Her Beautiful Mind Read online

  “Hudson always did like to mark his conquests,” she spat at me. “I bet he left another one right over your heart while he whispered how much he loved you and how wonderful you were.”

  My face flamed with embarrassment because that’s exactly what had happened. But how could she have known?

  “Oh, please,” she sneered. “Did you think I didn’t know where he went last night? He’s been lusting after you since he first met your sweet, little virgin ass. I finally told him to go enjoy himself to get you out of his system. Hudson’s always been quite good in bed. I’m sure he left you with some moments to remember him by when he finally leaves with me.”

  Her words left me reeling. I didn’t want to believe them. Didn’t want to believe the depth of his deceit. Yet, I couldn’t deny them.

  Now, sitting in my tent, staring at this lovely piece of cloth in my hands, I remember why I brought it with me. To remind me that every beautiful thing can have its ugly side, that nothing is permanent and everything can change. I may not be able to control the chaos that surrounds me, but I can control how I let it affect me.

  A drop of moisture lands on the back of my hand, and I peek outside my tent door to see if it’s raining but find only a clear twilight sky awash with the blazing colors of a fiery sunset. Reaching up to touch my face, I realize I’m crying again, tears trickling down my cheeks to drip onto my hands.

  Anger—fierce, hot, and overwhelming—rushes through me. Anger with myself, with Hudson, with Gia, at my circumstances, at my weakness … at my tears. Scrambling out of my tent, I stomp my way to the shelter, pick up the register, and fill page after page with my fury. The pent-up rage makes its way from my brain to my hand, to the pencil, to the paper. Word after word, line after line, I release my frustrations until I’m left drained and exhausted.

  Only when it’s too dark to see do I finally stop. As I make my way back to my hidden campsite, one thought is utmost in my mind: there will be no more tears.

  Chapter 10

  New Friends

  Date: Monday, March 17

  Starting Location: Blue Mountain Shelter

  Destination: Deep Gap Shelter

  Total Trip Miles: 63.3

  There are infinite ways to wake up each morning on the trail. The soft warmth of the early morning sun working its way through your tent door, the cheerful chirping of songbirds welcoming the new day, the restful sighing of a mountain breeze rustling its way through the dried grass, and even the low-pitched, whispering voices of your fellow hikers preparing to start their day. All of these are welcoming, friendly, agreeable ways to begin each day.

  Then there are the not so pleasant: the flash of lightning followed immediately by the deafening crack of thunder, leaving you momentarily blind and deaf; gale-force winds threatening to shred your tent into tiny fragments while you cower helplessly inside; copious amounts of ice, hail, or snow, collapsing your tent around you even as you struggle to escape its synthetic-fabric clutches.

  Trail shelters are notorious for being loud: from the snores of exhausted fellow hikers, to the scratching of mice claws as they scramble over wooden floors and walls; from the nighttime screeches of owls hunting those same mice and the snakes slithering after them, to the whining hum of mosquitoes buzzing your exposed head and ears; all of these and so many more can and do conspire to rob you of sleep at night and force you to start your day before it’s barely light enough to see.

  But perhaps the worst way to end your restful, or maybe not-so-restful slumber, is with the sudden onset of stomach cramps. I start my morning with a desperate dash to the privy. Still half-asleep, untied shoes flapping about my feet, toilet supplies clutched in my right hand, I barely make it to the half-walled, wooden outhouse in time to drop my sleeping tights and avoid a rather embarrassing and messy situation.

  Later, after I’ve cleaned up a bit and feel more in control of myself, I’m tiptoeing quietly past the still dark shelter when I hear a voice inside.

  “Glad to see you made it. Taking a dump inside your pants is a real mess. I had to strip off and take a bath in a stream a couple of days ago after I shat myself right there in the middle of the trail.”

  The shock of hearing an unexpected voice, and then those very candid, very personal words, freezes me in my tracks. I’m left standing in front of the shelter, peering into its still-shadowed depths. I can barely make out two human-sized lumps cocooned in swaths of fabric like large caterpillars. Gear, clothing, and food bags dangle from chains attached to the front overhang, each one with its mouse-proof, inverted empty tuna can. The lump on the left wiggles, and a human sits up, emerging halfway from his synthetic casing.

  Reaching up, he pulls off a knitted sleeping cap, scratching his head vigorously, revealing a shiny, bald head. “Ah,” he says grinning sheepishly. “I’ve rendered you speechless, haven’t I? Sorry.” He chuckles. “I’m afraid I have that effect on people.”

  Before I can answer, his shelter-mate rolls over with a groan, muttering something about “too early” and “more sleep” and “shut the fuck up.” This causes another bout of laughter, but he keeps it subdued.

  “Seriously, though, are you okay?”

  This time, I manage to find my voice. “Yes, just a little hiker digestive issue. Thanks for asking, though.”

  The sun has topped the horizon while we’ve been talking, sunlight beginning to peek into the clearing surrounding the shelter. I can see my conversation companion more clearly now. He looks tall, with wide shoulders, brown eyes, and that smooth head, but what catches my eye is his thick handlebar mustache. His upper lip is covered in a wide band of hair, which lengthens and twists into an upward curl at each end. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a man with this type of facial hair. My stare is interrupted when he introduces himself as “No Filter.”

  “No Filter?” I question, wondering if I’ve heard him correctly.

  A wide grin splits his face, making the curled ends of his mustache twitch as he chuckles again. “Yeah, I didn’t have a water filter when I started hiking, so I was always borrowing someone else’s. And then there’s my bad habit of saying whatever pops into my head. Kind of like I did just now.” He shrugs his shoulders, rolling his eyes and waggling his eyebrows dramatically. “Mouth got no filter, you know.”

  Although I try, I can’t control the giggle escaping me. The horrible start to this day, the absurdity of this whole conversation, the genius of his trail name, strike me as hilarious. Soon, I’m laughing so hard I have to sit down on one of the benches attached to the picnic table. “That’s … that has to be the best, most appropriate trail name I’ve ever heard,” I manage to gasp in between my bouts of laughter.

  No Filter is still grinning at me when I finally calm down enough to catch my breath and wipe the tears from my eyes. “Well, now I’ve told you mine, you have to tell me yours. You got a name, girl?”

  “Ella.”

  “Ella, huh? As in Cinderella, umbrella, portabella, citronella, or maybe mozzarella? You like the cheese, girl? Or … wait, I know … salmonella.” His eyebrows are doing their crazy dance again, and the mustache jitterbugs across his face as we both laugh at his silliness.

  “Goodness, I hope not,” I finally manage to answer once we’ve both calmed down a bit. Shaking my head and shuddering at the thought of dealing with food poisoning while in the woods, I add, “I think it was the big meal I ate last night.”

  “Let me guess. You skipped breakfast, snacked on junk all day, and then, because you were starving, stuffed yourself with the biggest, richest dinner in your food bag, and you paid the price this morning.”

  “How did you … yeah, I guess you’re right. Not very smart, was I?”

  “No, you need to spread those calories out during the day. With the physical demands you’re putting on your body, your metabolism is starting to really kick in, and you need to feed it regularl
y, not overload it in one big meal. Of course, as soon as the hiker-hunger hits, you’ll be eating all the time.”

  Another open, friendly smile lights up his face. “Tell you what … why don’t you go back to your sweet, little campsite and pack up. Come back in about thirty minutes, and I’ll treat you to one of my fabulous, rib-sticking, fill-your-belly, No Filter special breakfasts.”

  “You knew I was down there?” I ask, nodding toward my secluded spot.

  “I always check out my surroundings. An aware camper is a safe camper.”

  His words hint at some deeper meaning, but No Filter’s expression doesn’t change as I study him intently.

  “Okay.” I finally agree, heading back to my tent. “See you in a little while.”

  As I walk off, I can hear him yelling at his companion. “Get up, lazy

  slug, you’re wasting daylight, and we have a lady guest joining us for breakfast.”

  ~***~

  Thirty minutes later, I’m staring at an unappetizing glob of gray goop No Filter has dumped into my pot. “This is your special breakfast?” I ask incredulously.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” he chastises with an eye roll. Opening his food bag, he removes a bundle of filled baggies and a small scoop. “Peaches or cherries?” he asks. When I reply peaches, he fills the scoop with pale, dime-sized flakes from one of the bags and dumps them onto the blob in my pot. Next, he adds two scoops of brown sugar, a heaping scoop of chopped pecans, and then two scoops of white powder.

  “Powdered milk?” I ask.

  “No, no, no, my dear, nothing so mundane. Dried, full fat, sweet cream powder. Now stir,” he commands while pointing to my spoon.

  As I stir, No Filter slowly pours hot water into the concoction in my pot. It gradually changes from a lumpy glob into a bowl of smooth, creamy, hot oatmeal, chock full of plump bits of rehydrated peaches and crunchy pecans.

  “Now for the finishing touch,” he announces, sprinkling a light dusting of cinnamon over the top. “Voila!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up before bowing over his creation. “And there you have it—a No Filter Breakfast Special Extraordinaire. Eat up, girl.”

  The first taste is pure heaven, and I groan in appreciation of the sweet, rich, creamy delight.

  “Like eating peach cobbler topped with nuts and melted ice cream for breakfast,” says the man who sits down across the table from me. “Good morning,” he continues. “I’m Curly Dan, or at least that’s what No Filter calls me.”

  “I … what?” I manage to ask in surprise, staring at his smoothly shaved head. My tablemate is a young man of medium height and weight. His large, expressive, dark brown eyes are framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a man, but it’s his warm cinnamon-colored skin that draws my attention.

  The word beautiful pops into my mind as I study him closely. Normally not a term I would use to describe a man, but he is truly beautiful with his full lips, symmetrical features, those amazing eyes, and richly colored skin. He’s also one of the few people I’ve met on the trail whose skin is darker than mine. For some unknown reason, minorities rarely participate in long-distance backpacking. A situation Liam hopes to change.

  My thoughts are interrupted when he explains his trail name.

  “Well, I started this hike with a full head of curly hair, and my name is Daniel, so when we shaved our heads at Springer, No Filter christened me as Curly because I’m now bald, and Dan because I despise that nickname.”

  “But—”

  He shakes his head, chuckling at my confusion. “I’ve learned to live with his craziness. Life’s easier and a lot more fun that way. Besides,” he continues, “he has a real knack for trail names. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t already thought of a new one for you.”

  “Well, I might consider a new one as long as it’s not Salmonella,” I reply.

  We’re still grinning at each other when No Filter joins us, setting a full bowl of his amazing breakfast in front of Curly Dan and taking one for himself. “I’ve decided against the Salmonella name,” he informs us as he sits down. “I thought about Cinderella, but Disney princesses are sooo boring.” Rolling his eyes dramatically, he grins mischievously at me before adding he’s reserving the right to christen me with the perfect trail name at a later time. Turning to Curly Dan, he adds, “You win again; she did pick peaches.”

  “Told you.” Curly Dan responds with a triumphant grin. “I believe the score is now fifteen for Curly Dan and zero for No Filter. Someday, you’ll learn not to bet against me.”

  Their conversation makes no sense to me as I watch their good-natured teasing. Finally, Dan takes pity on my confusion, and turning away from No Filter, he explains they have a theory about which fruit people will choose based on the part of the country they’re from. People from the northern and western states will pick cherries while people from the South pick peaches.

  “How do you decide where people are from?” I ask.

  “Ah, that’s where I have the advantage over Mr. Mustache here. I’m actually a linguist. Language and the way humans use it, change it, and speak it is my specialty. I have a very good ear for accents. They can tell us so much about a person, where they were raised, and where they have lived. Sometimes, even their ethnic background.”

  “And you decided I was from the South by the way I talk?”

  “Yes,” he slowly replies, carefully watching my reaction as he speaks. “There’s a slight drawl to some of your words. Not very many though. You’re covering it up most of the time. It’s hard to hear unless you know what to listen for. I’d say you are probably from somewhere in the Appalachians, perhaps Georgia or West Virginia, but you’ve been living in the Northeast. And I think you may have taken some diction lessons at one time. Also …” He stops, frowning a bit as he continues. “Did you spend some time in Massachusetts? Not Boston specifically, but somewhere nearby?”

  “Yes, I … Wow, that’s amazing. I had no idea you could hear so much in my speech.”

  “I love accents, all kinds, but I have a special appreciation for the soft, slow drawl of America’s Deep South. That one pours over you like thick honey, sweetening the conversation and wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Yours is beautiful, too, if you’ll let it out a little bit more.”

  I’ve spent years trying to control and cover up what I thought was an embarrassing, backwoods, hillbilly accent, yet here is a man I’ve just met encouraging me to embrace my speech patterns and my heritage. Ducking my head, I take a few more bites of my breakfast, not knowing how to respond.

  “Ella? I’m sorry,” he continues when I glance up at him. “It was very presumptuous of me to tell you how to speak or offer advice to someone I’ve just met. Please forgive me. I find accents fascinating. For me, they’re the spice that adds interest and flavor to our speech. If we all spoke the same, our conversations would sound very boring indeed. However, sometimes, I let my enthusiasm overwhelm my good manners, and I overstep the boundaries of common courtesy.”

  “I will on one condition,” I answer. “You have a very interesting accent yourself. Will you tell me where you’re from?”

  “I’m from northern England,” he replies. “A wonderful place for someone who loves accents because we have such a melting pot of regional dialects. From the Scottish brogue to the Liverpool Scouse, the very proper Queen’s English or Posh, and the working-class Cockney. Throw in some Geordie, some Ulster, and some Glaswegian and you have a veritable feast of wonderful language. My mother was English, and my father was from India, so I grew up speaking multiple languages.”

  Listening to Curly Dan is mesmerizing. He switches accents easily as he lists the different dialects and explains where he’s from. By the time he’s finished, I’m openly gawking and No Filter is laughing.

  We’ve almost completed our breakfasts when No Filter startles us by slamming his hands on the tabl
e before turning to Curly Dan. “I found another entry,” he announces loudly. “And boy, this one is a doozy,” he continues. “She really let him have it this time.”

  “Oh. Can’t wait to hear.” exclaims Curly Dan. “What are you waiting for? Go get the register and read it to us.”

  While No Filter returns to the shelter, Curly Dan turns to me, explaining they’ve been following a woman who is writing anonymous entries in the registers to an unknown man. “We found the first one on Springer, and then another one at Whitley Gap. This poor girl,” he adds, shaking his head sadly. “Apparently, he cheated her out of a business deal and broke her heart along with it. He must be a real asshole.”

  No Filter slips back onto the bench and starts flipping through the notebook in his hands. Clearing his throat, he begins to read. “Dear Hud.”

  My mind whirls, and I can barely suppress my startled reaction as he speaks the words I wrote last night.

  Chapter 11

  Nice Ass

  Date: Monday, March 17

  Starting Location: Blue Mountain Shelter

  Destination: Deep Gap Shelter

  Total Trip Miles: 63.3

  I struggle not to react, keeping my eyes on the table in front of me and glancing up only briefly to gauge Curly Dan’s reactions. He doesn’t seem to notice me, however. All his attention is focused on No Filter as he reads the words on the page. I’m shocked to hear them. They’re intense. Angry, hurtful, slashing words explode in the air as he speaks them aloud. Accusations and insults and blame wrapped in enough profanity to surprise even Liam. I can barely believe I wrote those words.

  The hushed silence when he finishes reading is finally broken by No Filter’s loud, whooshing, “Whoa. That guy is one lousy motherfucker, and she is one badass, really angry woman.”

  We laugh, our chuckles breaking the tension. Before anyone else can comment, Curly Dan jumps up from the table, announcing we’re wasting daylight, and it’s time to hike. Soon we’re cleaning our surroundings, shouldering our backpacks, and heading up the trail.