I tell myself I couldn’t care less what Ryder Bergman does, let alone that he’s watching me. I don’t want his trust, and I particularly don’t want to know him.
It’s a lie. Luckily, if you tell yourself a lie enough times, eventually it becomes a truth.
Following an awkward reunion two hours later, Ryder and I pass the forty-five-minute drive along 1-North onto the Pacific Coast Highway in silence. Silence was a given anyway since Ryder can’t text and drive. Since I sit on his right, he could have worn the hearing aid and I could have talked his ear off, I suppose, but I’m not supposed to know about that. Another facet of his obvious distrust in me.
So he doesn’t trust you, he doesn’t tell you much. You’re the same way. You hold your cards close, too. What do you care?
I don’t know. It’s an infuriating refrain in my head: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. God, I’m so confused.
My forehead’s smooshed against the glass, taking in the views until we blur by a sea of parked-in cars. Ryder seems to know some secret place, because he confidently speeds by the masses and rolls down the road. All I’ve heard is Escondido Falls is a dreamy view but a nightmare when it comes to parking. When he brings the car to a stop under a shady nondescript grove, Ryder pulls out his phone.
You were quiet. Did my driving make you nervous?
I glance at the message, then force myself to meet his eyes. “No, Ryder. You drove fine. I was quiet because we can’t talk while you drive.”
He fusses with his keys, then he drops them in his lap and types, Some people aren’t comfortable with a deaf driver. I should have asked you.
My stomach sours, anger on his behalf surging through me as the words rush out. “Well, those people are assholes, Bergman. I know I can be a salty bitch, but I don’t see you as any less capable or safe because your ears don’t work the way they used to, okay?”
I can’t handle the look on his face or the way the car suddenly feels like a sauna. Throwing open my door, backpack in hand, I stare up at the trail before me.
I did my homework before I agreed to this hike, lest the mountain man decide on torturing me with some horrifyingly technical trail. Seems Ryder was looking out for me. The hike to Escondido Falls is only four miles, round trip, beginning just off the Pacific Coast Highway and reaching its apex at a dramatic waterfall. Our journey starts on asphalt, below a cluster of swanky Malibu homes. The online guide I read promised it soon transitions to coastal wilderness, and that the rugged, lush beauty of the falls is a well-worth-it reward for dealing with the oddly residential beginning.
My phone dings. Have your water?
I meet his eyes. “Yes. And my eighteen granola bars you insisted I bring.”
He smirks as he types. You are not a woman to be crossed while hangry. Consider it a personal insurance measure.
Rolling my eyes, I turn back toward the trail. I feel Ryder’s attention on me again but ignore it. Hiking my bag higher on both my shoulders, I begin walking.
After a few hundred feet of ascent, we pass the houses and leave the paved part of the trail. A sign reads Escondido Canyon Park, and a nearby dirt path bears another marker: Edward Albert Escondido Canyon Trail and Waterfall.
I turn over my shoulder for direction from Ryder. He nods toward the dirt path.
We walk in silence that starts off chilly, thanks to me and my bottled-up feelings. But, as we ascend and the sun moves higher in the sky, our frigidity thaws in the growing heat to companionable quiet. After trekking a field of fragrant mustard and fennel, we cross a creek that flows through an open thicket. Ryder takes my elbow, pointing left, so that we continue upstream into Escondido Canyon.
The path broadens. It’s level and packed dirt, a safe trail to take that isn’t likely to make me twist an ankle or tweak my knee. If Coach knew I was hiking, she’d murder me. Twice.
At some point, my five-six frame starts to fall short of Ryder’s long, steady strides, and he takes the lead. Shade buys us relief from the still-strong November sun, as we walk under a canopy of trees. But soon we’re out in the open again, traipsing through fields of dying wildflowers. There’s something haunting about them, a sea of husks and pods, the last lingering petal on a dry, cracked stem.
It reminds me of what Grandma Rose always said as we winterized the garden, as we ripped out plants and pruned bushes and buried bulbs. Life begets death begets life. The only thing we can do is honor the beauty and dependability of that cycle.
I can’t say that I see the beauty just yet, especially in its dependability. I’d prefer it if death weren’t dependable at all.
We come to a creek crossing that immediately I can tell I won’t be able to manage on my own. The water is high, and to get past it will involve hopping several rocks that my legs won’t span before the level drops low enough to trudge through.
Ryder throws his backpack onto his front and for a second I fight a laugh. He looks like he’s pregnant and very proud of it. He squints at me from beneath his ball cap as his mouth twitches. Maybe he’s trying not to laugh, too. Crouching down, he pats his back. Get on, he mouths.
“No.” I say it nice and loud, showing him my mouth so he’ll understand me. “Absolutely not. I’m too heavy with our gear.”
Ryder makes some noise close to a snort. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes lock with mine. There’s an intensity I haven’t seen in them before, an urgency. I hear it, what he would say if he could. I can feel how it would rumble in the air like thunder and vibrate through my bones.
Willa Sutter. Get. On.
My legs move without my direction, my hands wrap around his neck. Effortlessly, Ryder stands, his broad hands grasping my thighs. We’re two live wires that meet, making electricity flow freely between us. Sparks dance on my skin at every point of contact.
Ryder’s shirt is plastered with sweat. I lean into it, hungry for everything about him that isn’t tidy and cool and buttoned up. He smells heavenly. Like a lumberjack that just felled a tree, his muscles are coiled tight, his skin damp. I inhale cedar and pine and something undeniably manly. Pressing my chest into him, I almost moan. My boobs feel heavy, my nipples pebbled through layers of clothing as they scrape against the muscles of his back. He’s hot and perspiration drips down his neck. I have the weirdest impulse to drag my tongue along his skin and taste him.
Squeezing my thighs, Ryder’s dropping some kind of hint. I take it as a cue to hold on tighter, so I increase my grip around his neck and press my front to his back. I’m glued to his skin. His fingers dig into my legs as he pulls me even closer.
I knew Ryder was strong—mountain manly, feller of trees, and climber of trails—but I didn’t quite anticipate this. He steps evenly, long reaches from rock to rock with a solid-muscled woman on his back and two bags of gear. He’s not even winded when we make it to the other side of the water, and I slide down his body.
The air’s thick, not just with the heat of an unseasonably warm November day, but with something I can’t name. Ryder’s eyes hold mine as he straightens my gear on my shoulders. He steps closer, bringing our boots toe to toe. The sun beats down on us and makes every blond hair on his body glow golden. His chest rises and falls heavily, while his hands hold my shoulders, then slowly slide up my collarbones to my neck. Crickets sing in the grass and a hawk casts its shadow on us as it flies overhead. My pulse slams in my throat beneath Ryder’s thumb. His eyes are on my mouth, his head bending.