Free The Middle of Somewhere by Sonja Yoerg Page A

Linda’s ear that made her laugh. She kissed him on the mouth and stole a strip of bacon off his plate. He pantomimed shock.
    â€œI want to be like them,” Dante said.
    â€œOld?”
    â€œHappy. Easily happy.”
    She almost made a sarcastic comment about how the McCartneys probably had screaming matches twice a week or were actually married to other people, but was weary of her own cynicism. She gave honesty a shot. “Me, too. But I haven’t got a clue how to get there.”
    â€œNeither do I.”
    â€œLet’s interview them.”
    Dante shrugged as if to say there were worse ideas. “
Mi carina,
I want to tell you again how sorry I am I wasn’t a very good hiking partner.”
    â€œIt’s okay. It’s not for everyone. Notice the wilderness is mostly empty.”
    He chewed his toast and nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it for three days, and I get it now.”
    â€œGet what?”
    â€œI get that you need to have this journey, and you don’t want to cut corners or have to talk to me all the time, or take care of me. I should have been prepared to do the trip your way, the right way. And—I think this is important—you don’t want to have to work on whatever’s going on with us while you’re doing it. You must have your reasons, and I hope you will share them with me eventually. But even if you never do, I should respect them.”
    â€œThanks, Dante.” She sipped her coffee and wondered what else to say. He didn’t have to intercept her at Red’s to deliver his message. It would’ve kept until she finished the hike. Still, he had come to find her, and his speech was touching, despite sounding rehearsed and stilted. She reached her hand across to his, and as she did, looked up and saw the Root brothers settling into the adjoining table. Startled, she yanked back her hand and knocked over her coffee.
    â€œShit!”
    She jumped from her seat, but the damage was done. Her pant leg was soaked. Dante handed her his napkin. She blotted her leg, then stopped and told him she’d take care of it in the restroom. The waitress arrived and began mopping up the spill with a cloth.
    â€œSorry,” Liz said, as she threaded her way through the tables. She pushed open the door, and looked over her shoulder. Half the café was staring at her. Dante’s face betrayed concern and confusion. Probably he was wondering why she was so skittish. Payton Root caught her eye—he’d been waiting for it—and winked.
    She jogged past the store to the bathrooms. She’d left her jacket behind and rubbed her arms as she ran. The single-stall room wasn’t heated. The chipped sink (cold water only) stood under a crooked mirror with failed backing. It was borderline Third World, but at least there were paper towels. She wetted one and rubbed the stain.
    Why did Payton Root rattle her? He hadn’t done anything. She’d seen him only twice, maybe three times, if she counted the split second during the storm, which she couldn’t honestly do, as it might have been anyone—or no one. During their first encounter on Day One of the hike, had he really acted strangely enough to justify her reaction? She tried to recall exactly what he’d said, and how he’d said it. Something about this hike being a lot of quality time for a couple, and a possible ethnic slur directed at Dante. But Dante hadn’t picked up on it. Instead, the Roots were his fast friends. Unlike her, he had spent an entire evening with them in a drunken bocce tournament. And Dante was the people person. She was the geek and should defer to him in interpersonal gray areas.
    She gave up on the coffee stain. What difference would it make when she was on the trail again? She tossed the paper towel into the overflowing trash, and leaned over the sink to examine her reflection. She organized her bangs and tucked the sticking-out wisps