I can do anything for twelve nights. I’ve read four travel guides cover to cover, memorized a huge list of poisonous plants and insects and snakes, and even tried to go without coffee for a few days. That was a disaster, hence the fact that I’ve wedged my entire coffee setup into my backpack, but what I’m trying to say is: I’m prepared.
“One last pool day before I go?” I ask, because of course I’m done packing with seven hours to spare before I need to head to the airport. I have everything planned down to the minute, from my first-class flight, to the hotel where I’ll be staying tonight, to the car service that will drive me out to Valerie Forest National Park tomorrow morning.
Abby, when I confessed the extent of my indulgent pre-wilderness plans, said it sounded like I was on death row, choosing a luxurious last meal before my untimely demise.
She drives us into downtown Austin, to the JW Marriott, where we’ve set up camp every day so far this summer. She teaches middle school science, so aside from a couple of weeks of science camp duty,she has the entire summer off to relax. Abby’s coworker Jonathan—who teaches algebra in the next classroom over—picked up a summer job at the hotel’s poolside bar; he told Abby we were welcome to come hang out anytime, and we’ve embraced that invitation to the fullest. (Relatedly: If Abby and Jonathan aren’t together by the end of the summer, I’m shoving them both in the pool to manufacture their romance myself—their flirting isn’t exactly subtle.)
While Abby gets to just kick back and relax all summer, I have technically been on the clock during most of our pool days. I do training presentations for an educational software company, which requires a bit of travel, but things slow down considerably in summertime. No one seems to mind my poolside office when I’m taking meetings from home—especially not my boss, who thinks I work too hard as it is. He’s been urging me to use my vacation days and was delighted when I broke the news about my wilderness adventure.
I didn’t tell him I’d originally planned to use them for Italy—
I’m trying not to think about that.
“No laptop today?” Jonathan comments, dimples popping, when we go up to order our drinks—rosé for me and a spicy margarita for Abby.
“She’s going on that wilderness thing I told you about, remember?”
Abby’s cleavage is on full display in her low-cut bikini. Hanging out at a hotel pool all the time has other perks to it—there’s almost no chance any of her local students will be here, so she’s taken the opportunity to flaunt herself in clothes she wouldn’t normally risk wearing.
“Oh, right,” Jonathan says. “In the Sierras? California?”
I get the distinct impression he remembers every single thing Abby’s ever told him.
“She’s going to camp and hike and learn how to rappel, and maybe evenkayak!”
Jonathan raises his eyebrows, probably trying to reconcile the idea of me in a kayak when I’ve hardly even dipped a toenail into the hotel pool this summer. I prefer to sitnearthe water, not actually get in it.
“By, um—choice?” Jonathan asks, and Abby smacks his muscular arm playfully with a stack of paper napkins.
“I’ve tried my best to convince her to stay here with me,” she tells him. “But she’s committed to living on the edge.”
“Well, I can’t wait to hear about it,” he says. “Drinks on the house today!”
“Aren’t drinks always on the house?” I say, momentarily confused, but then Abby elbows me in the ribs—I forgot Jonathan isn’t technically supposed to let us have his daily employee beverages. “I mean,thank youfortheseon-the-house drinks, unlike every other day, when we most definitely pay for them!”
Abby and I settle into our favorite loungers (the ones that give us a good view of the poolandthe pool bartender), sipping our beverages side by side. I savor this crisp rosé like it really is my last meal on death row.
“Feeling ready?” Abby says, setting her spicy margarita down on the table between us.
I take in the sparkling aquamarine pool; the Austin skyline; the abundant greenery, both real and faux; the satisfying rows of pool loungers, not a single one even an inch out of line. I can’t believe I’ll be trading all of this for the rugged wilderness of the Sierras.
“As ready as I can be,” I say, sighing. “I’m going to miss you, too.”
I’m also going to miss electricity. And air conditioning. And ice-cold beverages.
And, and, and.
“I know I’ve pushed back on the idea a lot,” Abby says, “but it’s only because I know it’s going to be hard on you. It would be hard onme, too—I would die. Like, literally die, call the helicopter and airlift what’s left of me out on a stretcher.”
“Thanks for that image,” I say, suddenly thinking of all the ways I could overheat or plunge to my death or be the unwitting victim of some poisonous insect.Have fun and don’t die.
“What I was getting at,” she goes on, “is that I think it’s really brave of you to go for it, and I hope it’s everything you want it to be. Even if it does sound horrible.”
I laugh. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
And it does. I honestly didn’t know how badly I needed to hear it—how badly I needed to hear it from Abby specifically.
“I got you a present,” she says, pulling a pocket-sized book from her bag. “It’s not much—”
