Decidedly, Appalachia-hiking Holly was nothing like normal Holly. And that suited me just fine.
I didn’t ask him his name—like normal Holly would have—and he didn’t ask me mine. He could be Ryker, I told myself. And it was perhaps that silly delusion that had me hoping he wouldn’t, unsolicited, give me his name. I didn’t want the delusion spoiled.
He got dressed, and suddenly my interest diminished significantly—so, some characteristics of normal Holly still remained. A gentle breeze blew over the river. It was quite chilly, so I decided to get back to the trail. I hesitated, hoping he would offer to join me, which he did.
Four days and I’ve managed to pick up one hot, naked man along the way. Not a bad ratio. And promising, considering this is supposed to be a six-month hike.
As we walked, I told him about the charity work I was documenting. To my surprise, this seemed to freak him out.
“What?” I said. “Is that so unbelievable?”
“No, no.” He shook his head but still wore the disbelief on his face.
“And what do you do back in Massachusetts?” I asked.
“In Massachusetts? I’m a doctor.”
“Really?”
“Well, not yet actually. I’m still a resident.”
I thought to say, I’m a doctor, too. We have something in common. But I’d met medical doctors before who weren’t too keen on sharing that title with a dentist, so I said nothing about our similarities.
The sun did not make a gradual retreat, slowly ushering in the evening as it had in previous days. Instead, it left the sky quite suddenly. One minute I was telling him about the charity, “Medicine on the Trail,” and seemingly the next minute, visibility was poor, and the weather had dropped to what felt like near freezing.
“Is that snow?” he said. He extended his hand, then examined the flakes that fell on it.
“Already?”
“It is snow,” he said.
“Dammit. I was hoping to make it to Franklin before the snow started to come down.”
“Just think,” he said, wide-eyed and full of excitement, “how beautiful it will be if we get a real snowfall.”
The prospect of camping out in a snowfall had me quite concerned but seeing the excitement on his face took a lot of the worry away.
The evening turned to night on a dime. Fortunately, despite the poor visibility, we were able to find a spot to set up a tent.
I unpacked my tent and spread it over the patch of flat ground. I looked over and saw that he was doing the same with his tent. “My tent’s big enough for both of us,” I said.We sat side by side, sipping hot tea, the front of the tent open, and watched the snowfall. I shivered. I wasn’t really cold, but I was giving him the signs to get closer to me still. He took the hint.
He scooted behind me, spread his legs to either side of me, and pulled me back, offering me a strong and warm body to lean against. He set his hands on his knees. I took them and wrapped his arms around me, shivering, though I wasn’t really cold. He got the hint and rubbed my arms, then squeezed me tightly.
I laid my head against his hard chest. His chin rested on my head.
“You never told me your name,” he said.
“You never asked.”
“What’s your name?”
“Holly.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Holly,” he said. His breath fell on my head. He brushed my hair to the side.
“It tickles.” I turned my head so that his chin touched the top of my forehead.
He gave me a kiss on the forehead, as one might do to say goodnight to a child. “Do you want to know mine?” he asked.
“Your what?”
“My name.”
I thought about it. In my mind, I was still calling him Ryker, and I liked it, liked the fantasy of it: a chance encounter, two destinies colliding in the mountains. Whatever his name was, I was sure it was nice, but unlikely Ryker. I didn’t want to hear it. “No,” I said.
He chuckled. “That’s okay. I’m not going to pressure you.” He held me tightly, one hand cupping my elbow, the other at my waist.
“I once hiked the Canadian Arctic,” I said, “but I didn’t have a man to hold me and keep me warm.”
“You poor girl.” He kissed me again on the top of my head. “I don’t suppose it’s easy to find naked men sunbathing in the Canadian Arctic.”
“You might find this hard to believe,” I said, “but that sort of thing doesn’t happen to me every day.”
“You’re right; I do find that hard to believe.”
I elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve heard stories,” he said. “I know about you.”
“Oh, do you?”
He rubbed my arms. “I know who you are.”
“Is that so?”
“You’re Holly from California.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“The only thing I can’t figure out is why you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”