Sandy, she says again, and Sandy finally hears her. She changes her stance, smiles, and she’s charming. The man relaxes, says something—a number, maybe?—and then Sandy smiles again and extends her hand to shake. The younger woman releases a slow breath. A deal’s been made, everyone’s happy, the tension I could sense even across the road evaporating like a desert rain.
I smile too, feeling relief at a crisis averted.
Finally, I arrive at the post office. It’s a low, white building with one red and one blue strip running parallel above block chrome lettering. I go inside and search the row of P.O. Boxes until I find mine. The key to it arrived a week before I left, and I put it on the chain around my neck, next to the medallion I wear.
There’s a package waiting for me inside, and I take it out, then lock the box back up again. I shove it into the bottom compartment of my pack, groaning at the thought of the extra weight. Then I exit back into the day, my steps a little slower, but feeling more secure.
I arrive at Schat’s. It’s a Cape Cod–style storefront with a line out the door even though it’s seven p.m., the sun settling into the horizon. The smells emanating from inside are incredible—butter, flour, coffee, cream. I still have half an hour before I’m supposed to meet Ben, so I get in the line and wait my turn.
I step into the store, and it’s heaven. Shelves piled high with confections in cellophane wrappers and homemade jams glowing like red and orange jewels in glass jars. The sugary smell hanging in the air almost overwhelms me. I’ve always had a sweet tooth, and I want one of everything. I can’t afford that, though, and I’ve been on a strict diet, dropping ten pounds of city weight while I gained the muscle I need to do my new job. That much sugar and fat would probably fell me.
But I do deserve a treat, so I order a chocolate croissant and a freshly squeezed orange juice. The prices are shocking, even to someone who’s used to Manhattan, but when I get back outside and sink my teeth into the chocolatine, I don’t care what I paid. In this anonymous town, I can groan out my pleasure. No one knows me here anymore, and no one’s going to judge.
“Cassie?” a man’s voice says, startling me. My head jerks up and panic sets in.
Because despite all my precautions, maybe I’ve been found out after all.
PHOTOGRAPH—A couple in their early twenties—she’s Black, petite, smiling; he’s white, all-American, satisfied with himself—with their arms around each other in front of a classic Airstream camper
Liked by mamajada and 23 others
@JadaJohnsonInsta We were supposed to leave at *8* in the AM and now it’s after *8* in the PM!!—but it happened, doubters! Jim and I are FINALLY saying adios to Cincinnati and are #ontheroad. That’s right, bitches! Finals are DONE, #summer is here (almost, it’s hot, whatevs), and it’s #YOSEMITE or bust! One hot man and his boo in his daddy’s Airstream for the summer! #WhatCouldGoWrong? LOL.
Follow along for all the FEELS, REELS, and STORIES, and drop your hashtag suggestions in the comments. It’s getting all Kerouac up in here! Let’s goooooo!
#JadaandJimForever #LongHaulSummer #AirstreamLiving #HopeWeDontBustBeforeWeGetThere
mamajada Drive carefully!
theyfreedBritney Squeeee! Wish I was with u! #JadaandJimSittingInAnAirstream
jimislivingthedream @mamajada thanks for the snacks!
bellasgram #BetterYouThanMe
JadaJohnsonInsta @bellasgram ha!
MAY 22
CHAPTER 3 THE BEST BURRITO
Then
May
I did three things in the lead-up to leaving Manhattan: started skimming 20 percent of my gallery salary to save money; enrolled in a wilderness first-responder course to requalify to work in search and rescue; and went to the climbing gym every morning where they also offered a self-defense class. The training and flip takedowns coupled with a strict diet heavy on protein and low on carbs made me feel strong, and reminded me that I could hold my own when I wanted to.
So as this man towers over me outside Schat’s, knowing my name and looking like he expected to find me here, my brain immediately tries to decide if I use a choke hold on him or if I just kick him in the nuts and run.
But then he says, “I’m Ben.”
Ben, my ride. Ben Cowell, the man I’m supposed to meet here, not the one I’m afraid might find me.
“Oh,” I say, hoping my voice is steady, but knowing it isn’t. “Hi.”
“Sorry to scare you.”
“That’s all right.” I shade my eyes from the setting sun. Ben is outlined like a shadow. He’s a few inches taller than me, maybe five ten, has sandy hair, a tanned face, and eyes that are either hazel or green. His body is typical climber: wide shoulders and thinner legs, and he’s wearing stone-colored tech pants and a plaid shirt I recognize from too many hours browsing REI online.
“You enjoy your Schat’s?” he asks with a knowing smile. His voice is deep and a little slow in its cadence, but pleasant. I’d put his age around thirty, like me, though he could be five years on either side of that.
I look down. The front of my gray sweatshirt is covered in flakes of pastry. I brush them off, blushing with embarrassment. “It was pretty great.”
“Sometimes I dream about it, to be honest.” I smile as he bends to pick up my pack. He lifts it easily. “This all you got?”
“Yep.”
“My truck’s just over here.”
I follow him to a dark blue Ford pickup. He puts my bag in the back and we climb in. When he turns on the engine, some song by the Grateful Dead blares from the speakers. He reaches over and turns it down. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries,” I say. “Listen to what you like.”
He puts the truck in gear and pulls out, turning north on 395, which will take us to the Lee Vining turnoff to Yosemite. Once in the park, we’ll head to Tuolumne Meadows, where we’ll be staying for the summer as part of the search and rescue team.
“How was your flight?” he asks.
I’d told him only that I was flying from the East Coast. “Long. And then a bus ride. This day already feels like a thousand years. Where are you coming from?”
Ben’s hands are loose on the wheel. “LA.”
“You live there?”
“My parents do. In Malibu.” He glances at me to gauge my reaction. He comes from money, he’s telling me, which can be a touchy thing in climbing culture.
“It’s pretty there. Great surfing.”
“Indeed.” He smiles, the moment passing.
Up ahead, the Sierras loom large in front of us, the last of the sun glinting off the broad, rounded peaks, still half covered in snow. It’s cooling off fast as we gain altitude, and I wish I’d pulled my puffy from my pack.
“Do you mind if I turn on the heat?”
“Suit yourself.”
I reach for the controls. A hot breeze puffs out of the vents, and I settle in, watching the scenery. I haven’t been here in ten years, and it’s both familiar and new. Same road, different houses, or old ones with a fresh coat of paint. The mountains never change, though, and I forgot how much I love this view.
“First year on SAR?” Ben asks.