“Toilets!” Ben shouted, jubilant.
Alexei stared at that gap in Ben’s teeth. His stomach gave a sharp, painful tug.
Hunger pangs, probably.
“Toilets,” he agreed.
“And trash cans! Man.” Ben returned to his shave. “Bathrooms. Fucking incredible.”
“Um.” Alexei’s shoulder hit the corner of the closest stall as he backed up. “Yes.”
And then he swiftly turned and hustled into the next stall. Which he barely fit into, with his pack. After one, two, three—oh, and four—loud bangs against the sides of the stall, he finally successfully dropped the pack off his shoulders. He only hung his head in his hands for a few horrified seconds.
Luckily, two other men soon entered the bathroom, chatting loudly with each other at the urinals, creating a distraction. And when Alexei returned to the sinks, Ben was focused on his phone, typing and smirking at its screen. He’d finished his shave, and it was striking, the clean jaw, the tender skin of his chin. His hair was down now, and that, too, looked remarkably clean, the shiny dark locks almost hitting his shoulders.
Alexei turned away to aggressively wash his hands, in an attempt to remove four days of desert grime from his fingernails.
Ben’s fingernails, Alexei couldn’t help but notice, looked as flawless as the rest of him, neatly trimmed, lacking any hint of dirt. Alexei’s eyes wandered without his exact permission, studying the veins that popped along Ben’s hands as he tapped at his phone, the way the tendons along his wrist and the muscles of his forearms stretched and relaxed with each subtle movement. He was wearing the same sky blue T-shirt he’d been wearing the other day, the only thing on his person that betrayed signs of the trail in its slight wrinkles, its faint streaks of dust.
Alexei remembered what the T-shirt had felt like, bunched in his hand.
He turned off the tap. He had planned on refilling his water pouches while he was in here, but he’d come back later. He had been wrong before. He did not possess the capacity to converse with Ben after all.
It was a relief to escape, he assured himself as he made a silent exit, unscathed by another one of those smiles.
He took a deep breath before he stepped outside.
The patio of Tommy’s Kitchen was nearly full, but Alexei spotted a few empty tables in the back corner. He slid off his pack at the farthest one, rested it against the railing. Placed his order number at the edge of the table. Eased his swollen, blistered feet from his trail runners, slipping his toes into the cheap sandals he’d packed for camp. He’d been trying to give his feet breathing room anytime he took an extended rest the last few days, hoping it would help ease their pain.
Once he was settled, he cracked open the bottle of apple juice he’d grabbed from the cooler inside the restaurant. The first sip was even better than taking off his shoes. It was so cold and so sweet. Like the plums in the icebox. The first thing his body had accepted with joy since he’d stepped onto the trail. He almost cried.
“Hey, buddy.”
Alexei choked on his next sip, so lost in his liquid sugar reverie that he hadn’t realized someone had approached him. When he was able to look up, he recognized the dark beard on the tall, thick man hovering above him. That beard had brushed his face three days ago.
“Do you mind if we crash your party? Not many other seats left, unfortunately.”
Oh. Alexei didn’t really—but he supposed—
“Here, have a beer for your troubles.” The bearded man placed a sweating can of Pabst Blue Ribbon next to Alexei’s apple juice. With effort, Alexei resisted wrinkling his nose at it.
“Sure.” He managed a small smile.
“Excellent. Hey, I’m actually glad to run into you again.” The man plunked his pack down behind them with athunk. “Sorry we kept on trucking so fast the other day. We were lookin’ to make some big miles, and it was hot as hell out there; didn’t want to lose our momentum, you know? Anyway, thanks for saving Ben from the rattler. I’m Faraj, by the way.” He held out a calloused brown hand.
Faraj. That was right. Funny how Alexei hadn’t been able to remember that.
“Alexei.”
After they shook, Faraj pushed the neighboring table alongside Alexei’s, its legs stuttering across the worn wood of the patio. The other men who had been hiking with Faraj that day soon joined them, lining their own packs up against the railing, cracking open their own cans of beer. Including—because right, of course—Ben. Who sat directly across from Alexei, holding a plastic cup of water.
Alexei swallowed. His plan to eat real food in Idyllwild while feeling sorry for himself was turning into…not that. But this was okay. He would have to talk to strangers more in his new life, as Alexei 2.0. He could do this.
The other men introduced themselves—a Black man with short locs, Ryan; a sunburnt redhead, Tanner—and their food arrived shortly thereafter, cutting off the need for conversation. Everyone at the table had ordered burgers, except for Alexei, who had a turkey club. Ben had added on a salad; Ryan had ordered onion rings for the table. It was all greasy and fresh, a marvel after four days of granola bars and freeze-dried meals, and Alexei’s social anxiety settled as he ate.
Halfway into the meal, Ben caught Alexei’s eye. He held up a crispy, golden steak fry with another gap-toothed grin.
“Fries,” he said.
