He nodded.
“Didn’t really think it through. Kind of impulsive. Stupid, really.”
“What made you come out?” He was pouring a vodka/soda.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Early mid-life crisis or something.”
He laughed. “That’s funny. Early mid-life. I figured you couldn’t be that old.”
I nodded and took a drink.
I sat at that bar for a long time, long after Kyle had moved on and was conversing with other patrons. I stared at the bar, stared at my drink, stared at the liquor bottles hastily arranged against the wall. Occasionally I glanced at the TV, displaying the late innings of some baseball game. I thought about the brewery from last week, and more than once considered going back there. I could walk; finish my drink and pay my tab, point myself in the general direction, then ramble along until I reached the front door. I could get a cab and be there in a few minutes. And when I arrived, I’d enter and order another beer, and maybe she would be there again, and maybe she would turn to me and tell me she could get me whatever I wanted again. Maybe she would be there, and maybe she would look at me the same way she looked at me then. Maybe. But probably not. Probably, she was back in the mountains, wherever that was. Probably they all were.
“Kyle,” I said, raising a finger.
He walked over.
“You know of a brewery around here? One with a good sized tap room?”
He laughed. “Way more than one brewery around here, bud. This’s the Napa of beer.”
“Yeah. Just trying to remember what it was called. I was there last week. It was out east a little.”
“There’s a few out east,” he said, and went back to the other patrons.
10
On Friday morning I called her. I pulled the napkin from where I’d left it, loosely crumpled in the bottom of my duffel bag, and stared at the number for five minutes.
Suzanne
I dialed it into my phone, then waited another two minutes before hitting the call button. When I did, my stomach rose.
It rang twice, then once again. There was a pause and I heard a click.
“Hello?” came the voice, annunciated and clear.
“Hi,” I said, “Suzanne?”
She paused. “Yes?”
“Hi. Um.”
“Who is calling?” she asked.
“It’s Julian,” I said. “From last week. How are you?”
Another pause, then a giggle. “Julian,” she said, like revealing the answer to some riddle. “Hello Julian. I thought you might not call.”
I stuttered. “Well…I did.”
“How have you been?”
“Not bad. A little bored. And you?”
“You don’t mean to tell me you find your new home boring, do you?”
“A little.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yeah. Well hey, I just wanted to say hello. Maybe see if you were still in town, if you wanted to get a drink sometime or something.”
“Well I’m afraid I’m not in your neck of the woods anymore. We weren’t in Boulder but one night, my darling.”
Her darling.
“Of course,” I said. “Figured it was worth a shot.”
“It would be lovely to see you again, Julian. You know I feel this way. You knew before you called.”
I paused again. My relationship with this person was fleeting and trivial, yet I could not recall someone who had put me at a loss of words so often in such a short time.
“No I didn’t,” I finally said, firmly without grace.
She giggled.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“Nothing, Julian. Nothing is funny. What are your plans for this evening?”
“I have none,” I said. Her diction was contagious. Without realizing, I began mimicking her style of speaking, if slightly.
“Marvelous. Then you will join us in the mountains.”
“The mountains?”
“Why yes, the mountains. We’re having a bit of a soiree up here, and it would be fantastic if you would join us.”
“A soiree?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I’m invited,” I said.
“I’m inviting you now. And I will not entertain any more ambiguity. You are coming to the mountains this evening, and you are joining our soiree, and that’s final.”
And it was. She gave me the address, told me to show up around nine, then hung up the phone.
At 7:15 I showered and dressed for a soiree. My best jeans, square-toed shoes, a black button-up, and a small dash of cologne. I grabbed my keys and considered bringing my duffel bag before deciding against it. I’d be back.
On my way out, Anthony asked where I was going.
“A soiree,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just a party.”
His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together. He knew.
“I see,” he said.
“See you later,” I said, and walked through the front door.
I hopped in that Mercedes-Benz, dustier now than usual but still looking good, and turned south on Broadway. The sun had dipped behind the Flatirons, casting a shadow across most of Boulder. The GPS estimated the drive at just over two hours.
I followed the road south, through Boulder and out of town, where the land opened up and I could see farther. To my right were rolling hills, still covered in summer green, an occasional inlet road leading west. To my left were plains. It was as if it was a different world—the wide-stretching flats of Denver and beyond to the east, and the sudden jut of the Rockies to the west—divided by this two-lane highway. I passed Eldorado Springs and saw cattle grazing, spread widely in the valley before the hills and seemingly unfenced.
In Golden, the topography changed. At once the green turned to red, and the rolling hilltops flattened into mesas. The first time through, it had reminded me of New Mexico—desert with crude rock and short shrubs. I drove past town—bigger and more sprawling than I’d expected—and turned on I-70.
I was pointed west, finally, and west is what would do it. West would get me there. The road rose immediately, slanting up to meet those hills, and to deliver me to them. It was a freeway now, a real interstate, three lanes on each side, and other cars scattered the road—some fast, some slow, all with their headlights on. We drove west, up, through the last bits of Golden and past its flat mesas, until the hills were green again.
Up, through the foothills. Up, past grassy meadows. The road curved from time to time, quickly putting the plains and Denver and the real world out of sight. We went up, and the car’s engine worked to maintain speed. Up, up, up.
Then down. The road turned down, quickly, and I crested the hill. And on my way down, through the glow of twilight, I was greeted with an unencumbered view of the Rocky Mountain Range. Jagged peaks just in front of me, many miles ahead but right there just the same. They did not roll or sway, they just stood, rocky and proud and unforgiving, specks of snow still visible near the tops in the dead of summer. The magazine had not lied.
The road went down sharply and leveled out. I passed a small mining town, and once again began climbing. I climbed another hour, the road carving through mountain valleys and over passes, the land blanketed in rocks and evergreens, and I was finally in the mountains. I was not at the beginning, or around the edge, or nearly there. I was there. The mountains had taken me in, enveloping me in a welcoming embrace, as night had now fallen, and still I drove west.
Through one final pass, and one long tunnel, the road then turned down, and I passed through the town of Silverthorne. Just a few miles past it, I exited I-70, and made a sharp left on a side-road. Twenty more minutes and I reached Otter Ridge.
It was a charming little mountain town, with a quaint yet alive downtown strip flanked by budget hotels and free-standing homes. In another situation, I would’ve stopped, parked my car and strolled main street for an hour or two, maybe sit down for a coffee somewhere. Take in the vibe on a clear summer evening. But I had somewhere to be.