I wasn’t worried about money, at least not in the near future. I had enough in the bank to get by for a while, as did Megan, and tomorrow I’d call the bank and transfer a significant chunk of what I had into her account. She would be fine without me, and better in time. She was, however, unemployed, with no tangible work-related skills, no real idea about how the job market worked, and, above either of these things, no desire to find out. And this was not her fault, at least not entirely; more than anything, it was a product of the arrangement we’d built together. I needed to make sure she was taken care of financially.

I thought about Anthony’s question about divorce. It was an ugly word. She and I would have to cross that bridge eventually, but for now I wasn’t ready. She hadn’t called since Friday, an undeniable result of her steadfast pride, and I didn’t blame her for it.

6

For three days I relaxed and acquainted myself with the town of Boulder, Colorado. Monday I awoke to an empty house. I opened the sliding door and stepped out on to the back porch again, the landscape now illuminated with sunlight and color. A circular temperature gauge mounted on the house read 71 degrees at 8:34 a.m.

I drove to the north part of town and sat at a diner, where I ate french toast and drank coffee and read the Denver Post. The forest fires were being kept in check for the time being. Two local politicians were sparring. The Rockies were in last place.

That afternoon I drove west to the foothills and attempted to hike. I parked on the side of the street and followed a trail that led from the roadside into the trees. It was hot now; nearly ninety, and my t-shirt stuck to my skin. The trail quickly reached a clearing and started upward, becoming a series of rugged steps, and the elevation and my general lack of physical fitness quickly caught up with me. I had to stop and catch my breath.

I continued this process for an hour—climb for a short time, rest for almost as long, repeat—until I came up around the backside of a large rock formation. I followed a trail inlet through a gap in the rock, sat down on a boulder, looking east, and was startled by how much elevation I’d gained. I hadn’t hiked far, and the trail continued up long past where I sat currently, but from my perch I could see all of Boulder. Sweat dripped down my face and off the end of my nose and the sun beat down on my neck as I scanned the town and the flat land to the east. I saw the highway I took into town, spotted a reservoir to the north, and if I squinted through the sunny haze, I could see the outline of downtown Denver to the southeast. Two young girls, in their teens or early twenties, briskly passed by on the trail behind me, holding a conversation and laughing and not visibly out of breath.

This, my first hike, was a pathetic attempt at reaching the romantic mountain heights I had dreamed of as a kid. I was out of shape and un-acclimated to the altitude, and was able to cover only about as much ground as one might on a casual neighborhood stroll after work. My legs burned as I walked, and my head spun from fatigue. I was acutely aware of all of it, of how ill-suited I was for such an activity, and still the reward of the trek was every bit of what I could have hoped. I was doing it. I was in the forest, away from the stoplights and taxi cabs and skyscrapers, among the birds and rocky cliffs, and I was hiking. I was terrible, but I didn’t care. I was doing it.

Later that afternoon I made my phone calls. My boss told me I was fired, and Megan did not answer her phone.

Tuesday and Wednesday I explored. I drank coffee and drove up the winding switchbacks of Flagstaff road, then back down. I went up through Lyons and Longmont and even Estes Park, and down to Golden for a Coors. I ate sandwiches for lunch. I took the dirt road down to Eldorado Springs, its name too enticing to simply pass, and swam in the natural pool. I waded in the crystal blue water and let its water wash over me, splashed it on my face, through my hair, in my eyes. I swam underneath and came up for air, again and again. The rock walls of Eldorado Canyon stood tall on either side, sealing me in, alone with this pool of natural spring water, joined by a few strangers, but alone just the same. I let the water wash me clean. I dunked my head and Wilson Keen was gone. Dunked it again and New York was gone. Then I stayed above water.

At night I roamed Pearl Street, Boulder’s downtown walking mall, and ducked into shops for a look and bars for a drink. I paused near the street performers, joining small crowds curious about their bizarre acts, and threw dollar bills into their buckets.

And on Thursday I met her.

Anthony returned home from work and sat down on the couch.

“Let’s get a beer,” he said. Julia was working the night shift at the hospital.

“Done,” I said.

“There’s a brewery on the east side of town. Best beer in Boulder.”

We jumped in his Subaru and were there in ten minutes. It was a small building, unassuming, hidden back in an industrial area between auto shops and a car wash. A few hasty picnic tables outside, a small sign on the door displaying the brewery’s logo. Anthony opened the door and we stepped inside, and to my surprise, the place was buzzing.

It was an L-shaped room with low ceilings, draped in the comforting scent of barley and hops. On the south side, a long oak bar snaked along the wall, displaying dozens of taps. The room must have been near capacity; servers had to carefully maneuver through the humanity with trays full of beer, squeezing past groups of loud-talking people and somehow not spilling a drop.

We wiggled up to the bar and Anthony asked me what I wanted.

I looked at all the taps, nearly indistinguishable from one another from across the bar, and shrugged. He nodded and raised two fingers at the bartender, who materialized quickly. Soon we had two dark and strong brews, and we clinked them together and drank.

“You talk to Megan?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Tried her a few times. Just rings and goes to voicemail.”

“You leave one?”

“No. She knows I’m calling.”

“She moved on faster than you thought,” he said, and offered a smirk.

I shrugged. “Still pissed off, I’m sure. Don’t blame her.”

“Me neither.”

“She’ll pick up one of these times.”

“And then what?”

“We’ll talk. I already moved the money over.” I downed half of my beer, and Anthony his. “I’ll figure something out.”

Anthony shook his head and took a drink.

“I won’t be bugging you guys much longer,” I said. “Another week. Two, tops.”

He waved his hand. “Stay as long as you need. It’s no trouble. Julia likes having you around.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Somewhat surprising.”

“Very surprising.”

“I just mean, considering what’s happened. It’s odd considering what happened. She knows the story, right?”

He nodded. “Told her everything. Not sure she cares much. People have problems in their marriages. She gets that.”

“And you?”

He shook his head and laughed. “Every man walks his own path.”

I laughed too and faced the bar, not knowing what he meant by it. Not knowing what he thought of me. Not knowing what I would’ve thought of myself if I were someone else. Not knowing, precisely, what I did think of myself.

I chuckled and thought about it, I scanned the line of taps on the bar, and then I met her.

She was standing to my right, and she turned to face me. Randomly, and without explanation, but with poise, she turned to face me.

“You gentlemen need anything?” she asked.