Page 72 of Total Jane Wreck

“I was about to give up,” I tell him. “But not anymore.” I lean toward River and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, River. Really. You saved me from myself. But now I know that seeing you was a sign. I need to keep moving forward.”

***

The next day, when I arrive at Lake City, my legs are rubber and my lips cracked raw. The town’s all freight trucks, steeple churches, and a quaint single downtown street with kitschy souvenir stores and a couple of restaurants. I treat myself to a cold ginger ale at a gas station. After a night at a roadside motel, where I take a hot shower, eat a grilled cheese, and sleep upon a thin mattress that nevertheless feels sheikh-worthy, I return to the Colorado Trail. I’m armed with new supplies, like food, fuel for my stove, and plenty of calamine lotion.

There are days when the wind off the ridges whips so hard, it nearly knees me in the face. But at some point, there’s a shift. Now, hiking clears my mind. The fresh air, the endless trees, the shadowed mountaintops and flowing creeks—they make me feel small, but in a good way. I’ve come to grips with a fundamental truth: at any point and if it wanted to, the mountain might kill me. Also, I’m as insignificant as a bug.

But that knowledge is freeing.

I realize that it’s futile to try to understand why things happen the way they do. Why someone’s actions might destroy us. Who we’re prone to love. My whole life, I’ve felt abandoned by those I love and so powerless to protect those who need it (like horses) that I become physically ill. That must have been my body revolting against my emotions. But I’m tired of revolting. I’m ready to be at peace with my choices, and happy with who I am.

Three weeks into my trek, standing atop the most incredible peak I’ve ever climbed, Chet flows in and out of my mind. I stare out at a sea of clouds, the winding stream below, miles of hills and valleys . . .

I’m struck with a longing so powerful that my knees buckle. If only Chet were here to see this with me.

When a thunderstorm rips through and I must hunker in my tent, I catch myself wishing he was zipped inside the nylon cocoon with me. Just the two of us, hiding away. The rain is insane, biblical—sideways sheets lashing the nylon, every drop a bullet. My tent sags with the weight of it but holds. I eat freeze-dried vegetarian chili I must rehydrate with cold water. It’s disgusting, and I wish I could call Chet to mock it.

That gets me reminiscing about the time he added too much cayenne pepper to a pan of brussels sprouts, but we ate them anyway, tears streaming down our faces from the heat. Or the night he burned rice and pretended it was part of the recipe, spooning two flawless eggs on top like it was gourmet. Watching classic black-and-white movies like Casablanca or On the Waterfront on the makeshift screen Chet set up in the horse pasture, wrapped in blankets, cuddled together and laughing when Spitfire settled down for a nap right in front of the projector, blocking our view.

It was during those weird, perfect weeks when Chet and I found a rhythm. Sometimes Chet would watch me, his face searching mine, like I was a mystery he’d never get tired of. We’d take turns reading aloud at night, from Marigold’s first potboiler of a novel, Secrets in the Springs. Him doing voices, both of us tangled together under the covers.

Occasionally, he’d fall asleep first, arm thrown over his eyes, as if blocking out the world. And I longed to create a world that didn’t need blocking out, one just big enough for him, me, and the horses.

Somewhere outside Gunnison, I lose the trail and spend an hour circling a willow-choked creek. I cuss and curse and nearly throw my map into the water. But there’s a wild grace in being so lost that I can’t help but laugh.

Because I realize Brontë is right. I’m not a “Jane Wreck.” And Marigold is right too. Even if I—like everyone—am destined to make mistakes, I’m resourceful enough to find my way through.

So I keep moving, and each town is a new milestone. I do as promised, stopping for rest and replenishment, texting both Brontë and Marigold whenever my recharged phone has service.

One day, I hike through a patch of wildflowers so vivid I nearly trip over my own feet. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk glides through the sky, doing lazy figure-eights. I stop and watch until my neck aches from tilting back.

That’s when it hits me.

I came out here to get away from everyone, but the more I walk, the more the past sticks to me like static. It’s all still there—every snapshot of heartbreak, every joy or fuckup, but at least now, they all belong to me. I decide what to keep, or what to leave behind. And no matter what, I amount to more than the sum total of my mistakes.

But if that’s true about me, wouldn’t the same be true for Chet?

I’m deep in thought, lying on the ground in a field of grass, when I feel it—a tickle across my chest. Swiping, bringing my hand up to my field of vision—I let out a primal, guttural scream.

Because right there in front of me, perched upon my knuckles, is a tarantula. Huge. Dark. Hairy.

“Oh good Lord!” I shout, bolting up, shaking my hand so that the spider falls.

It scurries away. Sounds about right—I’ve heard that tarantulas are harmless. But then, I’m overcome with a fit of laughter. Thank goodness Chet wasn’t here. He surely would have lost his shit.

Crap. Now I miss him even more.

Maybe that’s why, later that night, I wake from a dead sleep. Swear to God, I’m sure I hear Chet call my name.

“Jane! Jane! Jane!”

Lying there, heart hammering, I stare up at the dark dome of the tent. It sounds so real—his voice, cracked open and desperate, calling for me like I’m the only person left in the world. Like he’d just encountered a spider and needs me to save him.

I unzip my sleeping bag and then my tent. Cold air rushes in. There’s no one around. Just pines and dark and the distant sound of the creek. Except, I can almost hear him saying, “I fell in love with you, Jane. But I never thought about saving you. Instead, I thought you might save me.”

No way am I getting back to sleep.

By the time pale light starts bleeding through the trees, I’ve already broken down camp. I don’t let myself think too hard about why I’m moving so fast. I just move.