The Distance from Me to You (11 page)

When McKenna had been face-to-face with the bear across the creek, it had set off an instant panic. What she experienced facing these three guys—asking her on a date!—was something slower, more primal. She was angry that they were bugging her. She was apprehensive about their intentions. But she was also determined to do whatever she needed, strategically, to get away. It was a good thing, she thought, that their truck was down the trail, too far away for them to easily drag her into it. One of the dark-haired guys looked uneasy, like he wasn't fully committed to whatever the other two had planned. Maybe if she was firm in her dismissal, they would leave her alone.

“Thanks,” McKenna said. “But I'm really just going for a walk.”

“Yeah? Where you from?”

“Montpelier,” McKenna said. “You guys have a good day, okay?”

“Won't be much good without you in it,” he said, and took one step closer to McKenna, reaching out like he was about to grab her arm.

“Hey!” said a gruff voice, emerging behind the three men. “There you are. How'd you get so far ahead of me?”

Sam. She'd figured he'd be miles ahead by now. But he emerged from the paved road, with long strides and a straight back. She noted he was taller than the bald guy, and much broader. Sam walked right past them and put his arm around McKenna. She tried not to be relieved. She'd been handling this herself.

“Oh,” the bald guy said, taking a step back, returning McKenna's personal space now that Sam had taken it over.

“Is there a problem, guys?” Sam said. There was something very foreboding, almost threatening, in his tone.

It infuriated McKenna, how quickly the three men turned and headed back to their truck. She'd been so clear that she didn't want them to bother her, and they'd persisted. Then, with a few clipped words from a guy, they toddled off like obedient children.

She stepped away so Sam's arm slid off her. Then she headed down the trail at a fast pace.

“Hey,” Sam said, trotting to keep up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Seemed like those guys were bugging you.”

“No. I mean, they were. But I had it covered.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She was mad at the guys, not Sam, she reminded herself. But at the same time she was mad at guys in general. A species Sam just happened to belong to.

“Well, in that case,” Sam said, “I shouldn't hold my breath for a thank-you?”

“Probably not.”

McKenna kept walking, fast, uphill. Behind her, she heard Sam stop, felt his eyes on her back.

“You're welcome!” he called.

She didn't turn around, just lifted her hand and waved as she walked on.

Men.
Making the whole world believe that a woman couldn't and shouldn't feel safe on her own. Even a strong, tough woman like Linda, who'd managed to survive a war. It made McKenna seriously mad. Why should she have to feel unsafe? Didn't this world belong to her as much as it belonged to any man? Yes, it did. McKenna refused to let them make her feel unsafe, either by cornering her, or by making her feel like she needed one to protect her.

• • •

Sam was a little pissed himself—at the creepy guys, but also at McKenna's lack of gratitude. He had planned to head into town when he hit the Joe Ranger Road but now decided against it. Never mind if she didn't think she needed anyone watching out for her. To tell the truth, it made him feel bad that he'd left Marianne back in Maine, alone with his brother, to say nothing of those two little girls. If he couldn't look out for them, at least
he could look out for this girl. So he hung back, collecting wild blueberries along the way, staying just enough behind her that she wouldn't know he was there. Making sure she was okay. Maybe she'd really had the situation with the creeps under control. But just in case, Sam wanted to stay between her and the Joe Ranger Road. Because maybe the creeps would come back. It would make him feel better, if he could see for himself that she was safe.

Vermont. Massachusetts.
McKenna walked through both states, still summer, still plenty of people on the trail, and at the same time—plenty of room for solitude. It amazed her, the volume of hikers, and at the same time, the expanse of the trail allowing room for everyone to feel alone in the vast woods and changing landscapes. Every once in a while she would run into Sam, and they'd chat about birds, or the weather, or the distance to the next water source. Once McKenna pumped some water for him at a suspect-looking pond, wondering how he purified water.

“Do you want a couple of these?” she asked, holding up her bottle of iodine tablets.

She saw him hesitate, not wanting to take something from her—in a way that was kind of endearing. Then he shrugged assent and let her shake some pills into his palm. She could always get more when she resupplied. And Sam? She wasn't sure what he could or couldn't do in terms of acquiring things. But she did feel certain that his hike was different from hers, not a gap year, but something less luxurious.

“Thanks, Mack,” he said. Somewhere in Vermont she'd told him that it bugged her to be called Mackenzie, since it wasn't, you know, her name. So he'd switched to Mack.

One night on the other side of Mount Bushnell they camped at the same site, but it was crowded. Sam stayed in the shelter and shared dinner with a bunch of guys who seemed to be there for a bachelor party, while McKenna set up her tent and tried to sleep through the noise. They didn't do much more than wave to each other.

But that night, lying in her sleeping bag and listening to the camp sounds finally die out as the natural sounds of coyotes and crickets rose, McKenna found herself wondering if maybe he'd come by her tent to say good night. Would she invite him in if he did? She imagined being with him in the small space.

She didn't wind up seeing him until morning, though.

“See you on the trail, Mack,” he'd said when she headed off at first light.

All that day McKenna had waited for him to catch up and hike with her for a while. But he never did.

• • •

Four states down. And then Connecticut. By now most of McKenna's friends would be packing for their college orientations. At Whitworth, there was an outdoor club that brought incoming freshman hiking through these very mountains. She kept a watchful eye out in case she ran into anyone she knew, but lately the large groups of summer—and even the rhythm of
the week versus the weekend—had started to wane. The nights had started to get cooler, but the leaves remained green, maintaining the colors of summer. By the time the foliage began to explode, McKenna would hopefully be walking through the South, the first time in her life she would miss the dazzling fall colors of home.

As she walked through her home state, the sensory details signaled summer preparing to unfold into fall, which for her, even as a small child, had always translated into school—first her parents' school year starting, and then her own. This, along with the more consistent solitude, made her feel homesick. Heading off the trail into Lakeville to do some laundry and maybe have lunch, she considered using the pay phone to call her parents. But she steeled herself against it. So far, her lies to them had been mostly lies of omission, or else secondhand via Courtney's texts. If she called them, she'd have to pretend Courtney was with her, fill them in using
we
instead of
I
. Not only would she feel incredibly guilty, but if she slipped and they found out, they would doubtless declare her solo trek from Maine to Connecticut (nearly seven hundred miles!) an impressive feat and insist she come home.

In town, she walked into the Laundromat behind a pizza place, planning to throw in a load and then eat a slice or three before switching things to the dryer.

“Hey, Mack,” came a voice behind her as she opened the glass door.

McKenna turned to see Sam sitting on a bench drinking a
bottle of water. He had a way of popping up just as loneliness began to set in.

“Hey,” she said. “Doing some laundry?”

“No,” he said. “Almost out of coin.”

They had already established that one of the reasons Sam stayed more or less at pace with McKenna and often ended up behind her was that he would stop in towns and work for a day or two to get enough money for essentials. When he ran out of money, he'd fish and forage. It reminded McKenna of the stories her dad had told her about the Pacific Northwest Trail. She guessed, though, that Sam was not on this hand-to-mouth journey as a lark. He wouldn't be returning to the kind of life her father had.

“You can throw stuff in with mine,” she told him. “I won't have anywhere close to a full load.”

McKenna explained her method to him—wash one set of clothes while wearing the other, then throw in the second set after she got the clean ones out. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, though, she felt self-conscious. He had just admitted to not being able to afford even a single load, and here she had this totally wasteful strategy. But Sam didn't seem bothered, just followed her into the Laundromat and threw his clothes in after she'd made her meager little pile. She remembered her weekly loads at home—clothes brimming, a different outfit every day, sometimes more than one a day if she was going out at night. She watched her favorite Johnny Cash T-shirt, now with a permanent brown stain on the back from sweating
under the weight of her pack, spinning through the cycle. At home she wouldn't have been caught dead in it.

“I was going to get a couple slices,” McKenna said. “Want to split a pizza? My treat,” she added quickly, so he wouldn't have to worry about not having enough money.

“Sure,” Sam sad. “Thanks, sounds great.”

They left the Laundromat, Sam slowing his long strides so McKenna could keep up with him. Any hang-ups or embarrassment about him not having money seemed to belong to her, not him. Sam was always so good-natured and unfrazzled. Emotions unreadable behind those pale blue eyes.

McKenna reminded herself of her mother's advice, which she had always followed.
Avoid the obvious guys.
As a college professor, her mom saw girls fawning over the gorgeous ones, while the smart and studious ones went unnoticed. But it was kind of hard to avoid this obvious guy when they were headed two thousand miles in the same direction.

At the restaurant, McKenna let Sam order the pizza. “Just no sausage or pepperoni,” she said. “I don't eat pork.”

“Yeah? Are you a Muslim? Or keeping kosher?”

“Neither,” McKenna admitted. “Just met a pig I liked and haven't been able to eat it since.” She told him about Miss Piggy Pie, the potbellied pig at her childhood day camp. It had followed the kids around like a dog, and had a particular affection for McKenna, rolling onto her back for a belly scratch whenever she saw her, and often lying across McKenna's feet as she ate her bagged lunch.

“That's cute,” Sam said, closing his menu. The waitress came by, nervous and flirty. Sam acted like he didn't notice, curtly ordering a barbeque chicken pizza.

“And I'll have a Coke,” McKenna added.

“Just water for me,” Sam said.

When the drinks arrived McKenna unwrapped her straw. The first sip of cold sweetness after days on the trail was always the best. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, Sam's hand was wrapped around her glass.

“That looks too blissful,” he said. “I'm going to need a sip.”

He slid the glass across the table and closed his lips around the straw. Then he shrugged and slid it back to her. “Pretty good,” he said.

“Do you want one? I can—”

“No. Thanks. I'm good with water.”

The pizza arrived, steaming, and they ate in silence for a good five minutes. McKenna was now used to the rhythm of eating on the trail: famine and then feast. She would go days of eating nothing but dried noodles, dried jerky, dried fruit. And then when she got to a town she would inhale everything in sight. On the occasions when
everything in sight
included something amazing—like a steaming, fresh pizza smothered in tangy barbecue sauce and grilled chicken—it was a pleasure like she'd never known in her life.

“So,” Sam said when they'd each devoured two slices. He took a bite of his third more slowly, with less desperation and intensity. “What are your plans for when you get off this trail?”

“In Georgia? Well. Home to my family, hopefully in time for Thanksgiving.”

“Where's home?”

“Connecticut. Not far from here, actually.” She waited for him to ask if she was going to see them while she was nearby, but he didn't. Just took another bite of pizza.

“Then I have a job for a while in upstate New York,” she continued. “It's with this amazing ornithologist. I'm going to help him catalog his bird research.” She waited for Sam to say something, ask her a question. When he didn't, she added, “And then around this time next year, college.”

She waited for him to ask which college, but he just said, “Cool.”

“What about you?”

“Don't know. Might not get off the trail.”

“Like Walden?” McKenna heard her own voice teasing, flirtatious almost, reminding him of the first night they'd met.

“Yeah. But you know. Without all the murdering.”

McKenna laughed, then excused herself to switch the laundry. When she got back she had a new, full glass of Coke. She slid a third slice of pizza onto her plate, even though in the brief rest from eating her stomach had begun to bloat. At home, she used to hate that glutted, overstuffed feeling, but on breaks from the trail, she had come to relish it.

“So, seriously,” she said. “What are you going to do when you get off the trail?”

“So, seriously,” Sam echoed. He laughed a little, then went
in for his fourth slice. “You know one thing I noticed about you? You never set a fire. We should camp together. I can give you a lesson.”

McKenna's jaw tightened, partly at the thought of camping with him and partly at his condescending tone.

“I know how to start a fire,” she said. “I just don't. You're really not supposed to.”

He waved his hand dismissively. McKenna couldn't help noticing the broad and graceful expanse of his palm, his long tapered fingers.

“Nobody pays any attention to that,” he said. “What's the point of camping out if you're not going to have a fire at least once in a while? Come on. I'll spend my last two bucks on marshmallows. We can roast them tonight.”

McKenna stared at him. He had a bandanna tied around his neck. The skin on his face looked super-smooth, recently shaved, and tan from these many months outdoors. How long, she wondered, had he really been on the trail? There was something about him that made her distrustful, or at least hesitant.

At the same time, she wondered what her friends might say, watching her sit across the table from this gorgeous guy, about to turn down his invitation to an overnight marshmallow roast. If only she knew more about him. In the wilderness, it hadn't seemed to matter. But here, in a situation so normal, over pizza under restaurant lights, she felt an urgent need to know.

“Listen,” she said. “I don't want to pry—”

“Then don't.” His words weren't exactly harsh, but definitely abrupt. Closing the subject.

McKenna shifted on the fake leather bench. Where she came from, there were rules to follow when getting to know someone. Instead of name, rank, and serial number, it was name, where you went to high school, where you were going to college. She could accept the fact that Sam didn't seem to be heading to college. She was not a conformist or a snob. But the first two pieces of information seemed like the bare minimum, and so far Sam had only provided her with half that.

He reached across the table and slid her refilled Coke toward himself, leaned in, and took a deep drink from her battered straw. It felt weirdly personal, watching him drink from the straw she'd chewed half closed. He kept his eyes on her, then pushed the glass back across the table. Like he was trying to establish some kind of truce. So she decided to press on.

“You haven't told me where you're from,” she said. “Somewhere in the South? You have a little accent.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He didn't confirm or deny. McKenna asked, “What about your parents?”

“What about them?”

“Are they, you know, supportive? Of the hike and everything.”

“Oh yeah.
Super
-supportive. They're a regular cheerleading squad. A lot like yours, probably.”

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not. The usual light in his eyes seemed to be dimming. McKenna shifted on the bench, then rattled off a little monologue about how she was headed to Reed next year. “That's in Oregon,” she added.

“I know where Reed is,” he said.

This encouraged her. Stupidly, it turned out. “What about you?” she asked. “Are you going to college after all this?”