“Oh, my phone is ringing. Excuse me.” I pat my bag, and step around him, speed walking down the hall and out of the geology basement as fast as I fucking can.
Heat rises off of the sidewalks in shimmering waves. It wouldn’t be so bad if D.C. wasn’t sitting in what feels like a bog of 100% humidity. It gives the impression of not just being baked alive, but simultaneously steamed. I guess that would make it a slow cooker. Or, given all the honking coming from Washington Circle, maybe a pressure cooker.
This city, in the fall, is gorgeous. Love the winters. I can even handle spring with the cherry blossom crowds. What I can’t stand is being trapped here all summer, trying to navigate the sidewalks choked with clueless tourists.
Not this year, Satan. I might be tending bar in the middle of nowhere, but I know for a fact I’m going to get fresh mountain air, and that’s enough to make the hell-scape of traveling in front of me all worthwhile.
Humming softly to myself, I descend the broken-escalator-turned stairs that take me, and a million other people, to the Foggy Bottom metro platform. A rat runs along the tracks, getting dangerously close to the third rail, and I hold my breath until he makes it safely to the shadows. It already smells like body odor and musty trash down here. I don’t think rodent barbecue would improve anything.
I pop my headphones in and zone out, waiting for the train to carry me out of the swamp. I take the orange line west, holding onto one of the overhead bars while keeping my bag pinned in front of me with the other hand. It only takes one pickpocket, or rather a pick-bagger in my case, to learn that lesson.
Bodies push by me at each stop. People in. People out. But the crowd thins as we leave D.C., and by the time we come above ground in Virginia, there’s actually an open seat. Upon closer inspection, though, I realize it has a mysterious stain on the cushion. Not wanting my DNA mixed into a crime scene, I opt to remain standing.
My bags are already packed and waiting in the entryway of my little apartment. I carry my single potted plant under one arm, and roll my luggage down the stairs with the other, thunking loudly. I hear a door open and head off the abuse that’s coming my way. “I know, Ms. Clara. I’m sorry!” For a woman in her seventies, she has surprisingly sensitive hearing. Unless she’s watching Matlock re-runs. The decibel count on her tv has to be close to that of a jet engine, but God forbid I don’t tiptoe up on the outdoor steps.
Once I get away from the rush hour traffic of northern Virginia and head for the mountains, I roll down the windows and turn the music up. This is exactly what I need. Three months of fresh air, new people, and some distance from the man I can’t have. I’m going to get over my crush on him this summer if it’s the last thing I do.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. It’s a little less believable when I keep wondering what Dr. Napier is doing. There aren’t any students for him to supervise over the summer. Maybe he’s taking a vacation. Something about that eats at me. I think it’s the thought of him laying on a beach somewhere while bronze, busty girls run by.
There might be a heaping dose of Freudian insecurity there. I inherited my mother’s fair skin and my dad’s jet black hair. My mom always called me ‘Blanc comme neige’.
Snow Fucking White.
I deeply resented being compared to the most helpless and gullible of the princesses. I mean, come on. Who the fuck takes food from a stranger when there’s a death warrant on their head? Not this girl. I carry bear spray in my purse. Legal in D.C.? Hell, no. But if someone wants to poison me with fruit, they’re going to have a hard time getting it in my mouth.
By the time I reach the Blue Ridge Mountains, the sun is setting, lighting up the sky with brilliant streaks of orange and pink. I breathe in a lungful of sweet air, watching the walls of green rise up on either side of the road. Towering trees and wild, veiny underbrush makes it impossible to see much beyond the shoulder.
Finally, I spot it. The resort glows with light and activity under a moonless sky. The lake is barely visible as I drive the winding road that leads past the main building, but little sparkles of light reflect at the shore. I sigh happily, parking in the employee lot. Bartending may not be glamorous, but its good money and you just can’t beat the views at Mountain Ridge Resort.
I follow the instructions I printed from my welcome email, making my way to the employee ’ cabins. The lady who hired me warned me that the employee bunks are ridiculously tiny, but a free room is a free room. Even if I have to share communal showers.
* * *
I’m up early, a carryover from years of waking up before the sun. Dr. Napier’s classes were all AM lectures, and if it was an option, I always picked his classes. At first I did it because everyone said they were the hardest and I can’t back down from a challenge.
It was only after finding my seat that first day that I realized how potent he was. Literally, no other person on the planet could explain plate tectonics and soak my panties at the same time. A fact I’ll take to my grave.
Training is a snap. I started bar tending the second I moved to D.C. Before I was 21, I worked at weddings, Oktoberfests, and I poured drinks at Greek row parties. I know it’s not where people would expect to find me. Anyone from my past would gawk and ask why my parents aren’t paying for my education, and anyone from school would wonder why I don’t have my face buried in a book.
The latter is an easy answer. Shit’s expensive, especially in DC. Tuition, rent, food—all pretty necessary, at least for me. The former… it’s fair to say I wasn’t interested in the requirements attached to my parent’s money. Geology was off the table as far as they were concerned.
Mom had her opinions. “Can’t you study somezing more feminine ‘zen rocks?”
And dad had his. “Jesus Christ, pick something that’s going to make you some fucking money. You’re going to end up living in a condo.” Because that was the literal worst thing he could imagine. Following in either of their footsteps was off the table. I’m not built like my super model mother, and I’m nowhere near as ruthless as my father.
Needless to say, I’m one great colossal disappointment. They didn’t even come to my graduation. Nope. They booked a trip to Cannes and spent a month on the beach instead. Not that I minded. Doctor Napier handed me my diploma and shook my hand. He even smiled at me. It was a great day.
3
WES
“Dr. Napier, good to meet you. I’m fascinated by your theory on the lake. Can’t wait to see what you find.” Donovan Fitzroy, the owner of the Mountain Ridge Resort, shakes my hand, eyes sharp.
“Me too. Thank you for letting me do the research.” I’m a little taken aback. Scientists rarely get such an enthusiastic greeting. Unless you’re Bill Nye, it’s safe to assume most people will ignore you. But Donovan claps a hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the check-in desk.
“We got you set up in one of the rustic cabins. Figured that would be easier than lugging your gear through the main building. Less disruptive, too. Staff has been alerted to your presence, so you shouldn’t run into any issues, but if you need anything, they’ll help you out or track me down. Kaylee here can check you in and get you set up with a map. Enjoy some activities while you’re here, yeah?”
“That’s great. Thank you. The rustic cabin is going to be a huge step up from my last field resear—”