Page 55 of Every Step She Takes
“During the day, you can take a funicular to the top,” I tell her, pointing ahead to the tracks that run up the side of the hill rising above Viana do Castelo.
“Great. Let’s do that.”
“It doesn’t open until ten a.m.”
“Sounds like we should turn around, then.”
I tighten my grip on her arm, which she has threaded through mine. “After hours, you have to climb these stairs they’ve built into the hill. There’s only, like, seven hundred or something.”
“Seven hundred stairs?”
“You’ve already walked forty miles. What’s seven hundred steps?”
She harrumphs again. Sleepy Sadie is irritable in a surprisingly refreshing way. She’s usually so concerned with pleasing others, but she seems to have no interest in pleasing me this morning. Maybe the queer adolescence is working; selfishnessisthe most critical cornerstone of youth.
“Tell me more about reupholstery,” I say, trying to distract her from the physical strain that awaits us.
“Uh-uh.” She huffs. “It’s your turn to share things.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve already told you a thousand embarrassing things about myself,” she says as she reluctantly trudges up the first few steps. “I got drunk on red wine and told you I’m a clueless virgin who didn’t realize she’s queer even though she used to masturbate to Eliza Dushku inBring It On.”
“Um, you did not tell me that last part, actually.”
“I didn’t? Well, the point stands. I want to hear some of your humiliating secrets.”
“Okay…” The stone stairs narrow after the first switchback, and our arms detach so we can walk single file up the steps. It’s cold without her pressed against my side, and I zip my fleece. “I’ve also masturbated while thinking about Eliza Dushku.”
“I’m serious, Mal!” she squawks from behind me.
“So am I! Those leather pants she wore inBuffy? That’s formative queer awakening stuff right there.”
“Comeon,” she whines into the dark. “Tell me somethingtrueabout yourself.”
Something true.There are a million true things I could share with Sadie as we climb these stairs. I could tell her about my own inheritance; I could tell her about my own shit-head dad; I could tell her about Ruth, or about all the other women I used as distractions; I could tell her that I want her to be my favorite distraction of all but that I’m trying to change.
Her footsteps stop, and I turn to see her resting a few steps below. She throws up her hand to shield herself from my headlamp, and I swivel it to the side. “This is me,” I say with a half-hearted flourish, unable to give her anything else. “I don’t have secrets. You get what you get.”
She huffs again and forces herself to keep climbing. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because sometimes you look at the ocean like you’re angry at it.”
I trip over a step and stop again. “What?”
She collides with my back, and we pause only one step apart. “Sometimes, it seems like you love this place, and other times, you get this look on your face like you want to fight every damn tree. Your jaw tightens right here.” Her index finger brushes the hinge of my jaw where I didn’t even realize I was clenching my teeth. Her skin is cool, and when she touches me in the dark, I become aware of every treasonous atom in my body.
“And sometimes,” Sadie whispers, “you look so profoundly sad.”
I angle my face so her hand falls away. “I’m not.” Then I angle my whole body away from her and continue up the stairs.
“Hmmm…” she says to my back.
“What’s that noise? What doeshmmmmean?”
“It means that everyone has a little bit of sad in them all the time, and it’s interesting that you’re denying yours.”
