49 miles alone, p.1
49 Miles Alone, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Natalie D. Richards
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To Jody
For more reasons than there are pages.
Contents
Aster
Katie
Aster: Mile 1
Katie: Mile 2
Zero Miles
Aster: 9 Miles
Katie: 10 Miles In
Zero Miles
Aster: 10 Miles
Katie: 14 Miles
Zero Miles
Aster: 17 Miles
Zero Miles
Katie: 20 Miles In
Aster: 23 Miles In
Zero Miles
Katie: 25 Miles In
Aster: 25 Miles In
Zero Miles
Katie: 25 Miles In
Aster: 25 Miles In
Zero Miles
Katie: 25 Miles In
Aster: 25 Miles In
Zero Miles
Katie: 26 Miles In
Aster: 28 Miles In
Zero Miles
Katie: 29 Miles In
Aster: 31 Miles In
Katie: 33 Miles In
Zero Miles
Aster: 33 Miles In
Katie: 34 Miles In
Isabel
Aster: 35 Miles In
Katie: 36 Miles In
Isabel
Aster: 36 Miles In
Katie: 37 Miles In
Aster: 36 Miles In
Isabel
Katie: 37 Miles In
Aster: 36 Miles In
Isabel
Katie: 38 Miles
Aster: 36 Miles In
Isabel
Katie: 49 Miles Complete
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Aster
I know I shouldn’t leave her. She is across the room, blond hair swinging. Hips shimmying. I imagine her on the trail, her brow furrowed as she peruses a map. Her hands calloused and steady on the sandstone walls of a canyon. The Katie I know is missing. This Katie is different. Giggly. Bouncy. Drunk.
This party reminds me of a kicked anthill, bodies swarming and frantic. Girls in laughably high heels. Boys in baseball hats and unbuttoned flannels. Half-empty plastic cups on sticky kitchen counters. Inane conversations swallow up every inch of air that isn’t already permeated with the endless thump thump thump of club music. The tiny bathroom is the only reasonably quiet and empty space here. I’d know, because I’ve spent half my time in there, gripping the sink and staring at my reflection.
I debate a return trip. Third time, and I haven’t needed to pee once. But that’s not really what I want to do. I want to walk out of this loud, nasty college apartment and never look back. A Nerf football whizzes through the living room, inches from my face. A peal of laughter rises over the music. My stomach squirms. I hate every single thing about this night.
Katie is still in the corner. Dancing with her hands up over her head with a tall boy I do not know. Not that I know any boy here. Or any person, for that matter. I only know Katie. She’s the reason I’m here. Said it would be fun if I wanted to come along. She did not tell me to stay, but I know it’s the right thing to do.
Too bad my feet don’t give a damn about what’s right.
They help me push up off the stained couch. Standing is even worse for a moment, with all these people. All these bodies. And the music. The bass line that has crawled under my skin and hammered at my ears since we walked in here an hour ago.
Another laugh, shrill, bright, and familiar.
Katie.
She is no longer dancing. She is leaned against the wall, her smile a remnant of the laughter I just heard. The red plastic cup in her hand tilts precariously. There is a small group around her, three boys and another girl, and Katie is smiling and smiling. She looks okay. I think she is okay.
“Where’s your drink, girlie?”
I turn and assess the speaker. Male. Twenty-ish with a mop of messy brown hair and an aw shucks grin beaming above his Vineyard Vines polo. He’s definitely talking to me. My hands curl into fists, but I keep the irritation off my face. Manners first.
“I could get you a drink,” he offers. “If you’re shy.”
“No. I’m fine.” I look away, remembering a quick, “Thanks though.”
A snicker follows my words. I look again, spotting another one beside the first. Taller and blonder. A little mean-looking in the eyes. My muscles all constrict at once and I feel my polite smile flatten. Not in the mood doesn’t even begin to describe me in this moment.
“She’s been too good for us all night.” The blond’s eyes lock on to me like I’m a target. “She’s one of those types. Aren’t you?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Ignore him,” the first guy says. “But if you change your mind about that drink…”
“I won’t.” I hold his gaze so it’s clear I’m not being coy or whatnot. I do not want a drink. And if I did, I would not trust him to procure it. There is exactly one person in this apartment I trust, and given the number of red plastic cups she’s gone through tonight, that trust is wearing a little thin.
Someone petite pushes between us, and I take my chance. I ease my way past the brunette, choosing him because I don’t like the blond. Don’t like either of them, really. Or anything else about this party, and all I want is to get out.
Right now.
I move for the kitchen and past it to the door with the scratch in the paint and the rickety lock chain dangling by the frame. I force myself to stop and look back, to find Katie. She’s still in that corner, her cheeks pink and smile so wide.
I’m surprised when she notices me, but she does. She catches my eye, and I see her expression change. Just a little, but it’s enough. That’s her uncomfortable smile. Having me here is making her uncomfortable. And that’s all the permission I need.
I open the door, hoping for quiet and the smell of something cool and crisp. Columbus isn’t like Moab though. It’s huge, for one. And I am on a campus of fifty thousand or something like it. So I smell garbage and gasoline. And I hear traffic and the thump of that same awful music booming through the thin wall of the apartment. I walk down the metal staircase, across the parking lot, and east until I find Indianola Avenue.
I head north, wishing I were on a quieter street. A longer walk. A half a dozen states away. At least I’m alone. Barely a mile and a half to my aunt’s, but I don’t know it well enough to find my own path. I stick to the route I know. There is a point when the neighborhood shifts. Matching chairs and potted mums appear on the porches. Flowerbeds and curtains in the windows. As I turn toward Aunt Julie’s house, I see the signs for Glen Echo Park.
Tempting. The tall trees and cold air sound delicious, but it’s all but one o’clock in the morning, and I’m not in Utah. I have no idea what a park in Columbus might hold at this time of night.
Aunt Julie’s house is small, blue, and pristinely kept with a wide white porch and matching rockers. I slip through the side door, using the code she provided. A combo of Adam and Katie’s birthdays. The lights are out except the one in the kitchen. Adam is only home between semesters now, so it’s just Aunt Julie and Katie. Well, and me for this weekend.
I climb the stairs, which creak all the way up. Some part of me expects my aunt to open her bedroom door. To poke a bleary head out and ask me where I’ve been. Where Katie still is. It’s the same way I’ve expected my phone to buzz since I left the party, Katie asking me why I left or letting me know she’s five minutes behind me.
Instead there is silence. I slip out of my jeans and crawl onto the air mattress set up beside Katie’s bed. Our backpacks are already side by side near her closet. Hope bubbles up in my chest, a reminder that this weird weekend is almost over. Tomorrow we’ll have breakfast, and Aunt Julie will drive us southeast, dropping us at a point on the Buckeye Trail.
Our first hike outside of Utah will be different, sure. But it will also be the same. I close my eyes, imagining the sound of our feet on the trail. Wondering what the nights will feel like here. Will we make good miles on the first day? Or maybe we’ll need time to adjust?
At some point a door swings open and wakes me up. It’s not Katie. I sit up, groggy with sleep and surprised by the smudgy almost-morning glow in the room. Aunt Julie is in the doorway. Across from me, Katie’s bed is still piled with the clothes she discarded while getting ready earlier.
“Aunt Julie?”
“I’m sorry, Aster. I
The shape of her name is wrong. Everything is wrong. There are dark hollows beneath Aunt Julie’s eyes. Tear tracks on her cheeks. My mouth opens with a question, but I hold it in. There is something in the air in this strange gray room. Something in the stillness that answers the question I won’t ask.
I don’t need to ask.
I already know something terrible happened.
Katie
Eleven Months Later
I check my phone in the trailhead parking lot because I do a lot of pointless shit these days. This exercise is particularly worthless because after hiking the canyons of Utah every summer since I was little, I know damn well what I’ll find. Zero bars. Not even that cute little SOS symbol that assures me in a pinch I could alert some sort of authority. Want to know a hiking-in-Utah tidbit? Reliable cell phone service is a myth the minute you wander behind a giant slab of orange rock.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Mom asks from beside me in the Jeep.
“I was born ready,” I deadpan. I push my sunglasses on as I say it, dialing my campy act up to something truly film-worthy.
Mom smiles too tightly in response, and I smile like I don’t notice the tightness. We’ve been playing this game since we boarded the flight to Salt Lake City. It’s a game where Mom pretends she’s thrilled about this backpacking trip, and I pretend I don’t know she’s faking it.
Uncle Mike and Aster hop out of the front of the Jeep and check the notice posted near the single-stall outhouse. Vile. Inside the Jeep, Mom and I swelter as we play the game of who is going to get out and start the goodbye process first. We wind up getting out at the same time, so it’s a tie.
“Katie.” Mom’s hands on my arms are as feather-soft as her voice. I want to flinch and pull away, but I stay still and patient and quiet. “You know you don’t have to do this.”
“I want to do this,” I say, dropping the campy act. Now I go for hey-you’re-kind-of-embarrassing-me quiet. “It was my idea, remember?”
“It was your idea in Ohio when you were surrounded by your things and your friends. You may have felt safer there.”
Well, joke’s on her, because I haven’t felt safe there in eleven months. I’m probably not going to feel safe here either, but hey, the scenery’s nicer.
“It will be good to have a break from those things,” I say.
A beat passes, and then Mom brightens. “I could still go with you.”
I snort. Mom’s idea of roughing it is being forced to pee in a gas station bathroom.
“I don’t think a four-day hike through the Utah desert is really your thing,” I say. “Besides, this is a Aster-and-me thing. Always has been.”
“And always will be,” Aster says.
Mom and I turn to see Aster behind the Jeep. My cousin and I have barely spoken since Mom and I drove down to Moab last night, and this is the first time I’m getting a good look at her. She maybe looks thinner than I remember? Who knows. She’s always been scrawny, and I’ve never wondered about it before. I’ve also never had a hard time talking to Aster before, but like every other thing in my shitstain of a life, talking to my cousin is different now. Different in the way that we barely ever do it.
“Well,” Uncle Mike says. “Remember what I said about rain, and keep an eye out for the triple R.”
“I will,” Aster says.
“The triple R?” Mom asks.
Aster nods. “Rain, rattlesnakes—”
“And rapscallions,” I say with a grin. Because I’ve always loved that word, especially since my no-use-for-fancy uncle introduced me to it.
Uncle Mike winks at me and then kisses the top of Aster’s head. They are practically the same person, all bone-straight hair and abundant freckles and knobby elbows. Meanwhile Mom and I look like nature threw us together as a practical joke. She’s tiny and dark with elfin features. I’m tall and blond and curvy everywhere a curve is possible.
“Well, that’s about it. Make good miles. Check in at night,” Uncle Mike says.
Aster taps the pocket in her backpack that holds the aging GPS tracker. There are newer, shinier models, but Aster is a devout believer in the church of off-grid. She doesn’t even bring her phone. I do on some trails, but this one is notorious for having a seven-day stretch of trail with zero areas of service. Weird marketing slogan, but hey, who am I to judge?
“And most of all, stay safe,” Mom says.
Aster tilts her head. “This is a statistically safe trail. I’ve outlined fairly ambitious mileage, but it would be easy to adjust to a more modest pace if necessary.”
It’s like reliving every other hike we’ve ever experienced. Uncle Mike handles supplies and Mom worries herself sick and Aster creates an ambitious but pragmatic hiking plan. She’s good at that—good at plans in general.
“I know. I’m just having second thoughts about this idea,” Mom says softly, the fear clear on her face.
Oh, hell no. I put on my backpack. “Well, I’m eighteen now. A real live high school graduate and everything,” I say with a goofy grin. “I think it’s sort of my time to lean hard into all my terrible ideas, right?”
Mom just stares at me. She stares until it feels like she’s peeling back my breezy expression to see the shivering, terrified version of me she picked up at a hospital eleven months ago. I don’t know what I hate more—the fact that she still thinks I’m that girl or the fact that she might be right.
My therapist is always telling me that both things can be true. She means I can be a hot mess express and a happy, capable woman at the same time, but that’s always felt like nonsense to me. I change tactics with my Mom though, softening my tone. “We are going to be great. Plus we have the satellite GPS thing, so we can check in each night. And reach out if there’s a problem.”
I know just how to deliver these lines, because my job in life is to make everyone feel better about everything. I’m excellent at my job. So excellent that I’ve spent plenty of time successfully comforting the many people who are sad that I was raped.
Uncle Mike pats Mom’s arm and moves to close the Jeep’s tailgate. “I’ll leave water and snacks at the drop point. See you at the pickup lot by lunchtime on Thursday.”
“It’s a little more than twelve miles a day,” Aster says. “Closer to dinnertime is my guess.”
Uncle Mike winks at me. “I think we’ll be lucky if Julie doesn’t have me there waiting at dawn.”
My laugh sounds a little flat to my ears, and my body feels strange and wooden when each parent hugs us.
“I love you,” Mom says, and then she looks at Aster too. “Both of you.”
“You too,” I say.
“Four and a half days,” Uncle Mike says, opening the door to the Jeep.
“Forty-nine miles,” Aster nods.
“Your dad would love to see you out here, Katie,” he tells me.
Then he and my mom are in the Jeep and the engine is starting and holy shit, I don’t want to do this. I want to run after them and ride the twenty miles back to Moab while my mom pats my knee and tells me it’s okay and that I don’t need to do anything I don’t want to do. I want to curl up in a corner of Back of Beyond Books. I want a coffee and a scone from Love Muffin, and then maybe I’ll watch the tourists buy crap they don’t need from shops up and down the main drag.
Instead I stand like I’m made of stone while the Jeep crunches out of the lot and onto the road and behind a ridge that swallows up the rumble of the engine in an instant. The silence is so heavy and complete that for a moment I think something has happened to my ears. Maybe one more part of me doesn’t work right anymore?
I turn in a circle, panic bubbling up in my middle. What if we forgot something, or what if we go slower than twelve miles a day? Or, God, what if we get lost, and we’re just stuck out here? There is no one here! No cars, no trash in the can beside the map. We are already completely and utterly alone.
I turn in a slow circle, feeling the certainty of our solitude. And instead of my fear frothing higher, it begins to dissolve into the silence. Eerie as it is, I feel calm.
Aster crunches slowly toward the trail, the sound amplified in the quiet. I release a heavy breath and listen to her steps and the buzz of a fly moving past and the hiss of my shirt fabric when I move my arms. That’s all there is out here, just us and the fathomless stretch of the desert.
