictures of crumbling churches or bird of paradise flowers or random old men sitting on benches. Ro and Rebecca hover in the middle, keeping pace with each other step for step.
I float between walking with everyone and with no one. Sometimes I push myself so I can walk with Mal, and we talk about her past Caminos and my home renovations projects. About how she knew she was gay and about all the times I should’ve suspected I might be something other than straight. But when my legs get tired, I fall back and chat with the retirees about antiques and upcycling, laughing along as Rebecca’s cheeriness clashes with Ro’s crankiness.
Even with my lighter pack, lighter hair, and Mal’s shoes, my calves and feet still ache by the third mile, and eventually, I can’t keep pace with the retirees, either. I fall back as we trek along the staggering coastline, trying to soak in the deep blue sky and the hills of bright green and a paddock of fluffy white sheep right beside the turquoise ocean. Vera stops to take two dozen photos of the sheep, her camera making its signatureclick, click, click.
“I bet that’s a beautiful one.” I pause beside her to take a drink of water. Vera reviews the photos in her viewfinder and is clearly discontented with what she sees, because she raises the camera again. Except instead of taking more pictures of the sheep, she turns the camera to me.
“Do you mind?” she asks, her index finger hovering over the button.
“Oh, um, no. Go ahead.”
Click, click, click. Vera glances down at the viewfinder again, then looks back up at me. “The hair really suits you,” she says plainly. “You look like yourself.”
