Page 92 of Who I Really Am

“No! I didn’t mean…” Or did I? On some level, I believe that’s exactly what I meant.

But he smiles at me. “Let’s walk.” He reaches out. I take his hands and let him pull me to my feet. There he goes again, defusing instead of inciting. Rescuing me from my own stupid self. How quickly I went from savoring a gorgeous day to pushing the red button andboom.

The breeze ruffles the trees and sweeps against my bare skin. Wrapping myself in my arms, I fall in step alongside Marco. We’re about halfway to the trailhead I assume he’s aiming for when he says. “Hold on.”

He runs back to the truck, returning with a balled up gray wad.

Shaking it out, I find it’s a UTEP hoodie that looks like someone sat on it, but it’s fleecy and it smells like Marco, a scent as warm and comforting as the shirt itself. “Thanks.”

Our pace is slow and easy across the sandy ground littered with pine needles and cones. I want this badly, but at the trailhead, I stop, my heart rate elevated, and I’m breathless in the way I might get after sprinting across campus when I overslept. “How far are we walking?”

He glances down the trail to where it unravels out of view. “A hundred yards maybe.”

I think I can, I think I can.

We reach the first curve. “I-I don’t think I can do it, Marco.” How I pray these new limitations won’t be permanent.

His fingers brush my arm. “Hold on.” He looks around for a second, then waves me over to the edge of the path a few feet ahead where a downed tree trunk skirts the perimeter, and does an about-face, arms splayed. “Step onto the trunk and then hop on.”

I stare at his solid back, topped with broad shoulders to hold onto.

“Come on.” He reaches over and pats one of them.

I don’t know…

And it hits me.Thisis not me, this careful, cautious, dull as dirt person. It’s not that my true self doesn’t have issues, but I desperately want to hold on to the good parts. I think my adventurous nature qualifies.

Marco puts one hand out to balance me as I use the tree trunk as a stepstool, then he pivots and does a small squat. Planting my palms on either shoulder, I jump. His hands catch me, lifting, settling behind my knees.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

His closeness is unnerving at first, and I try to keep distance, cupping the tops of his shoulders, but I’m slipping, so, what the heck. I go all in and drape my arms around his neck and hold on for real.

“Atta girl.”

The smile in his voice makes me smile.

“Hold on.”

As he breaks into a jog, I clutch harder for support.

“Don’t choke me, woman.” He makes a couple of gasping, choking sounds—fake as a three-dollar bill.

“Shut up.” But I loosen a bit. “It’s your fault for showing off.”

“Who’s showing off?

He’s not out of breath in the least, joggingandtalking, with my entire weight on his back. I sigh. “It isn’t fair.”

“How’s that?”

“I could be healthy as a horse and train for a year, and I would never be able carry you.”

“Hey, you women have to leave us guys something we can still do that you can’t.”

I laugh. There’s probably something my college friends would deem horribly sexist in his remark, but I’m enjoying myself too much to try to figure out what it might be.