Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (android based ebook reader TXT) 📗

“Maybe you two should give each other a chance.”

“I don’t know…”

“Life’s short, kiddo. You’ve got to forgive and move on.”

I stare out at the steel gray water and sigh. “Yeah, maybe so.”

I feel bad for agreeing, but not bad enough to tell the truth—that there’s pretty much no way in hell that’s ever going to happen. There’s just no coming back from where Becka and I have been.

As we make our way along the trail through the pines, I’m still mulling over what Sue said, but if anyone should forgive and move on, it’s my mom and my aunt. They’re the ones who put us in this situation, after all. I’m still lost in my thoughts when Johan comes to an abrupt stop and brings a finger to his lips. He points off to our left.

“Grizzly,” he whispers.

I squint, trying to find the bear while grabbing for my phone. Everyone sidesteps toward Johan, as if they expect him to protect them.

Beside me, Phillip gasps. “There it is.” He points through the trees, and finally I see the dark, furry form about a hundred feet away. My heart pumps faster, but it’s more from excitement than fear. I zoom in to get a picture, but the bear keeps moving, making it hard to get a good shot.

“It’s coming this way,” Chris whispers.

Thanks, Captain Obvious.

The bear lumbers closer, growing larger by the second. My adrenaline spikes, but probably not for the normal reason. “This is so awesome,” I whisper.

“Uh, should we be leaving now?” Becka asks, her voice quiet but a little higher-pitched than usual.

Johan shakes his head. “It’s fine. They usually don’t attack a group, and we have our bear spray.”

“Usually?” Becka repeats, her voice rising another octave.

The bear raises up on its hind legs and stares straight at us. My jaw drops open and I force it back closed. “That thing is a freakin’ giant!” I say under my breath, snapping another picture before it drops back down to all fours.

Becka inches closer to Johan. What a wuss.

“Everyone, get your bear spray ready,” Johan instructs. “Just to be safe.”

I’m not really worried, but I take out the canister clipped to my belt loop. Sue clicks another photo, but everyone else looks like they’re about to crap their pants. About forty feet away now, the bear pauses and raises its massive head, sniffing the air. I get another picture.

“We really should go,” Becka says, turning to eye the trail behind us.

“I agree,” Angie says.

Johan holds up a hand. “Not yet.”

The bear pauses for the longest time, still looking our way. It seems to be making some sort of decision.

And then, just like that, it turns and moves back in the other direction. The group heaves a collective sigh of relief, while I’m left with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Just like trekking into the Grand Canyon on Dixie, seeing that bear up close was a rush, and I’m disappointed it’s over.

“Do they usually do that?” Angie asks. “Get that close to people?”

“Not often,” Johan says, “but we see them quite frequently. As long as you don’t do anything to provoke them, you’re usually fine.”

The bear-induced spike of adrenaline stays with me as we start back down the trail. I pull out my phone, scrolling through the photos I just took. The one where the bear is standing on its hind legs is the best, so I text it to Carter. I may not exactly be a badass wilderness woman, but at least I saw a bear, and I wasn’t the least bit scared. That should count for something.

After lunch and another short break, I’ve gotten my second wind. I’m ready to finish today’s hike, especially after Johan informs us we might see another grizzly on our way to Elephant Back Mountain. Becka frowns, obviously not overly keen on that idea, but I’ll be on the lookout—that’s for sure.

However, other than Ben getting stung by some type of wasp, things are uneventful. I’m kneeling to re-tie my bootlace when Sue pauses beside me. She’s like a mother hen, especially when it comes to me for some reason. “Still doing okay?” she asks.

I stand and dust off my knee. “Yep. Much better now. Thanks.” After our conversation at the lake, I’m sort of wishing I wasn’t alone with her again. I tap a hand against the side of my leg and glance around the forest, grasping for some comment to make. It’s been pretty much the same scenery since we started. Trees, trees, and more trees.

“I have a granddaughter around your age,” Sue says.

“Oh yeah?” I kick at a rock in the path, sending it skittering down the trail. She hasn’t said a word about her family this whole time. I figured she didn’t have any kids.

“Yep, and a grandson. He’s twelve. They’re my absolute pride and joy.”

“Brother and sister?”

“Yes. I only had one child myself. A son.”

“I see.”

“My daughter-in-law died a few years ago. Breast cancer.”

I don’t like how the word cancer makes my stomach squirm now that I know someone who’s died from it. “I’m sorry,” I say, and for a moment I consider telling her about Grandpa, but that would just open the door to more stories I don’t want to tell. “So your son’s raising the kids by himself?”

“He is, and I’m really proud of him. I know it hasn’t been easy.” She pulls out her water bottle and takes a long drink.

I do the same. Johan stresses the importance of staying hydrated at least a half-dozen times a day.

“My husband and I divorced when Toby was a teenager,” Sue continues. “After that, I worried he would never want to get married… or wouldn’t stay married if he did, but he loved Marissa. He was heartbroken when he lost her. Still is.”

I stare at the scuffed toes of my hiking boots. I don’t really like hearing sad stories like this. I never know what to