Yes, he showed every sign of planning to come, frantically reorganizing both our packs while I was out of the room this morning, asking someone in the band to reschedule the Pitchfork interview. He even came all the way to the trail, but he didn’t get out of the car when we did and I should have known then.
Josh was helping me with my backpack, which was too heavy for me. “Turn around,” he said, grinning way too much as he placed it on my shoulders like I was a small child going to school for the first time.
“What are you trying not to laugh at?” I demanded.
“You’re gonna go over like a turtle on its back with that thing on, and you’ll never get back up,” he said.
“Don’t laugh too hard,” I replied. “If I fall, I’m taking you with me.”
Our eyes met. “Of course you are,” he said softly.
That’s when Six climbed out of the car and told us the Pitchfork interview was happening in thirty minutes. “I have to call in it for it, but I’ll catch up,” he said.
I stared at him. I thought I had no expectations of Six, but I realized then that I must, because he was still consistently managing to disappoint me. “Catch up? You don’t even know where you’re going.”
“There’s only one trail,” Six said. “It might be a push, but I’ll do my best.”
As soon as those words left his mouth, I knew, unequivocally and beyond a doubt, that he and I were done. There was a time when I loved how rebellious Six was. I lived vicariously through his apathy. It was the middle finger I couldn’t entirely give anyone—my mother, the record label, Davis, my agent, my publicist.
But today this was him giving me the middle finger.
He was definitely an express bus, just like I wanted. But he was not heading anywhere I wanted to be.
I don’t even glance at him as I turn toward the trail. I’ll wait until we’re back in LA to end things, for Beth’s sake, but this is the moment in my heart when I leave him behind for good.
There are seven of us who meet at the trailhead, about a quarter of a mile from the parking lot. The guide, Kai, a couple from Belgium—Anna and Dietrich—and two women from Seattle, Kathy and Samantha, who I assume are a couple though I’m not quite sure. I tell them my name is Lina, but it’s a pretty earthy-looking group, the kind of people who might not have recognized me even with platinum hair. What’s also frighteningly clear is that, unlike us, they’ve done this before. Their packs aren’t rented and they have a thousand things hanging off clasps—water bottles, dry shoes—which leaves me worried Josh and I are grossly unprepared for this trip.
“Who’s ready for some mud?” Kai asks and there are hoots and hollers from the rest of the group. I don’t holler. I’m from the city. We don’t really celebrate mud there so much. “You’ve all signed a waiver so you know this, but I’m gonna say it again: this is a difficult climb. Eleven of the hardest, most scenic miles you will ever hike out, eleven scenic miles back. Most people do this trail in four days. We’ll make it in two.”
There are more cheers. I glance at Josh, wondering what the hell we’ve signed on for and what the hell Beth was thinking. Sure, Josh and Six and I are in decent shape, but we’re far from experienced climbers.
“My buddy Chris will be leading the easier trip a little after us with another guide, and you’ll meet him at lunch. From there, he’ll come with us for the part I know you’re all looking forward to…Crawler’s Ledge.”
Crawler’s Ledge? There’s nothing about either of those words I like, and I like them together even less. The terrain is already wet and muddy. I look ahead to the deeply steep climb and wonder how much worse it’s going to get.
“You’ll be fine,” Josh says, placing a light hand on my shoulder as we start up the trail. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Turtle.”
“That’s not my new nickname.”
“Hard shell, soft interior,” he says. “You’ve got to admit it works.”
It works for us both. On the surface he’s hard and unfriendly. His smiles are rare as dry earth in a rainforest. But beneath that exterior, he cares more than anyone I’ve ever met. I wonder if that hard shell of his is necessary just because he can’t stand to care for even one more thing. I feel the same way.
We’ve barely begun before we are enfolded in jungle: deeply humid, densely green. The rocks and logs used to create steps up the steep cliff are muddy, requiring me to grab a branch here and there just to keep my balance. I try not to think about coming back down this hill, as slick as it is. Whenever I take a big step and feel my balance shift backward, Josh’s hand is there, pressed lightly to my pack, making sure I don’t go over.
We arrive, about thirty minutes in, at the first lookout point. I’m drenched in sweat, but the view makes it all worthwhile: cliffs to the north, the deepest blue waves crashing below.
“Whale,” someone says, and then everyone crowds around us, trying to see. Josh tucks a finger into the waist of my shorts to make sure I don’t go over the edge. I resented it so much that first day in Oahu when he suggested someone hold my hand so I didn’t get lost. Now I sort of adore him for it.
I pull the water bottle from my bag and, thanks to the ice Josh dumped in there, the water is freezing cold and nothing has ever, ever been more delicious.
“Am I a genius?” he asks smug as ever, watching my apparent delight.
“I’ll concede that you’re slightly less dull than I originally thought.”
A half smile turns up the corner of his mouth. “Slightly less dull,” he says. “I’ll have to add that to my Tinder profile.”
“You’re on Tinder?” I ask, and my stomach takes a ridiculous dive. Even if I wasn’t already with his brother, even if he didn’t live in Somalia, we are as ill-matched as any two people could be. Beginning with the fact that my education ended at the midpoint of his.
His eyes brush over my face. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”
I shrug. “I kind of figured you just used some service that provides you a replacement robot when the last one wears out. Stick up her ass, heavily focused on her manicure.”
I turn, no longer interested in the stupid view. Cliffs, water, whatever. I’ve seen it.
“I’m not on Tinder,” he says quietly from behind me. “I’d barely have time to date in Somalia even if it was possible.”
And my shoulders settle, as if it should make a difference when it doesn’t.
It can’t.
When we reach Hanakapiai Beach, we are told to unbuckle our packs so we don’t get swept away crossing the stream. I question the judgment of doing anything where getting swept away is a distinct possibility, but it’s too late to back out of it now.
We go across, with Josh right at my back, his hand on my shoulder. It’s equal parts annoying and sweet. We scramble up the other side of the creek bank, and Josh grins at me. He’s grown happier, less burdened by the world, with every mile we set between ourselves and the start.
“You love this,” I accuse.
He smiles wider. “I’m too tired to worry about anything right now,” he suggests, buckling my pack for me.