CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ELLIOT
Two months later...
“Onward?” I ask. “There’s a waterfall waiting.”
I’m on a hike with Hank, Angie, and their parents. After hustling my butt all last week getting ready for Taylor’s dance party tomorrow afternoon, the day outside with Hank’s family is refreshing and rejuvenating.
This is their first visit back to Seattle since Hank and I have made our relationship official, and they’re welcoming me into the family with open arms. It’s a joy and a relief, and I’m still trying to make sense of how good it feels to be accepted by them.
The air is crisp and clear as we head off. Pink hash marks blaze the dirt path, which is wide beneath the towering overstory, lumbering Ponderosa Pine with its orange bark and tufted needles. Sunlight speckles down on the lush ferns, and neon green moss and lichen seem to cover every other surface, rocks and dirt and bark.
The group of us set out, chatting amiably and mingling among each other as the trail bends and dips.
“I didn’t realize Hank and Angie were raised by a Trekkie,” I say, referencing his dad’s shirt.
“I’m the twin that inherited that trait,” Angie says.
“Hank went to the conventions with me when he was younger, though,” his dad adds, and I fall in step closer to him.
“That’s true,” Hank says. “It was fun to look at all the weird old stuff. But you can only browse action figures from the 1970s so many times before it gets repetitive.”
“I liked to get photographs with the actors,” Angie says. “I was collecting.”
“Sounds cool,” I tell her.
“What made it even cooler was that Dad always dressed up,” Hank adds. “And Mom made the costumes.”
“Those Borg costumes were a real pain in my keister,” his mom interjects. She looks over to me. “I don’t have to tell you about android anatomy, though, do I?”
I laugh. “No, you don’t.”
“We read an article about your work,” his dad says as the trail shifts and we move more into a single-file line. “It said something about an animation you’re developing.”
“That’s one of the offers,” I tell them happily, grateful that they’re interested and supportive. “I’m feeling pretty attached to non-animated drawings, though. I think I might do an illustrated book instead.”
“Very nice,” Ella says. “It reminds me of, oh, what were those books that you collected, dear? In the nineties? It was gargoyles, I believe.”
“Demons, dear,” he replies. “With naked women fighting them.”
“The naked women were always defeating the demons,” his mom goes on.
We round another bend, and the trail allows us to join back up as a group.
“What were you just talking about?” Hank asks.
Angie shifts her backpack. “Dad just shared that he used to be into demon porn.”
Hank laughs. “I’m so glad I asked.”
As we walk again, I gaze at Hank, my heart full of love for him. He’s handsome in the natural light of the forest, and it’s a treat spending time with his geeky family.
We stop at a small clearing beside the creek, and Hank draws everyone’s attention to the many Wild Bleeding Hearts that grow along the tree roots, delicate purple and pink flowers that hang upside down, their heart shape accentuated with a rich purple flare at the tip. He explains that the plant oddly goes dormant not when the ground freezes, but during the heat of summer, and survives harsh winters with its massive rhizomatic root system.
The waterfall is just a little further on the path, beyond some Swamp Gooseberry shrubs that grow along the stream, their pale yellow and pink flowers hanging in dangly clusters.
Hank and I fall into step beside each other as we walk, and his hand finds mine.
