CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ELIZABETH
BUT MATEO KEEPS HIS BOOTS on while I walk as nature intended, and I give him copious amounts of shit for doing so the second we’re outside, and the last of the awkwardness fades.
He says there might be snakes. And it’s true; there might be. But there are also falls that come from gripping the rock wrong, caused by inflexible boot soles. There is the sense of connection to the terrain that can’t penetrate rubber — something I have the second we enter the familiar high trail, and he doesn’t.
I tease him more than is sensible. I feel almost giddy. Must be the mountain air. Must be this sense of finally having a tiny “win” over Mateo — and one that doesn’t require fighting.
I catch him looking at me. I glance away.
I take pity on him. When he says that it’s steep for an “easy path,” I tell him that my grandparents hiked it into their eighties. Then I point out that the race he’s supposedly so interested in building won’t be especially tough if it can’t hack the simplest things the mountain has to offer.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he says from behind me. The trail is narrow, and I’m in front.
“Sure sounds like it, with all that complaining.”
“I’m not complaining. I’m simply observing.”
Two or three seconds pass, and I get a distinct feeling that he’s “observing” my ass. It turns out I’m still good on my mountain legs, but there’s no questioning that I’ve chosen a poor garment to hike in. Most of what’s keeping me going is the need to show Mateo up. If I can do this barefoot and in a dress, he’s a pussy to so much as grunt.
I turn. I catch his eyes in the wrong place, but rather than looking embarrassed he gives me a cocksure smile.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why am I observing?”
“Why are you building this competition? You’re super rich. You run a big, well-known chain of restaurants. Shouldn’t your ambitions be in line with buying out Papa Johns or something?”
“Maybe we can sit and talk about this when we get to the top of this hill?”
I give him a half-shrug. “Okay. Pussy.”
Mateo swats at my feet, making as if to trip me. I step up quickly, laughing.
There’s a little clearing at the top of the hill. My grandfather cut down some diseased trees up here before I was born, and the stumps remain. Dad lacquered the tops to keep bugs out and make permanent seats. Everyone wants a rest after that hill, so it’s a perfect spot.
Mateo sits. I consider making fun of his being out of breath, but I am, too.
“To answer your question,” he says, “I want to turn this mountain into one of the hardest physical tests a person can endure. It’s not as big as something like Everest, so reaching the top can’t be the goal. I need to invent something new. Something that accounts for the land itself. Something people are obsessed with finishing, like the Badwater Ultramarathon.”
“What’s that?”
“A 135-mile foot race through Death Valley.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“To test themselves. To see what’s possible.”
I smirk, then shake my head. “Sounds like macho bullshit to me.”
“Have you ever tried something like that? Something so hard, you didn’t think you could do it?”
“No. I don’t feel the need to prove that I’m a big man.”
“It’s not that.”
“Except that it sorta is. Face it, Mr. Saint. This is just a bigger ruler to measure your dick.”
He’s looking at me. Smiling.
“What?” I demand.
“You’re different than I thought you were.”
“Really.”
“You struck me more as a serpent than an outright ballbuster.”
“Guess you shouldn’t put your balls on such prominent display.”
He smiles wider.
“Will you stop that?” I say.
“Stop what?”
“Smiling. You look like you swallowed a coat hanger. I don’t like you, remember?”
“Hmm, that’s interesting, because I was sure I didn’t like you, either. But out on the land, you turn into a lady lumberjack.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You have to say ‘lady lumberjack’ because lumberjacks are supposed to be men?”
“Still a bitch, though.”
I roll my eyes as I look across the vista. The view is partially obstructed by trees, but there’s no part of my family’s mountain that isn’t stunning.
“People are always surprised,” I say.
“By what?”
“By the fact that I have fun sometimes, I suppose. That I’m not just fashion and makeup. I don’t know why. I’m human, same as anyone.”
“It’s not your clothes or your makeup.”
I look over at Mateo. His tone is serious.
“What is it, if you’re so smart?”
“It’s the fact that you seem determined not to have fun.”
“Says the billionaire, who wore a suit to a college tech conference.”
“I didn’t know what I was attending. Besides, look at my press. Don’t you know a carefree international playboy when you see one?” He tosses his hair dramatically. I snort.
“I just don’t see the point in being timid about what I want. And in our society, an assertive woman gets called a bitch.”
He shrugs and looks away.
“You think I’m full of shit.”
“I think I like the sound of swearing on your lips.”
“Because it’s cute? Because I’m supposed to be a Barbie, and it’s hilarious to hear Barbie not be Barbie?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. You want to be serious, be serious. That’s your business.”
But something inside me is bothered by all he’s said. I know the feeling; it’s here because a part of me agrees. It’s true that assertiveness is seen as bitchiness, but that’s not the real reason I keep people at a distance. Part of how I run my life owes to focus and knowing what I want, yes. But part of this shell is something else. Something Mateo’s words have slipped a needle deep inside and is threatening to poke.
“Enough resting,” I say, standing. “If you want to see what your money bought, we’ve got a lot of hiking to do.”