A Blind Spot for Boys (13 page)

According to relationship roulette, I was the last person to comfort Helen. I mean, who was I to give advice when I had fallen for Dom, who had existed in a haze of romance that had been all in my head? I didn’t even want to begin to think about Quattro, who was as love damaged and afraid as I was. But Helen was still sitting on the rock while everybody was making final preparations to leave—not that there was much to do, since most of our belongings were under sludge.

“Helen,” I said, and paused, then continued clumsily, “you know, my mom thinks that everybody has a
sine qua non
.”

“A what?” She may not have understood Latin, but her cheeks flushed as though she knew I was suggesting that Hank wasn’t good enough for her.

I blushed, too. Why would she listen to me any more than I’d listened to my brother Max, who had tried to warn me off
Dom? Besides, what did I know? I’d wasted almost a year, boycotting Max’s every effort to repair our relationship when I owed him thanks.

“Oh, nothing, I’m just rambling, but you should ask her,” I said hastily. “So do you want to walk with Grace and me?”

I mistakenly thought we were alone, but Hank had been hovering close behind us, back to being Mr. Caring. “I’ll walk with Helen,” he declared. But at his offer, she shoved away from the rock and marched over to Grace.

I could hear Grace’s every lilting word: “Mind? Helen, I’ve been waiting to walk with you!”

Grace tucked her hand in the crook of Helen’s arm and led her to the others, who were inventorying the three backpacks left between us. The last I heard before they started for the trail was Grace asking, “Have I told you about the Wednesday Walkers?”

B
ack on the trail, I was aware of my every footstep, where I planted my feet, where I shifted my weight. Every minute, I half-expected a second avalanche of mud and trees, boulders and debris to sweep us away. So I didn’t protest when my parents insisted on taking the rear position, no doubt to guard me with the same eagle-eyed attentiveness I paid to Grace, who was sandwiched safely between Helen and me.

Our first rest break only ratcheted up my anxiety. By the time we reached the porters, Ruben and Hank had gone ahead, scouting the next section of the trail. Before I sat, I made an effort to talk to our porters, stitching together my broken Spanish and hoping my smile would fill in the grammatical gaps:
“Gracias para tu ayuda.”
Why had I been too embarrassed about sounding stupid to talk to them? Their answering grins and pats on my back communicated their relief that all of us were okay.

Afterward, I peered up the mountain. No sign of Quattro, which was unsurprising. All along, his group had trekked faster than we did, taking side trips and still managing to establish their campsite before us. Every time I thought about Quattro, my heart felt like it was tripping. I hadn’t known how scared I would be to trust my heart to another boy. Or how much it would hurt to be rejected again.

At our next break, Stesha kept casting worried glances at Grace, as though wondering whether she would make it through the next day and a half. From our meager supplies, we divided three PowerBars among all of us for lunch, one sticky bite a person. Improbably, Grace smiled as she considered her puny segment. “Sort of makes you miss the round-the-clock quinoa diet we’ve been on, doesn’t it?”

“Here,” Mom said, holding out her piece to me.

“Mom.” I shook my head and almost didn’t hear her soft request: “Do you mind walking with your dad? He’s all twitchy, like I might slip any second.”

“Don’t say that!” I protested, shivering. “But I suppose now you know how he feels with both of us hovering.”

“Well, it’s making me nervous! I’ll walk with Grace, okay?”

Whatever Grace had said to Helen in the morning must have been encouraging. She lost the forlorn look of the recently widowed, and she didn’t gaze at Hank with naïve puppy dog adoration anymore. Instead, she scrutinized him when he spoke, as though she were weighing his every word and action against some mental checklist. I got the feeling I needed to do a bit more of that in my own love life.

“Hey, Mom,” I said before I joined Dad as she had begged, “ask Helen to walk with you guys, will you?”

After two days of trudging at Grace’s pace and being weighed down by my heavy backpack, I felt like Dad and I were sprinting when we set off on the trail together. But I knew he wasn’t going at his full race pace. Neither was I. Both of us wanted to play it safe.

“You seem unhappy,” Dad called up to me. Even without looking at him, I could hear the concern in his voice. “Does it have anything to do with a certain boy?”

“Maybe,” I admitted to my surprise.

“I liked how he came to find you.”

“Me, too.”

And that was the problem. The pause in our conversation had less to do with the altitude or the arduous climb and more with processing what both Dad and I had noticed: Quattro’s first instinct was to ensure that I was safe. Just look at Hank and how he’d done in the same crisis: a big, fat selfish F.

I glanced back over my shoulder at Dad, who had his eyes trained on my feet, ready for the slightest hint that I was losing my footing. That’s where I’d learned how to be vigilant for Grace. Dad had always been there for us, always putting us ahead of himself. He hadn’t run to save his own life, but he’d reached back to save ours.

“Dad, you were amazing this morning,” I told my father, wanting so badly for him to see himself clearly.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Are you kidding?” I stopped on a wide stone step to face
him. “If you weren’t with us this morning, Mom and I wouldn’t be here.”

“If I weren’t going blind, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“Dad.”

“If I had made more money, we would have visited here earlier.”

What I now knew for a fact was that money, ambition, and big plans mean nothing at all when you’re staring down death. So I said, “You saved us this morning, Dad.
You
did.”

As my words sank in, we tackled the next steep section of the mountain in silence. I couldn’t get enough breath to continue a conversation with Dad anyway. All I could manage was a steady rhythm of five plodding steps, then a brief panting rest. If my breathing was labored, how was Grace doing behind us? Ruben, Hank, and the porters waited for us at the crest of this section. We reached them just in time to hear Hank’s sarcastic assessment: “This is
exactly
the way I imagined the Inca Trail.”

I actually understood that complaint. My parents had taken a healthy chunk out of their retirement savings to fund this expedition with me, and the two following trips, with my brothers. This was hardly the Inca Trail I had imagined or would ever wish upon anyone.

“Then my apologies,” said Ruben smoothly. He gestured for the porters to push ahead. Somehow, drawing from a deep well of patience and good humor that I didn’t have, Ruben continued, “Just because we’re trying to make good time doesn’t mean that we can’t appreciate what we’re seeing.” He looked downhill
to the other half of our group, still with one long set of stairs to climb before they caught up to us. “You know, this is one of the most beautiful cloud forests in the world.”

Strange as it might sound, I had been so distracted by worry and hunger and burning hamstrings, I hadn’t even noticed that we were surrounded by low clouds and wind-battered trees. While Ruben tried to satisfy Hank with a lecture on the function of moss in a cloud forest, Dad paused before a small orchid, an improbable, show-stopping pink flower that thrived without the benefit of direct sunlight.

“Your mom really wanted to see this… and a hundred other things. I just never made the time to take her,” he said finally with a defeated sigh.

“Dad.”

“You should check on your mom,” he said gruffly. “Why don’t you wait here until they catch up?”

I started to protest. After all, what the heck was the point of a family excursion if all we were doing was excusing ourselves from each other’s presence? Without wasting another moment, though, Dad began plodding uphill like a travel-worn pilgrim who’d been walking for such a long time, he’d given up hope of seeing whatever he’d come to find. His resignation was way worse than his anger.

Laughter—rich, joyous, and just shy of hysterical—signaled that the women were nearing. It was almost unfathomable that just hours ago, a chunk of mountain had sheared off, and we’d been screaming in fear.

“Sexy to the end, girls!” Grace cackled. Spying me, she added, “Right, Shana?”

The rain fell harder. Even with the thick foliage that arched overhead, drops of rain penetrated the canopy. But not a drop seeped through my military-grade barrier of rain gear. That was no less a miracle than Mom’s cheeks flushed as pink as the stubborn orchids blooming around us. No less a miracle than the women’s laughter.

What could I do but laugh helplessly, too? Laugh at my ludicrous mud-spattered rain gear and agree, “Oh, yeah, we are sexy to the end.”

A
ll along the Inca Trail, we’d stood in awe at the stark beauty of ancient ruins. The barest suggestion of stone buildings could stop us. Yet it was the first sight of the sickly green Trekkers’ Hostel that made me tear up, and not because the eyesore of modern architecture was long overdue for a date with a bulldozer. I wasn’t the only one grateful for this last official campsite before Machu Picchu.

“Thank you, Lord!” cried Grace, so ecstatic I was a little worried she was going to kiss the building. But she only leaned her forehead against the concrete walls. “Thank you!”

The backpackers inside squeezed tighter to accommodate us. If they hadn’t, we would have been stranded out in the rain, huddling and shivering through the night. Everyone insisted that Stesha and Grace take two of the beds. Dad muttered a single halfhearted warning about bedbugs, too worn out to do
much more. (And yes, for the record, bedbugs can thrive at high altitude.)

I couldn’t sleep. Every little sound made me think that we were being hit with another mudslide. Sick of feeling this claustrophobic panic, I crept around my sleeping parents to head outside, which made no sense at all. I was no safer out in the open. Plus, the ground was sopping wet, but at least it had stopped raining. The air smelled cleaner than anything I’d ever experienced, even while hiking in the Cascades back home.

A crunch of footsteps crept up behind me. Stupid, why had I ventured alone into the dark? I spun around to face Quattro, my cry strangled to a quiet gurgle.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, holding out his hands to steady me.

At his touch, I felt scared for an entirely different reason: I was fighting the inevitable. Tell myself that all I wanted was to be focused on my photography. Tell myself that I wanted to be relationship-free. Tell myself that I was done with commitment and expectations and compromises. But here I was, wanting Quattro to want me right back. It was so hard not to know where I stood with him, firm ground or mudslide zone. But now I knew I had to know.

“I didn’t know you were here,” I said in a low voice.
Dude, do you like me, or what?

“We had our tents. So we thought we’d let everybody else stay inside,” he answered. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

“No,” I whispered, and told him sheepishly, “I keep imagining being buried under mud. Lame, huh?”

“Not even.”

Moonlight bathed us through a parting of clouds. I was good at the chase, even better at the breakup. No depth required. And I knew how our story would go unless I made a decision: Boy ruins Girl’s photo shoot. Boy chases Girl on the Inca Trail. Girl loses Boy because she’s too much of a coward to ask him one question: How do you feel about me?

For crying out loud, this was a guy who’d searched for me when disaster struck. What was I waiting for? Just grab his hand. That’d be a start.

Naturally, this had to be the one moment on the entire trip when my palms went slick with cold sweat. Naturally. So much for my plan to go all bold. But it was Quattro who cocked his head over at the small grouping of tents. I nodded. I was more than a little relieved and nervous to spend time with him. We found a log to sit on. For a long minute, Quattro didn’t say a word. I didn’t either.

Finally, I asked, “What were you doing out here?”

“Thinking about my mom,” he said simply. “I just haven’t had any time with everything going on. In a weird way, she would have loved all this.”

“What? The mudslide?”

“Well, not that, but the story she’d tell about it later. She always had a way of making our lives sound a lot more interesting.” He paused, testing different words in his head. “No, more meaningful.”

“What would she say about this?”

“You never know when it’ll be your time. So live it all—not
live without regrets. She’d say that was stupid and selfish. But live so you never regret anything you do, any decision you make.”

His face tightened as if he was remembering something painful. I knew I was. Funny how a single word can trigger memories better left for dead. Selfish. The zombie memory of my last conversation with Dom reanimated and staggered to its feet. I could hear Dom’s chilly voice as if he towered over me, all righteous anger the night we broke up.

It was mid-August, and Dom had invited me to a party at his rental house, where beer flowed as easily as stories about summer travels and internships from hell. The night was hot, one of those rare heat spells in Seattle, and I was so relieved that our relationship was back on track. All was forgiven! I had taken special pains with my sexy and sophisticated older-woman disguise: delicately perfumed, hair styled in a messy topknot, the designer sunglasses from Dom perched on top of my head, white skirt with towering wedge heels. And I was drunk, just one sloppy kiss away from saying, “Fine, Dom, tonight.” Why not give in? What the hell was I saving myself for when I knew I was in love with him?

“Half the guys here are staring at you,” Dom said with a smile that verged on smug. He changed out my beer for a glass of red wine, leaning in close to tell me, “You’ll like this. A Montepulciano. When we go to Italy…” It didn’t matter how
he finished that thought, not with that self-assured “You’ll like this,” not with that exotic “Montepulciano,” and definitely not with the delicious clincher: “When we go to Italy.” What more proof did I need that Dom thought of us as the It Couple? And even better, the kind of couple who lived my kind of future: adventure and travel. Just as I leaned into him, just as I tilted my head up at him and pursed my lips in the way that drove him crazy, he was wrenched out of my arms.

My brother Max loomed in my vision. Unlike everyone else at this business school party, he had completed his MBA and was about to relocate to San Francisco. That’s why I didn’t expect him to show up. He started shoving Dom, not caring that the party had gone graveyard silent or that everyone was staring at him, at us. I didn’t realize then that it would be the last time I could ever consider Dom and me an “us.”

“Do you even know how old she is?” Max demanded, his face right up in Dom’s.

“Stop,” I protested, not knowing whether I was begging Max to keep from hitting Dom or from revealing my secret.

“She’s a sophomore.” Shove. “In high school.”

Dom’s accusatory expression landed on me. More than pointless, I knew my words would only make things worse, but still I corrected Max softly: “Junior.”

Dom glanced around the living room, his face flushed bright red with embarrassment. A minute or two later, I was running after him to the street. His shame became rage. His face twisted as he yelled at me, “You could have ruined my life!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Don’t you think you should have told me you were underage?”

“Dom, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Dom glared at me with poison and contempt and regret. He spat, “Selfish. That’s exactly what you are! God, I wish I had never met you.”

And then there was Max, leading me to his car. He didn’t have to convince me to go with him.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded once we were locked inside. I scanned the street for Dom, but he’d already disappeared. “Shana, what the hell were you thinking?”

“You don’t know him,” I protested, still searching in the darkness for my dream guy.

“You don’t either.”

“What?” Quattro asked me now, even as my pulse was jumping from the memory of that breakup. But there was something new—not anxiety, but relief. I was truly free from Dom.

Where could I even start? I shook my head. “You?”

Quattro shrugged, which made two of us hiding secrets from each other. The silence sprouted with a thousand questions. But as I studied him, the need for conversation vanished. Instead, there was just one question: What were we going to do? The moment stretched. I knew what I wanted to do. I drew nearer to him. My lips parted in a sultry way that had slayed
dozens of guys before him. Just as I knew he would, Quattro shifted toward me, cupped his hands gently around my face.

Here was the kiss that I had fantasized about for longer than I cared to admit.

Now. Yes. Finally.

And yet…

No red-alert sirens blared in my head. No early-warning system to assert my independence. No emergency ejection procedure to launch me on my toes and propel me back to the safety of the hostel.

All was quiet and still with the exception of a soft but emphatic no.

Gently but firmly, I pulled away.

Once upon a time, the hurt and baffled expression I saw on Quattro’s face would have made me stop and sink into a kiss out of sheer guilt, but now… no.

I’d already blinded myself once to the cold truth that Dom hadn’t returned my feelings, not really. I wasn’t about to repeat that mistake again. And frankly, I wanted more than great banter and delicious kissing.

“We’re both on moratoriums,” I said, and scooted from him so I was out of temptation’s way. There was no denying the thrumming desire to drag him over to me. On top of me… I cleared my throat. This time, I was going to be absolutely clear. “And I don’t do hookups, I don’t do booty calls, and I definitely am not a friend who provides benefits.”

“Okay,” he said slowly.

The fact was: If I didn’t want our story to end the way all my
so-called relationships had, I was going to have to tell him the truth. The whole truth about me.

“About a year ago, I went out with an older guy.” My fingers entwined into a tight hard shell, the same way I had sheltered myself since Dom. “He was in business school.” I sighed deeply. “I wasn’t exactly up front that I was still in high school.”

“That probably didn’t go over well.”

“That’s an understatement.” Even that revelation was an artificially sweetened version of the truth. If what Mom said was true about needing to see a person react in crisis, I needed to see Quattro in crisis, in
my
crisis. I needed to show him my most ugly shame. If he couldn’t deal with the truth, if he thought less of me, I’d rather know now. “I was almost sixteen; he was twenty-two.”

“Whoa.”

“You know, I told myself that the age difference didn’t matter. I mean, my mom’s five years older than Dad. But in high school it makes all the difference. I didn’t sleep with him,” I said bluntly, “but if I had…”

“Statutory rape. Wow.”

“Yeah. It really was naïve and selfish,” I said flatly.

“Yeah, it was.”

I wasn’t prepared for how much the truth confirmed by someone else could sting. Even if Grace was right, and Dom had known, I had kept my age a secret because I knew deep down that we were wrong.

“But look,” Quattro added more gently, “love makes a person crazy. I mean, look at my dad. He would have done
anything, broken any law, if it meant keeping my mom alive. He’s been like the living dead since she died.” He actually looked disgusted, but it was hard to tell whether that revulsion was directed at me or his father. “But you’re right. I can’t do this. Not now.”

“Why? Because you’re on a moratorium? What’s up with that anyway?”

“Actually, no, not because of that. Or not entirely,” he said. “I don’t know. But this isn’t about you. I mean, you… your photography, the way you look at things.” He shrugged, gazing at me with respect. “This is all me. The timing is all wrong, and I don’t think I can—” He broke off whatever he was going to admit, then ended brusquely, “You should get some sleep.”

I blinked at Quattro, stunned by the familiarity of these words. It was as if I were being visited by the ghosts of breakups past. All the guys I had let down with almost the same script, except now I was on the receiving end. Even though I wanted to run from him, I forced myself to nod—
okay, then
—and walk away slowly, head high. I forced myself not to glance back at Quattro and his ironclad secrets. I forced myself to stand for a second in the pearly moonlight and to imprint in my memory what it felt like to know that I had survived revealing the truth about me.