“I don’t cry.”
“Puh-lease. You probably wept yourself to sleep last night over how beautiful the night sky was.”
No, I wept myself to sleep while jacking off to the image of you in that nightgown.
“You have me pegged all wrong. I don’t boo-hoo just for the hell of it. Something has to really get my emotions working for me to start up the waterworks.”
“Like what?” She pushes a branch to the side so it doesn’t whack me in the face. The farther we walk, the farther we dive into the woods, the dirt trail shrinking, making it a tight fit for the both of us to walk side by side, but we still maintain the position, even if our shoulders are now brushing against each other. I’m tempted to reach down and take her hand in mine. What would she do if I did? Rip her hand away? Snuggle closer? Give me a what the hell look?
I’m thinking maybe the third option, so I refrain, even though I feel the need deep within my bones, this almost uncontrollable urge. We need a few more flirty moments before I pull a stunt like holding her hand.
“What makes me weep?” I ask, loving that this is what we’re talking about. Any other man would probably puff his chest and clutch his balls, stating he doesn’t weep.
Well guess what, ladies? I’ve been known to blubber into my shirt, cry on a shoulder, burst out in an ugly Kim Kardashian-like sob over something that cuts deep.
I’m not ashamed. I know who I am, and I own that.
“Yes, weep.” She grins up at me but then focuses back on the trail.
“It has to be something that really tugs on my heartstrings, like animals. They’re so innocent and when I see them get hurt, abused, or taken from their home, you can bet your pretty little ass my head will be buried in a box of tissues. Or . . . oh fuck, you know those videos of dogs being rescued from a sewer drain, given a makeover, and then they’re bouncing around, full of life, in a goddamn Hawaiian shirt at their new home? I’m drenched in tears.”
“Animals get me too. What about soldiers coming home?”
“No, I just feel happy for them, but not that gut-wrenching happiness that makes me buckle over. I’ll also weep if someone accomplishes their goals.”
“Really?” she asks, seemingly stunned.
“Oh yeah, big time. Any time one of my guys got the call up and started in the big leagues, fuck, I bawled like a baby.”
“Bawled? I could understand being happy, but bawling?”
I nod. “Yes, cried like a goddamn baby. But there’s a reason.” I duck under a branch and push back another for her, using the other hand to guide her by the small of her back. She leans into the touch for a second before pulling away. It feels like a glimpse of what could be.
“Are you going to say the reason?” She chuckles.
“Yes, give me a second. It’s nice to be dramatic, really make you feel the consuming passion when talking about this.”
“Oh my God, just get on with it.”
“You just sounded like Knox. Just get on with it. You make it hard to set the mood.” I clear my throat. “From middle school on, I knew one thing: I wanted to play baseball professionally. I geared my entire life around accomplishing this goal. I would practice constantly, every day, sometimes twice a day. I worked out, lifted weights, ate healthy even as a teen. I never wanted to see that goal slip from my fingers, so I held on to it tight and worked toward it, always reminding myself when I was sore and tired and exhausted why I was doing it. I had a reason. I’ve held that goal, that feeling close to my heart, waiting for the moment for me to accomplish it and knowing the joy it brought me when I did. When I see someone else accomplish their dream, I know the long hours and dedication that got them there. There is no such thing as an easy ride for elite athletes. They feel the burn in every training session or they’re doing it wrong. So, for me, it’s like I feel their emotions in that moment and it hits me hard.” I clearly remember my own tears when I was called up. Nothing has ever compared to that, and probably nothing will.
Dottie pauses to look up at me, wonderment in her eyes. “That’s really sweet. You have a good heart, Jason.”
“That’s a wonderful compliment. Thank you, sweet cheeks.”
I give her a quick side hug and then continue to move forward with our hike, a smile on my face.
“I really like your version of a hike snack. You could have brought some fruit, or trail mix, or a protein bar, but no, you went straight-up savage with nutrition and packed us puppy chow, Chips Ahoy, and chocolate-covered raisins. What happened to my carrot and guac girl?”
“Your girl?” she asks, nudging my shoulder.
“Yeah, you’re sucked into my world now, which means I claim you.”
“Fair enough.” Say what? Fair enough? Does that mean she thinks she’s my girl too? We chose a spot out on a giant boulder that overlooks the lake. It’s serene, birds chirping in the background, and a few twigs snapping here and there, nothing that would cause alarm. “When I hike, I always end up famished and don’t want anything healthy. I want the bad stuff. When I was young and went on hikes at Lake Skinner with my dad, we stopped at the local 7-Eleven and bought the worst junk food possible, things my mom never allowed at home. We’d park in front of the lake, pretend to fish, and eat our snacks. Then I started bringing Emory and Lindsay with me and it became a smorgasbord.”
“You guys have been friends for a long time.”
“Yes, they’re my girls. We had a small falling out with Emory after high school, but we quickly made up for lost time. I can’t see my life without them. They’ve really helped me through some tough times.”
“Yeah? Like—” A low grumble followed by a twig snapping echoes behind us. Holding still, I ask Dottie, “What was that?” She doesn’t move either.
“That wasn’t your stomach?”
“I’m kind of wishing it was at this point.” I swallow hard. “I think you should turn around and look.”
“Me? You’re the man,” she says from the corner of her mouth.
“I’m also an equal opportunist.”
“Just look.”
“I’m too scared,” I answer as another twig snaps, this one even closer.
“I thought you said your fists are—”
Snap, snap, snap.
“Oh . . . shit.” I grip her hand, but not in the way I want to and slowly turn my head.
Standing about ten feet away is a black bear, sniffing his way to our snacks, having zero concern that there are two humans sitting like dead ducks in front of him.
“Oh Jesus. Oh God. Oh, I might shit myself,” I cry hysterically.
At that moment, Dottie turns her head as well. She stifles a screech and then starts digging around her bag, pulling out the box cutter with a shaky hand.
“Wh-what do we do?” she asks, looking terrified, almost as terrified as me, while holding the box cutter the wrong way.
“Scream bloody murder?”
“What about what you said to my dad? If the bear is black, fight back?”
I sarcastically laugh. “Okay, that was a fun rhyme to spout off to your dad, but never once did I mean it.” I slowly stand and pull Dottie up with me. I clutch her backpack in my hand like a metal shield, hold it out arm distance, and grasp her hand with mine, holding on tight.