I hit send and then type out one more message on a line of its own:I miss you, too.
Over dinner—a gigantic spread of sushi, courtesy of Jonathan, who made a brief appearance to drop it off before going to a movie with friends—I fill Abby in on everything.
She hangs on my every word.
She can’t believe I went kayaking, and rappelling, and that I actually came to enjoy all the hiking and being out in nature. She can’t believe I summitted amountain.
I tell her I still hate mosquitos, and snakes, and sweating, and the feeling of needing a shower but not having anything but a lake to wash off in. I tell her how much I missed real shampoo and conditioner—but how, actually, I feel like I could throw my phone off a cliff now that I’m not used to checking it compulsively out of habit.
Except, I add, for one thing.
Oneperson.
“Tell me about him,” Abby says.
So I do.
A little over a week later, Jonathan and Abby and I are hanging out at the JW Marriott, like we did every day at the beginning of the summer. Jonathan’s just starting his shift at the poolside bar, so Abby and I are perched on a pair of stools while he works, enjoying some on-the-house appetizers.
“Let’s see,” Abby says, holding a french fry in midair. “I despisethis idea with every fiber of my being because I would die without you here—but—worst-case scenario—you could move out there, maybe work at the tree museum you told me about?”
Thorn and I have been texting every day since I got home. It’s great, but it’s also not. I miss laughing with him in person, face-to-face. I miss his arm around me—I miss kissing him. We’ve tried phone calls and FaceTime, but his connection is so sketchy most of the time; it’s easier and less frustrating to stick to texts.
“Or,” Jonathan says as he shakes a cocktail, “you could go be a hiking guide, too.”
Abby and I both burst out laughing.
“What?” he says.
“It’s sweet that you think I’m cut out for that,” I say. “But I know my limits.”
Abby and I are still brainstorming two days later when we finally go for our epic spa day. We’re in the sauna, post-massage and pre-facial, soaking up every minute of relaxation together.
“I’d miss you if you moved,” she says, “but I would totally understand.”
Our latest great idea involves a cabin she found for sale that might actually be doable on my income—it’s adorable, and has a gorgeous view, and I’ve even put feelers out at work to see if they’d have any issues with me working remotely from the West Coast.
My boss told mehewould move into that adorable cabin in a heartbeat if he could, and would I be willing to host any work retreats?
So that was an easy yes.
Still, I’m reluctant to upendeverything—maybe the wildernessloosened me up in some ways, but I’m still an overthinker and a planner at heart. I like where I live. I love being close to Abby. I don’t know anyone but Thorn out in California, and I’ve always been of thedon’t move somewhere just to be with a guymentality, so it’s hard to fully commit to that leap, especially this soon.
That said, I have not yet ruled it out.
All day at the spa, I think it over.
It’s fascinating how different it feels being here now; even though I’ve been home for a week and a half, I’m still seeing the world through a new filter.
The spa’s chilled cucumber water, for example, feels unnaturally cold now, and the ambiance—especially the nature soundtrack they’re pumping through the speakers on a loop and the “rainforest room” full of themed showers—feels extra artificial compared to the real thing.
It’s still the most relaxing day ever.
I’m so blissed out by the end of it that I’m tempted to take a rain check on dinner and head straight home to binge an entire season ofThe Great British Baking Show.
When I float that idea, phrasing it as a joke, Abby hesitates.
“Jonathan pulled some strings to get us a reservation tonight,” she says. “They were totally booked.”
