Page 46 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Sinking into a kitchen chair, I open my email and get an immediate sense of impending doom when I see a message from Calvin, sent a couple of hours ago. I sit up straight and set mywine bottle off to the side. As I click to open the email, I rationalize with myself that Calvin probably emails all the Internationals to check in during their trips. Of course, it only takes a couple clicks of the mouse for that rationalization to be proven wrong, because the email is only one line.
One measly, infuriating line.
How is the recruitment of Benjamin Carter coming along?
—Calvin Cramer III
Chapter 14
Tip #9 when visiting Iceland:These Icelanders don’t fuck around.
If there’s anything that should distract me from the events of the past twelve hours, it’s the landscape stretched out before me at ninea.m.the following morning. Ben and I drove up to the peninsula at Dyrhólaey to view the dramatic cliffside rock formation that creates a circular arch as it juts out into the ocean. There’s also a lighthouse to explore, as well as sweeping views of the black sand beaches far below.
I roam the hillside paths as Ben searches for the best location for his shots, the salty ocean wind stinging my cheeks, the scent of brine hanging thick in the air. Gulls soar through the sky overhead before circling back to the rocky cliffs where they’ve nested, and tall green grasses sway with the breeze, a vibrant contrast to the coal black shoreline below and the white-capped waves thatcrash and recede, leaving their outline on the sand only for the next roll of the tide to wipe it away.
I might as well be standing in an ASMR recording, but instead of feeling peaceful, I’m miffed.
I can’t get Calvin’s dismissive, indifferent, cavalier email out of my head. For one goddamn line of text, he sure managed to get to me. So instead of enjoying the early-morning views of this picturesque location most people would kill to see in their lifetimes, I’m silently fuming. One little sentence and he manages to wipe away any confidence I’d started to build. A sprinkle of words and he’s reinforced the fact that this trip, this article, has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Ben.
Which brings me to the other thing keeping my peace at bay. After debating it over and over while I did anything but sleep last night, I’ve accepted a hard truth: I am the problem.
I’ve acted unprofessionally this entire trip. I have allowed myself to not only give in to my attraction to Ben in the first place, but then I yelled at him in public for something that happened fourteen years ago. The humiliation of knowinghe knowshow much our past still haunts me made it very near impossible to face him this morning.
So far, the only acknowledgment I’ve gotten out of Ben today was when we met up at the car and I pasted on my affable smile and said,It sure is a lovely morning out, isn’t it?Ben’s response came in the form of an eye roll and a mumbled,Christ. Are we really back to this?We’ve coexisted in silence since.
I have to fix this. Calvin’s email served as a stark reminder that I’m here to do a job, and I can’t recruit Ben if he isn’t speaking to me. Therefore, I’ve made up my mind; I will takeresponsibility and apologize for my actions. I’m just waiting for the right moment (and some courage), and then I’ll recruit the hell out of Ben Carter.
My courage doesn’t come in the very long, very silent two-hour drive as we leave the southernmost part of Iceland behind and head northeast to Vatnajökull National Park. But the rain does. And so does the wind. Along with some thunder for added fun. And like most Americans who don’t know shit about the metric system, I gravely underestimate the “moderate” 1.5 km hike to Svartifoss waterfall.
The brutal winds and torrential rain aren’t helping matters. As if it’s not enough for my muscles to struggle against my own body weight on the uphill trail, I must also struggle against the sudden blasts of air that pitch me off-balance and the raindrops that mix with my sweat and drip into my eyes, inhibiting my view.
All I can think of as I pull my hood tighter at my chin, thunder cracking overhead, is that this is it, this is where I give up. Yesterday’s confidence and accomplishments feel completely out of reach today, washed away by the monsoon currently pelting us. And a one-line email.
We round a zigzag in the gravel trail, and another steep incline looms in front of me, confirming my self-doubts.
“I can’t do this,” I say in a winded burst, coming to an abrupt stop and doubling over at the waist.
Ben turns at my voice, rain dripping from his eyelashes. “We can take a break.”
He slides his backpack off his shoulders, sighing as he sets it to the side of the trail, and it’s not lost on me—again—that Ben isdoing this wet, merciless hike while carrying around equipment that probably adds at least thirty pounds to his shoulders.
I’m carrying a water bottle.
“Sorry,” I say when I’ve recovered enough to stand upright again. “I’m slowing you down and forcing you to be out in this rain longer than necessary.”
“It’s fine,” he says without looking at me. “I’m used to working in the rain.”
While that’s probably true, I guarantee he’s not used to slowing his pace to that of a snail to accommodate a partner in over their head. “I don’t think my body has recovered since day one.”
“Day one was the Blue Lagoon.”
“True, but they could’ve had the courtesy to warn me then that there aren’t enough healing minerals and silica in the fucking universe to prepare my body for what was to come.” I swipe the rain and sweat off my forehead. “These Icelanders don’t fuck around.”
“There you go.” Ben finally meets my gaze as a hint of a smile looms at his lips for the first time today. “A lovely quote for your article already.”
I smile, too, and maybe this start of a conversation is the opening I need to repair the damage I caused last night. “I’ll finish, I swear. I just need a minute.”
“Take your time, this is hard shit.” Just as he says it, a shirtless guy with rippling muscles jogs by us and offers a friendly smile and wave, his long, wet hair flowing behind him like a horse’s mane. “Okay, maybe it’s not hard for him,” Ben says as the man leaves us in his wake, “but fuck that guy.”
