Page 38 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
With her, the whole world sharpens. Colors are brighter. Patterns are richer. Life feels like an adventure instead of a checklist. She extracts the joy out of every moment, and I sit behind a laptop, writing chapters of a thesis that no one but a professor will ever read. I don’t hate my work—I actually like it—but it’s only half a life. Without something… without someone… It’s gray.
That’s why I think Luna could be my balance. My spark. She could give me the excitement I crave. She means so much to me already. And yet to her, I feel like I’m nothing.
It’s not fair.
The question is: what the hell am I going to do about it?
My whole life, I’ve just… accepted it. Made excuses. Told myself it didn’t matter. Threw myself into academics and pretended that was enough.
It isn’t.
I am grateful for the scholarship that got me into college, and I’m proud of graduating with honors in Environmental Science. My master’s went well, too. Now I’m wrapping up my doctorate. In a few months, I’ll be Dr. Eric Kurtz. The professors say I’m practically guaranteed to pass. But then what? Stay in academia? Teach undergrads? Write papers until my eyes bleed?
That was the plan. But I’m tired. Tired of the campus, the endless research, the essays. Tired of feeling like I’m not doing anything that actually matters.
That’s why I came here.
I wanted something real. A break from theories and equations. Out here, the guys from McKenzie Forestry Services do honest, physical work that leaves them sore and sweaty, but proud. They build, haul, plant, and cut. They do things you can point to. Real men with tan lines and muscles, confident in their own skin, whether they’re with other men or with women.
Me? I trail along behind them with a GPS tracker, tagging rare trees. Useful, sure, but let’s be real—it’s not the same.
No wonder women don’t take me seriously.
I remember once at a dorm party, a gorgeous girl sat next to me. She asked, “So, what do you do?” and I started talking about my research—how mixed-species growth patterns change with different fertilizer protocols. Within three minutes, she spotted her “old friend” across the room and left. Of course, that friend didn’t exist. I left soon after, humiliated.
Luna had been different. At least I thought so. She listened. She smiled. She said I was sweet. She even called me “beautiful.” She fell asleep in my arms, and I held her the whole night. My leg cramped up, but I refused to move. I just stroked her back, smoothed her pink hair, listened to her breathing. I memorized it—the way her chest rose and fell against me, the warmth of her breath on my neck. It was… beautiful.
One night isn’t enough.
Not now I know what it feels like.
I want more.
But how?
I don’t know what to say to her. If I just go to her, I’ll probably cry, or worse—beg. That would kill whatever tiny chance I still have.
No, I need a plan.
I need advice.
Luke’s not the one. Solid guy, reliable, but not exactly chatty. He keeps his feelings locked down tight.
Jack’s out too. He’s the boss here, at least while I’m seconded. I can’t dump my love life on him.
That leaves Toby.
Toby’s approachable. Friendly. He’s got that easy confidence with women that I’ll never have. I’ve seen him in action—back when I tagged along on Friday nights in Rushville. The moment he walks into a bar, he zeroes in on the best-looking woman there. Within minutes, he’s got her laughing, touching his arm, inviting him in.
He makes it look effortless.
I have no idea how he does it.
But I’d sure as hell like to find out.
After five minutes of wandering around the camp, I finally track Toby down in the barn. He’s bent over the engine of one of the tractors, checking coolant and oil levels, his sleeves rolled up, grease streaking his forearms.
“Hey, Toby.”
