Page 59 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
When Dettifoss comes into view, my stomach plummets. Because Dettifoss is a raging, thunderous monster. A gaping hole in the earth devouring anything and everything flowing near its beastly mouth.Powerfuldoesn’t do it justice. Neither doesformidableormightyorfierce. The only word that sticks in my mind isbrutal. A violent, unrelenting brutality of nature that makes me uneasy simply viewing it from the safety of the sidelines.
It is unapologetic.
It ismagnificent.
“What do you think?” Ben shouts over the raging downpour as we make our way closer to the rocky outpost near the top of the falls, the tourists gathered there resembling tiny gnats in comparison to the beast at their side.
“Literally. Unbelievable.”
While Ben takes his place among the other sightseers, I hang back a bit and lean against a boulder, one that vibrates from the sheer force of the falls, prepared to wait from a safe distance that doesn’t make my legs tremble.
Ben has to work slowly to keep the cast-off spray off the camera lens, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to put order to my thoughts, to envision the real words I’ll write in my article to describe this unreal location. But as I contemplate the marvel of Dettifoss, I can’t help but wonder if this trip is the only time I’ll ever get to feel this thrill of discovering a brand-new piece of the world. My reemerged feelings for Ben are inconvenient at best, and if I end up fucking this whole thing up, there will be no more trips like this in my future. No more chances to see all the places I’ve dreamed of seeing since I was that four-year-old kid at the library checking out picture books about safari in South Africa. If I mess this all up, those dreams will be gone in an instant, and I’ll have no one to blame but myself.
After Ben finishes up, we start out on the path to Selfoss, Dettifoss’s neighbor just a mere 1.4 km away—anothermoderatehike, according to Icelanders. But as I’ve already discovered, and am quick to learn once again, Icelandic and American versions ofmoderateare very different when it comes to physical exertion.
“Holy shit, Ben, this isn’t ahike,” I mumble only minutes later. “This is a goddamn rock climb.”
Ben glances at me over his shoulder, a view that’s become quite common on this trip as I consistently lag behind, and winks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, there’s a clearly defined trail.”
Theclearly defined trailconsists of wooden spikes in the ground every now and then with the tips painted bright yellow. The problem is that those spikes are necessary because this “trail” zigzags up and down the side of a steep hill covered in rocks and boulders of all shapes and sizes. I’m not so much “walking” or “hiking” as I am clambering over uneven rocks that are sometimes steeper than my knees and trying not to twist an ankle or fall on my face.
“Hey, look.” Ben disrupts my internal listing of grievances, and I pause my climb to look to where he’s pointing. Below us, the hillside gives way to a small alcove with a black sand shore, the raging river now lapping peacefully at the shoreline in this little outpost. In the sky above, a rainbow escapes through a crack in the gray clouds, stretching down toward the earth but never connecting with the hillside. “Stay right there, I’ll be back.”
Ben takes off toward the shore, moving deftly over the rocks at a much quicker pace now that I’m not attempting to keep up with him. Which is fine by me because I need a breather anyway. I take a seat on the dull edge of one of the surrounding boulders (I have so many to choose from!) and catch my breath, only to lose it all over again when Ben nears a steep drop-off overlooking the river below. As if hoping to complete the heart attack this “hike” probably set in motion, he sits (sits!!!) on the ledge and dangles (dangles!!!) his feet over the edge. Then, like it’s no big deal, he lifts his camera and starts taking pictures.
Instead of my anxiety turning to tears like it did at Skógafoss, it transforms to anger. Anger that he would put me in this position to be afraid for him again after he saw my reaction last time.
By the time he returns to my side—obliviously going on about how those unexpected photos you can’t plan for are always the best—I’ve developed a throbbing ache in my jaw from clenching my teeth that pulses to the same rhythm as my hangover headache. My spine is stick-straight, my arms crossed tightly over my chest as I openly seethe to convey my annoyance. When Ben doesn’t notice (or blatantly ignores me) and continues messing with his camera, I tap my foot impatiently on the smaller rock in front of me and let out a heavy sigh.
“Something wrong?” Ben asks without looking up.
That’s all the opening I need.
“Yes, something’s wrong!” I demand, standing to my full height for better effect. “Do you know how dangerous that was? Do you know that you could have fallen over the stupid edge and been swept downstream to Dettifoss and that would be the last anyone ever saw of Benjamin Harrison Carter? Do you not remember how I reacted at Skógafoss? And today you decide to dangle half your body off a cliff? Do you evencarewhat that does to me?”
Ben looks up at me, blinking. “Ems,” he starts, gentle but firm, “I know what I’m doing. What you can’t see from up here is the other ledge below the one I was on.IfI would have fallen, I would have landed about six feet farther below. I told you before, I don’t have a death wish. I wouldn’t put myself in unnecessary danger.”
I nod, stiffly, but keep my arms folded across my chest so he knows I haven’t completely let it go.
“I have a question for you, though.” He slings his camera bag over his shoulder. “Why does it bother you?”
“The thought of you falling off a cliff to your death? Gee, I don’t know, Ben,” I deadpan. “I guess it would kind of put a damper on my dinner plans if I had to wait for the rescue squad to recover your body.” I roll my eyes. “What kind of question is that?”
“So, you worry about all your photographers to this extent then?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. What do I say to that? No, I don’t worry about my other photographers while they snap pictures of apple tarts or Santa’s parade down some small-town Main Street—although, admittedly, one reindeer did get a little feisty. But Mr. World-Renowned Photographer over here certainly wouldn’t understand that, and I’m certainly not going to explain it to him.
Besides, the real meaning behind his question has nothing to do with the other photographers I’ve worked with and everything to do with my feelings for him. Feelings that are raw from being buried and discarded, pushed out of mind but never truly forgotten, then forced to the surface again after all this time. Maybe that’s why I can’t contain them. Why I’m a fragile mess who breaks down in tears or lashes out in anger or throws myself at Ben only to flirt with another guy right in front of his face because I’m pissed he rejected me.
This situation is so fucked up.
As soon as I think it, I know Ben sees the exact thought written across my face as if I’ve spoken it aloud.
“It’s going to happen,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “We’re having this conversation.Beforewe leave Iceland, we’re getting this sorted.”
He’s right, we can’t continue this way. Not when I can’t fully focus on my work, or anything other than him. Not when my body responds to his touch like it’s been waiting fourteen years for him to come back. Not when I breathe faster every time he walks into the room, or when my heart flutters with anticipation, yet hovers on the verge of breaking whenever he’s close.
We finish our hike to Selfoss, where instead of one monstrous waterfall like its predecessor, a seemingly endless row of cascade after cascade stretches out before us as I peer at the horizon. We make our way over slippery round stones and through puddles that reflect the cloudy skies above as we get closer. But when I stop a safe distance back, Ben continues to the edge of the cliff. A sharp needle of discomfort pricks in my belly, but I choose to trust what he said, that he knows what he’s doing.
