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It’s going to be full tonight.
I mentioned that to Carl when we started our hike, joking that if we got lost, at least we’d be able to see the trail after sundown.
He’d huffed in response—the closest I’ve gotten to a laugh from the man—and replied, “Don’t worry. I don’t get lost. You can leave that map for someone else.”
But I didn’t leave the map. I’ve never been this deep into the reserve and wanted to be prepared in case Carl and I became separated. Or if his sense of direction turned out not to be as fantastic as he believed.
In my experience, men believe a lot of things about themselves that don’t turn out to be true.
My ex-fiancé, Xavier, believed he was the most talented guitar player (and lover) of all time, and that the music industry would eventually come running to rural Minnesota if he posted enough stoned strum-sessions to social media. (Spoiler alert: No one came running and Xavier could rarely maintain an erection or hold down a job, leading to my breakup with the “most talented guitarist/lover of all time.”)
Once I ended our six-year relationship, I dove into serial monogamy with a long line of similarly deluded men.
Christoph was a tattoo artist whose “world famous” pet portraits looked like zombie puppies from hell. Pete was a chef with a drinking problem who yelled at his customers from the kitchen. Farley was another guitarist, this time in a wedding band. He refused to play mainstream music at his gigs. So, the gigs eventually dried up, leading him to relocate to Detroit, where he was certain people would appreciate death metal as wedding reception fare.
And then, there was Nate, a sculptor turned bar owner who swore he was a settle-down-with-one-woman kind of a man.
He was perhaps the most deluded of all, I realized after our breakup, when I heard through the grapevine that he’d been sleeping with one of his art students, a girl young enough to be his daughter, the entire time we were together.
I figured an accountant might be a nice change of pace from deluded artists with egos the size of Walrus Rock. And yes, a part of me thought seeing me on the arm of a tall, fit man with a nicely trimmed beard might make it clear to Nate that I’m over him, and he can stop pretending that I don’t exist.
I didn’t intend to use Carl, exactly, I just…
Okay, fine, I planned to use Carl!
But not in a mean way! He seems to enjoy my company. There’s no harm in going for a few public downtown dates where my ex would be likely to spot us together. I even offered to buy a Sunday beer bucket and pizza special at Riff’s tonight after our hike.
Which gives me a brilliant idea!
“Hey, Carl,” I say, keeping my voice as breezy as possible. “How far do you think we are from the parking lot? If we want to grab the special at Riff’s we need to get there before six o’clock.”
But he only continues to trudge, slowly, methodically forward, moving deeper down the narrowing trail.
Run, run, run! the inner voice warbles, her fear intense enough to make my footsteps slow.
“Carl?” I repeat, louder this time. I stop dead, gripping the straps of my daypack tight as I add, “I need you to stop and talk to me. I’m not going another step until I’m sure we’re on the right trail.”
Finally, Carl slows, stops, and begins to turn. But he moves so slowly, it’s like he’s moving through honey. I suppose his sudden snail impression should make me feel better—I’ll surely be able to outrun him, if I have to—but it doesn’t.
It’s terrifying, and by the time he’s lurched around to fully face me, my heart is in my throat and my inner voice is running in frantic circles in my head.
Because this isn’t Carl, at least not the Carl I met at the bar last week or hugged in the parking lot in front of the ranger’s station. He has the same neatly trimmed beard and broad shoulders, but his dark brown eyes are…dead inside.
“Carl?” I croak, telling myself he’s had a stroke or something. There has to be a logical, non-terrifying explanation for why he looks like he’s been body-snatched by a hostile alien.
But he doesn’t clutch his head or pass out in the fall leaves. He takes a step forward that I mirror with a quick step back.
“Carl?” I squeak again, but there isn’t a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
It’s like he can’t hear me.
Or like he’s listening to a voice that isn’t mine, a voice deep in his head telling him it’s okay to let his real personality out for show-and-tell now that he’s lured me so far out into the woods, no one will hear me scream.
He may be right about that, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to holler for all I’m worth.
I pull in a breath, calling on all those singing lessons from junior high to engage my diaphragm as I bellow, “Help! Someone, help me! Help! Please!”
Before I’m halfway through the second “help” Carl is on the move, running impressively fast for a man his size. He isn’t chubby per se, but he’s a thick human, from his wide shoulders to the muscled thighs that strain the seams of his jeans, the kind of guy who ambles or lumbers.
