Page 69 of Total Jane Wreck

No wonder River and his group flew to Denver, so they could embark there. But buying everything I need is going to be expensive, and I’m currently unemployed. No budget for air travel.

“That’s okay,” I tell Dan. “I’ll figure it out. Now—what should I buy?”

He grins, but it’s an uncomfortable grin. “Um—you do know that people usually train for this kind of hike? They’ll prepare for weeks, or maybe months. It’s not meant to be a spur-of-the-moment type thing.”

Dan is obviously a nice guy. But I’ve made up my mind, and that’s it. I’m going on this hike. It feels like life and death, something I must do in order to save myself. “You let me worry about that,” I tell him. “Just tell me what equipment I need.”

We go back and forth a little, but once I promise Dan that I’ll have “zero days” (where I take a break in town and hike zero miles) and that I’ll make friends with other hikers on the trail, he relents.

Dan sells me a big ol’ backpack and a pop-up tent that fits inside. Also, a jacket that folds up into a zipper pouch, which I can use as a pillow. Freeze-dried food, trail mix, and a water purifier straw. Proper socks and pants that unzip into shorts. Special underwear made just for hikers. A sleeping bag because, as Dan says, once I’m up in the higher altitudes, it can get cold, especially at night. Hiking poles. An ice ax—just in case. He sells me all that and much, much more.

It costs a pretty penny, but I don’t care. I was saving up to pay Chet back for Betty, even though he insisted that wasn’t necessary. Now, though, she’ll never be truly mine. But then again, has anything ever truly been mine?

I can only think of one example. Brontë. She’s my one true friend. So I call her and explain everything. Brontë listens, occasionally gasping in sympathy or surprise. After summarizing all that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I tell her, “Now, I just have to go do this hike. I know it sounds crazy and that I’ll probably fail—”

“Stop,” Brontë says. “That’s defeatist thinking. It’s not crazy, and you won’t fail.”

A lump materializes in my throat. “You really think so?”

“Of course I do. You’re not a Jane Wreck. You’re a capable, resilient woman. If going on this hike is what it takes for you to finally realize that, then I say go conquer the Colorado Trail. Just be careful and send me updates whenever you can.”

I promise that I will. Then I make another call—the last one before I’ll start hiking.

***

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Marigold. “And thank you for letting me park my car at your house.” I get out of her passenger seat and head toward the trunk to retrieve my gear.

Marigold gets out of the car too. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay over at my place, just for one night? You could eat a good meal, get a good night’s sleep before starting off?”

“I appreciate the offer. But I’m sure.” Some weird part of me believes that if I don’t do this now, I’ll chicken out and never do it. And that I’ll regret that decision for the rest of my life.

Marigold seems to understand. “Okay,” she replies. “Swear that you’ll call me if you’ve had enough. There’s no shame in ending the hike early, and you need to be safe. Otherwise,” she quips, “my next novel might be from your point of view, and I’ll get accused of plagiarism all over again.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” I say. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”

Marigold lets out a small, relieved sigh. “Good.” Then, suddenly, she captures me in a hug. “Text me updates whenever you can.”

“I will,” I say into her shoulder, making a mental note to also contact her whenever I contact Brontë.

She lets go of me, we say a couple more awkward goodbyes, and then I’m on my way.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland and midnight hush.

It’s mid-afternoon, and the sun is doing its absolute best to cook me alive. Feels appropriate.

My pack is so much heavier than it seemed when trying it on in the store. Almost immediately, I’m bathed in sweat and breathing like a porn star. Dust covers both my new boots and my calves, while the trail grows curvy, narrow, and steep. Each step costs me, yet (for now) I’m happy to pay the price.

Until I see a bear.

At first, I blink rapidly, believing it’s got to be a figment of my imagination. I’m barely two hours into this hike. What are the chances? But, no, down the slope from the trail, in the creek that runs perpendicular to the trail, is a bear who looks to be hunting for fish.

I have the sensation that I’m in a movie. Or that the bear is in a movie, on a screen. And I’m just a voyeur, safe from any harm. It takes a full minute for panic to set in.

Then my heart pounds in my ears so loud I half expect the bear to glance up from the creek and glare at me for the racket. I freeze. I don’t reach for my phone, don’t even move my toes inside the boots. I just remember the advice scrawled on the signs posted by the trailhead.

“Don’t run. Don’t scream. Look big.”