11. Jack

CHAPTER ELEVEN

jack

I help Graham lay out the tarp on the flat ground. We had our freeze-dried dinners—not something I ever want to get used to eating—before getting ready for bed. We'll get up early again tomorrow so we can watch at least some of the sunrise from the summit.

We all grab our small sleeping bags and lay them out over the tarp. I end up with my head right by Maggie's. "This okay?"

"Fine," she says.

It's late, and after hiking all day, I'm completely exhausted. But as I settle into my sleeping bag, the weight of the day and my conversation with Graham start to sink in.

If I could do what I really wanted to do, I'd live in some small town and do something simple that would pay the bills—even if that meant being a server at a diner or something—so I could spend the rest of my time traveling in an RV.

I roll over onto my left side, trying to get comfortable. It's a silly dream. I should want more than a life where I rely on tips to be able to travel. But working where I am gives me very little time to travel. Sure, I went to school for marketing. I'm one of the lead marketers at my father's firm. But if I'm being completely honest with myself, it is sucking the joy out of my life.

I sigh, listening as the noises of the night settle in around us. There are a few bugs I can hear, and every now and then the wind will rustle the leaves on the trees, but it's almost silent.

It's too quiet. I can't turn my brain off.

"Are you awake?" Maggie whispers from my left. I prop myself up on my elbow, careful not to make too much noise. The rest of our group is completely passed out.

"Yeah," I whisper back.

Maggie props herself up too. I can only kind of see her face in the sliver of moonlight. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, Mags."

"Why are you here?"

That's not the question I was expecting. I was hoping for a conversation about what exactly I did to make her hate me.

"Like on this hike?" I ask, even though I know that's what she means. I just don't want to talk about it. I'm still ruminating on everything Graham said earlier.

"Yeah, you don't strike me as much of a hiker."

"I hiked in college," I say. Because of you , I want to add. But I bite my tongue, because I can't exactly say that, can I? Even if it is true. She made her love of the mountains, hiking, and camping very clear when we were friends in high school. To the point that I almost asked my parents to buy us a tent so we could go along sometime. But my mom doesn't like dirt and Dad was always working, so I never ended up asking. "Not a ton. Certainly not enough to be ready for a hike like this. But my dad wanted me to take a vacation from work—blow off some steam, he said."

"You needed to blow off steam?"

I shrug in the darkness. "I mean, I've been stressed. But it's all for him, which he doesn't seem to get. Anyway, he knew Graham was doing this hiking group thing, so they talked, and then I was on a plane and on the way here."

"The old lady sitting next to me on the plane wanted to ask for your number." She giggles. "I mean, for me, not for her."

I freeze. "You saw me on the plane?"

"You were a few rows ahead of me."

"And you didn't try to get my attention?" Would I have felt more or less anxious about flying if I'd known she was on the same plane as me?

"I didn't want to talk to you. But the woman sure thought it was all hilarious. She was reading my texts…" She trails off.

My palms are sweaty. Texts? To whom? She may have put salt in my drink—heck, she even kissed me—but who's to say she's not dating or interested in someone else? She said she wasn't dating anyone earlier, but what if she lied? I just don't understand why she would. I also know I probably shouldn't care as much as I do. But I can't seem to help it.

"I was texting my college roommates while also freaking out about seeing you and wearing your sweats, and the lady thought it was hilarious. She gave me her address and told me to send her a wedding invitation."

My brain struggles to catch up. "You still have my sweats?"

"In my defense," she says, and I hear a hint of embarrassment in her voice. "Men's sweatpants are much more comfortable than women's. And they have bigger pockets."

She stole my sweats one afternoon when we were hanging out at my house. She'd spilled a cup of orange juice all over her white shorts, and I gave her my sweats to wear instead. I never saw them again.

"Wait, so you still have my sweats even though you hate me?"

She lets out a long sigh. "I don't hate you, but I'm still not your biggest fan."

"Are you ever going to tell me what I did that made you feel this way?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, she slides back down into her sleeping bag. I want to push for an answer. I want us to be friends again—more than friends, because let's face it, I still like her just as much as I did at eighteen—but we can't be friends if she won't talk to me, if she won't tell me how I messed up. And I must have done something that royally screwed her over.

Two days after graduation—and all the partying that came with it—I went over to Maggie's house. I was going to tell her how I felt and ask her out on a real date. I almost threw up before I knocked on the door. But then one of her sisters answered and told me she was at work. When I tried again later that week, her mom told me that Maggie had gone to stay with her grandparents for the summer before she went to college in Colorado.

I didn't see her again until yesterday.

I wiggle back into my sleeping bag. I guess I'm just going to have to be okay with not getting answers. I'll keep telling myself that I'll be fine without having Maggie in my life. I've lived that way for six years; I can do it again.

But I don't want to.

I'm about to tell her that when she breaks the silence. "Tell you what, Jack-Jack. We make it to the top of the mountain tomorrow, and we can have a conversation. I'll even let you plead your case as to why I should forgive you."

That would be nice, considering I don't know what I even did. The times when I wasn't thinking about my job and what Graham said this morning, I was trying to figure out what prank went wrong, and why kissing me was the reason that Maggie hates me. I still can't figure it out. But if she's willing to talk, I'll take what I can get. "Deal."

She reaches across the space between us and squeezes my upper arm, the only part of me she can really reach. I close my eyes, enjoying the way her fingers linger before she pulls away.

"Night, Jack."

"Night, Mags."