Mike’s boots crunched over the dry ground. They had emerged from the foothills onto the lower plain where, at some point far off in the distance, their car had been yanked out from under them. Tall desert grasses—spread as far as the eye could see—waved gently in the evening breeze as the sun began its descent to the horizon. He could still hear Andi’s shuffling footsteps behind him; he found that fact to be rather comforting.
Turn around, Mike. Turn around and tell her you’re sorry.
*No. She made her choice—she made her bed, now she’s gotta lie in it.*
So what now?
The question stopped him dead in his tracks. It hadn’t occurred to him what would happen when they got home. Andi continued walking, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her pack, her sword drooping so far in her grasp that it was practically dragging on the ground.
“Andi?”
She paused, turning only slightly. “Yes?”
“What’s . . . what’s gonna happen . . . when we get back?”
She shook her hair out of her face, and Mike could see the tears glistening on her cheeks. “I don’t know. I think it might be best . . . for you . . . if I move out. This has created a rift between us. I don’t want it to create one between you and Peter.”
“Wait, Andi, you don’t—” he began, but she cut him off with a rueful snort.
“Why do you care, anyway? You don’t believe me when I say that there’s nothing going on between Peter and myself. I don’t think I can live in a house with someone who thinks I’m a liar.”
“I never said you were a liar,” Mike muttered, secretly hoping that Andi wouldn’t hear
She turned her back on him and stood rigidly in place. Mike’s eyes focused on the thin line of blood running down her leg from one of the scrapes on her knee. He didn’t understand how things had spun out of control so fast . . . Part of him—a part that was decreasing in size with each passing moment—was still resentful and bitter. “Why should Peter be the one to share in all her secrets, when it’s you she supposedly loves?” it said.
But another part of him was pushing and prodding him to apologize, to “tell her how you really feel.”
He started to reach for her, but she turned, her eyes blazing, not with anger—which he had expected—but as clear an expression of hurt as any he had ever seen.
“You didn’t have to call me a liar,” she said, her voice thick with the tears that, contrary to her nature, she wasn’t trying to suppress. “I have always told you the truth . . . I have never lied to you. I knew from the moment I saw you that I wanted to be with you . . . to share your life and your troubles and . . . ” She trailed off, unsure what to say. “I thought we had something special. Like a great many other things, I guess I was wrong about that.”
She spun about and continued walking; Mike nearly had to run to keep up with her. She sliced her way through the grass with renewed energy, unaware of the cuts the grasses made as they whipped against her bare arms and legs.
Now you really don’t know what to do, do you, Nesmith?
Mike had to admit that he did not. Now it was his turn to shuffle behind her, his eyes cast down at the dust clouds left by her hiking boots.
Why did things always have to be so complicated? The problem had seemed clear enough to him—Andi and Peter were too close. But the righteousness he had felt when he confronted her was gone. His anger towards her had been reflected back on himself, and he felt like a bigger fool with each step he took.
Maybe she is telling the truth, and you’re just too stubborn to admit it.
Mike had no time to debate or deny that notion; their footsteps had brought them to the lip of a wide chasm that ran perpendicular to their intended path. It stretched on for miles in either direction, with no man-made bridge in sight. An ancient felled tree lay across the fissure, its bark faded to a dull gray from the endless days of intense, unbroken sunlight.
Mike peered over the edge, his stomach making an involuntary jump at the gorge’s sheer depth—nearly a hundred feet. When he looked up Andi was already balanced on the tree, taking small but sure steps to the other side.
“Careful, now,” he said, watching with nervous anticipation as she placed one foot in front of the other, head bent in concentration. In what seemed to Mike like two hours—but what was in reality less than three minutes—she reached the other side, hopping down from the trunk casually, as if she had been out for nothing more than a morning stroll. She unbuckled her pack and let it drop to the ground; the strap still hung limply from her shoulders, and she reached up and snapped the two ends together.
“Come on, Mike,” she said, setting her sword down. She watched impassively as he climbed nervously onto the trunk, his eyes locked on the abyss below him.
“Mike, don’t look down. Look at me.” He obeyed, his eyes wide and frightened. “Okay, I’ll talk you through this. Keep your eyes fixed on mine. Do not look down. Focus on me, and walk towards me . . . slowly. Keep your arms out to the sides and hold them steady. If you fall, try to grab on to the tree.”
Mike nodded and edged his way along the tree, holding his arms out to balance himself. He wobbled precariously a few times as he inched toward Andi.
He was less than four feet away when a large piece of bark underneath his foot broke off. He fell to his knees and let his legs swing down so that he straddled the trunk, grabbing a nearby branch for support.
Andi turned, noticing movement out of the corner of her eye. She saw Mike drop down and lunged forward, reaching out to grab Mike as the rough bark tore away at her skin and clothes.
“Mike! You all right?” she asked, her eyes wide and round.
“Yeah, I’m okay--just lost my balance a little. I’m fine, thanks.” He was still puzzling over her panicked response as she grabbed him by his shirtfront and yanked him into a tight, desperate embrace.
On to Chapter Five
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