Shit. I was hoping it would be a little while longer before my shameful, dirty secrets started to erupt from my dark closet.

She’s speechless. Her eyes lower to stare at her feet. I can almost hear her mind churning, putting two and two together to equal the death of my fiancé admission from yesterday. And now she’ll know I did it was with a car. God knows she’s an intelligent woman. Does she not Google who she spends her time with intimately? I’ve certainly spent some time Googling her.

“Okay,” she replies, her voice somewhat steady and clear as she shrugs her shoulders. “I’ll drive. I just need you to navigate.” My shoulders drop and the stress of the moment rolls off them. I’m sure my day of reckoning will come with her, but Isabella is a different breed of woman, and I’ll take the reprieve for the moment.

I hold my hand out for her to take, and she walks to me, taking a hold of it, twining her fingers into mine. We walk as one to her car, chatting about the hiking trails in particular and if she dressed appropriately for these trails.

She’s a great driver and listener. She took my directions perfectly, never faltering or getting lost inside the preserve. We find the nature trails with ease and set off.

She likes to stop and take pictures of the views, or something in nature that specifically catches her eye. I love to see the wonder in her eyes as she takes in all of her surroundings. She even spotted a tree frog hopping to get away from a predator and snapped a few pictures of it in motion, squealing in delight when they turned out perfectly.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she observes, twirling in circles and pointing to the view as we crest a small hill to reach an overlook at the quarter-mile trail point. We are alone now, but there are other hikers coming up behind us soon. She takes a seat at one of the few picnic tables offered by the preserve and drinks deeply from the water I hand her.

Her face is flushed from the morning sun, and the sun glints off the blond highlights in her hair, drawing me in deeper to her. She’s an enigma; taking me in at face value, letting my past be my past and ignoring it for now. I’m sure it will become an issue, but until then, we are living in our moments and enjoying each other.

“Tell me about your childhood?” I ask her. “Were you born here in America? You don’t seem to have an accent.

“Yes, I was born here. My childhood was spent traveling back and forth from California to Brazil. Most of my family still lives there in the small village of Trancoso. It’s buried between the jungle and the ocean in the Bahia Province on the eastern side of the country. Life is very simple there. It’s a time warp, and most definitely not into technology and worldly advancement, but my dad was. He has a mechanical brain for that stuff and dragged my mother with him as married college students, to build his future in Silicon Valley,” she explains.

“Are they still with you?” I ask.

“Yes, they are divorced, and both have retired now. They spend their days traveling the world with their new spouses. It’s hard to keep track of them. They float about the rest of the world during the other seasons, but they spend their winters in Brazil, where it’s summer there. I rarely see them,” she says. ”They are young at heart, and in good health. They’ll make it back to see me around the holidays.”

Other hikers start arriving and our intimate moment is gone, so we head back on out to the next scenic view on the map. After a few moments, we find the trailhead entrance through a massive overhang of Wisteria. It’s gorgeous and smells wonderful in full bloom. It reminds me of a wedding trellis as we walk through it. 

“So why wedding planning?” I ask her, trying to pick back up where we left off.

“Well...my family is mostly male, so when I was little and there was going to be a family wedding, I was naturally the one chosen to be the flower girl. I fell in love with the dresses and getting to wear makeup and having my hair extra pretty. You know, all the girly things that are special when you are between four and eight years old,” she laughs explaining. She gets this dreamy look in her eye and I saw that same look yesterday. “Eventually I graduated from flower girl to bridesmaid with my friends getting married. Anyway, it has always appealed to me, making people’s best dream come true. And that is why I do it.”

“Have you ever lost a bride or groom?” I ask nervously. I don’t know why that particular question comes to mind but it did and it’s out there now for her to answer.

“What do you mean? Lost? As in lost their business, or had one pass away in death?” she asks in return. Her voice hitches when she says the word death.

“Death, as in pass away,” I reply. We happen upon a large tree stump and she sits down.

“Once,” she chokes out, sighing heavily. “It was awful. The groom was deployed in the military and was due home in a few days. We had finalized everything except the tuxedos. He and his men standing with him were all measured in Syria and sent everything back via email. Then two days before his return, some military people showed up at her house while I was there going over final details. That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever sat through and experienced. I don’t ever want to have to do that again.”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I brought it up,” expressing my sincerest regrets. She wipes tears from her cheeks, visibly upset at the memory that came forth. “Come here?” I ask, holding my arms out to her to walk into. I squeeze her with the tightest hug I can possibly give without crushing her.

“Is that why you don’t like wedding planners?” she asks sincerely, looking up at me with glassy eyes. Her tears have soaked into my shirt, and more are welling up ready to fall from those beautiful chocolate eyes.

My throat gets thick with emotion and regret. I try to swallow it, but can’t. I try to clear it, but it won’t budge. All I can do is nod. Her fingers curl around the back of my neck and she hugs me even tighter.

We hear sticks breaking in the near distance as more hikers approach our alcove. We head on, working past the emotional turmoil that settles between us for now as we work to separate ourselves from the crowd.  We run down the path a little ways, hand in hand, to gain some distance and suddenly the trail opens up to a gorgeous overlook on the edge of a cliff. It’s breathtaking. There are warning signs and railroad ties set up to prevent hikers from getting too close to the edge.

We walk around taking pictures of the view. You could probably see Nevada from here if it were a clearer day. I take a seat at a table needing a drink of water. When I look up to offer Isabella a water too, she has ignored the signs to step beyond the poorly constructed fence for a picture looking down the craggy mountainside.

I yell at her, “Isabella, get the hell back behind the fencing,” but she ignores me, waving one finger gesturing for me to give her one second. She steps closer to the edge, snapping another picture. “Isabella, get back,” I holler again, standing this time. I watch her take another step and her ankle goes into a hole causing her to fall to her knees. I run towards her, panicked that she could still fall over the edge— she is that close.

“I fucking swear woman, if you move one muscle I am going to spank you like a child for not listening,” I reprimand her. Her hands are shaking, the thought just dawning on her that she could have been seriously hurt.

“I’m okay,” she says, laughing it off. “I’m such a clutz.”

“No, that was simply stupid,” I bark, reaching down and picking up her phone that dropped as she fell. I put it in my back pocket, and help her stand up. She removes her ankle from the hole with ease, and I carry her to the table I was sitting at to remove her boot and sock.

“It doesn’t look too swollen. Does this hurt?” I ask, slightly bending it to the right, but she doesn’t answer. I look up at her face to see her eyes are narrowed in anger.

“Does that hurt?” I ask again, raising my voice this time. She still doesn’t respond. I gently drop her foot back down onto my thighs. “Look, I’m the one who has the right to be pissed here. You ignored all of the warning signs, and you even ignored me telling you to back up. Yet you continued on and almost fell off the side of the mountain. For what? A stupid picture. So no. You don’t get to be mad here. That’s my emotion for the day. You get to be sorry and maybe apologetic if you can muster it.”

“Fuck you,” she bellows at me. “I’m human. I make mistakes, but I am not a child and you haven’t earned the right to call me stupid, ever.”

“I didn’t call you stupid,” if you were listening. “I called your lack of respect for the signs and warnings stupid. They are obviously there for a reason.”

“Don’t talk to me when you are upset like this,” she demands. “Some words can never be forgotten...or forgiven.” She grabs her sock and begins the difficult task of stretching it over the swollen appendage. She fiddles with getting her boot back on, ties the strings tight and pushes away from me to stand. She falters slightly in her first step, but hobbles and limps to the trailhead entrance.

I grab our pack and walk quickly to catch up to her. “C’mon, Isabella,” I say, she’s pissed and moving at a faster clip now that she knows I’m behind her. “Don’t be stubborn. I’m worried about you. That ankle could get worse.”

“Words, Frank,” she hollers back at me over her shoulder. “They can hurt and do so, very often. Use them wisely.”

Oh. What the fuck do I do with a stubborn woman? After twenty minutes of chasing her, she finally slows down as her ankle swells even bigger. Her stride has gotten smaller and she’s solely limping now without the slight hop she was using to gain distance from me.

I gave her some space, knowing she’d never be able to walk faster than me, even if she was healthy.  She’s right. My words were poorly chosen in my panic and subsequent worry over her. After an hour of silence, I call her name again, “Isabella?” She turns with her hands on her hips. Her face is pale, and she is clearly exhausted.

“What?” she asks. “What do you want from me, Frank?”

“I want your forgiveness first of all,” I say. “My words were not the best in the heat of the moment.”

“Go on,” she sasses. Her hands move from her hips to cross over her chest. “I’m listening.”

“Please note: I am used to everyone doing what I say when I say it because I’m the boss. I’m not used to not being the boss. This is new to me,” I admit. “I need some leeway here. I’m sorry, Isabella.”

She hobbles closer to me, and then finally close enough to touch. I reach out and skim my hand down her arm, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it in assurance. She’s reluctant at first, but gives in and returns the squeeze accepting my apology.

“Please let me look at your ankle?” I ask. She nods slightly and I pick her up, carrying her to the open meadow just beyond the trail. Her boot comes off easily, but her sock is another matter entirely. Once we finagle it off, it begins to swell in earnest. The sock must have been compressing it, but now that the blood has flowed to it, it’s swelling rapidly. I quickly pull her sock back on and shimmy her boot over her foot, as she hisses through the pain.

“Looks like I am carrying you from here,” I announce.

“But we’ve got more than a half mile to the car,” she exclaims. “How are we going to get home? You don’t drive, and I probably shouldn’t even though it’s my left ankle.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I assure her. “Don’t worry about it.” I help her stand, putting the backpack onto her and swing her onto my back, piggyback-style.

She laughs in my ear, “This should be fun.”