Was it something I did?
After he slipped out of my tent last night, I replayed his kiss on a loop: nothing about it felt like afinalkiss. If anything, it felt like anI so wish we could do more but am restraining myselfkiss. I figured he’d be back to himself after a good night of sleep.
This morning was awkward, too, though—something has definitely shifted. I told myself he was just tormenting himself with an unnecessary guilt trip, that it had nothing to do with me…but the longer it’s gone on, the more it feels like it haseverythingto do with me.
I could sit around and worry about it all night, or I could go do something about it.
Most people don’t even realize they’re making you feel unseen or unheard, in my experience—especially not nice guys who’d never try to hurt someone on purpose. How is Thorn supposed to know he’s making me feel like this unless Itellhim?
This is the pep talk I give myself as I make my way across camp, later, when the tennis girls and coffee bros are telling ghost stories around the fire. Zoe retreated to her tent as soon as dinner ended, and Thorn has mostly kept to himself, too.
I find him down by the stream, sitting on a boulder.
My shoes might as well be an alarm with how they crunch in the gravel.
He turns, giving me what he clearly thinks passes for a smile—but I see through it. At least it’s not an outright rejection.
“Mind if I sit?” I ask, climbing up on the boulder with him, because I can already tell he won’t tell me no.
“Go ahead,” he says, scooting over so I have a little more space.
“Little dark to be fishing, yeah?” It’s as good a start as any, never mind that he obviously doesn’t have any fishing gear with him.
“Little bit,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
I lean back, taking in the view. The night sky is much more obstructed by trees than it was at our stargazing site, but there’s still a sliver of Milky Way peeking out above us.
My gaze flicks over to his profile, lit by the faint glow of the campfire behind us.
“So,” I finally begin. “What’s going on with you today?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up, like he’s fighting a smile. “Something’s going on with me?”
“You tell me,” I say. “I mean, unless kissing a girl and then avoiding her the whole next day is how you usually roll?”
He bites his lip. “Point taken.”
I give him space, wait for him to find words for whatever’s weighing him down.
“There is nousuallywhen it comes to this,” Thorn finally says. “I’ve never gotten involved with anyone while on a trek—you’re the first. I thought I could handle myself, you know? I thought I could stay focusedandhave a little fun for once.”
Thorn is so attractive, so capable, so kind: I’m kind of shocked to hear I’m the first—the only!—person he’s gotten close with like this while out on a trek.
“So, what, you never bring your girlfriends along?”
Surely there have been others besides the ex he told me about, the one who ran off to Peru with Matteo.
“Haven’t had a girlfriend in years,” he says. “I’m out here working pretty much all the time.”
“That sounds lonely,” I say, trying to imagine what it’s like for him.
“It is,” he replies. “I mean, there are always people around—but I’m the one responsible for them. They’re here, and then they leave, and then the cycle starts over.”
His words hang in the air.
It sounds even lonelier than I imagined—especially when factoring in that he’s on the clock the whole time, with the group but not really part of it. It hadn’t occurred to me that life for him might feel like a big revolving door, new people who are just passing through, none of them staying long enough to ever go deep with.
Does he see me, too, as someone who will inevitably leave? He’d have to, right? It’s not like I’m signed up for another hike after this. I’ve managed okay out here, far better than I expected, but the thought of not going back to air conditioning and my own bed at the end of all this feels like staring down a deep, dark hole.
