We were in his mountain chateau, surrounded by dozens of people this time, most of whom I didn’t recognize. Secluded in the hills, through cigarette smoke and the haze of four beers, I told him about my bartending job, because he asked.

“It’s work,” I said. “I appreciate you making the connection.”

He waved his hand. “Don’t mention it. Wes is a friend. They paying you alright?”

I shrugged. “Not terrible. I’m coming from Wall Street, though. Nothing seems like enough.”

“Ah,” he said, “the curse of the big city.”

“Exactly. That’s why I left; it was all about money. It controlled my life. Need to remember it’s not important.”

“That’s the right attitude,” he said.

“I realize I never asked,” I said, “what is it you do?”

He took a drink. “Freight. I have a little freight business. We move material locally, from town to town. Small loads mostly. Boring stuff. Pays the bills.”

“It must,” I said, and motioned around the house.

He smiled. “Business has been good. I’m able to live comfortably and pay my drivers well.”

My mind then made the connection. I mentally flashed back to McNeil’s, our conversation about jobs, and Vince mentioning something “more lucrative.”

“What qualifications do your drivers need?”

“Two working hands and a steady right foot. A brain in their heads. And a drivers license, I suppose.” He laughed.

“Class A license?”

“No. Just a normal license will do. Like I said, small loads.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“You aren’t looking for new employment already, are you?”

“No. Of course not. I just…it’s an interesting thought. I’m not a professional driver, though.”

“Neither were most of the guys I hired. Listen, if you ever wanted in to the business, we could probably make that work. It’s a good gig, and I like you. Suzanne sure is happy since you showed up.”

I laughed. “We’re just having fun.”

He laughed, too. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. Anyway, we pay five hundred a load.”

With that, he walked away and left me standing there alone. Five hundred, dollars I assumed, per load. Currently, it was taking me almost a week to bring in that much in tips. The thought of earning it in one shift seemed ludicrous, especially for something as simple as driving. I did quick math in my head. Say it was a normal five-day workweek (which was a massive assumption, but no matter); that was twenty-five hundred per week. Ten thousand a month. Well over a hundred thousand per year. Suddenly, I was back in the neighborhood of Wall Street earnings, simply by driving a vehicle from one place to another.

I was massively simplifying things, and I knew this. But the pull of the money, no matter the variables, outweighed most else. This was how the thing started.

17

“I saw you and Vince talking,” she told me on the way home. She drove, and I sat low in the passenger seat. It was past 1 a.m.

“Yes. Talking about work.”

“He likes to check up from time to time.”

“He was just being polite,” I said.

She nodded without taking her eyes off the road.

“Do you know anything about his business?” I asked. “The freight business?”

“A little,” she said. “A few of my friends have driven for him. Or currently do.” Her eyes remained fixed on the road.

“What’s the story?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, is it a good gig? Seems like it pays well.”

She thought about it. “It’s good work, from what I know. I’d advise you to accept the job if it’s offered.”

I nodded. “See, I’m not sure if that’s what’s happening or not. But I might look into it more. I’m not sure how many days a week I can spend working in a bar.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“So, you never completely told me what you do for work,” I said. “Something in a restaurant.”

“I wait tables,” she said. “I shared this with you.”

“I know. But you don’t ever seem to be working.”

She inhaled and scowled in my direction.

“No offense or anything,” I said. “I don’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to figure it out. Does anyone work up here?”

She looked back at the road. “Of course. It’s true, I only work part time. I’ve been blessed with savings and minimal expenses, so I don’t have to work as much as some. It leaves me time for other projects.”

“Painting?” I asked. Half of her bedroom was filled with stretched canvas. Some finished paintings, some half-done or abandoned, others waiting to be touched. It was her expression, she said. Abstract stuff, mostly, but not awful.

She nodded. “Among other things. There’s always another realm to be explored. I’d rather explore than work.”

So would I, I thought. I mentally formed a sentence about the luxury of replacing work with painting and singing, but didn’t say it out loud.

We reached my apartment and entered the front door. The move-in was still incomplete—the walls were bare and things were stuffed in certain corners—but it was coming together. I lay down on my bed and looked at the ceiling. Suzanne kicked her shoes off and positioned herself beside me, also on her back looking above.

“What is it you seek, Julian?” she asked. I still hadn’t gotten used to the way she spoke.

I inhaled. “That’s a tough question, Suzanne.”

“And why here? Why this state, this place, above all others? You realized you must leave the life you had. But you could have gone anywhere.”

“Yeah. It could’ve been anywhere.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“And why?”

I thought for a moment. The apartment was silent.

“When I was a kid, my parents got these magazines, and in one of them there was an ad for Colorado. From the tourism department or something. It was basically just a picture of the mountains, but it stuck with me. The Rockies, all covered in snow. Can’t really put my finger on why. But I had to see it.”

“The mountains,” she said, as if understanding perfectly. “The mountains called to you.”

“I guess.”

“Their spirit. The mountains have a spirit that is unlike the plains or the ocean. Their spirit is different. And it called to you.”

“I guess it did.”

She turned to her side, propped up on one elbow, and faced me.

“I’ve wondered, too, what brought you here,” she said. She touched my chest with one finger. “Not to Colorado, specifically. But to Boulder, and to the brewery that night, and to the mountains thereafter. What brought you to me.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what did you decide?”

“Oh,” she said, “there’s no decision. I can’t understand, fully. We can’t understand these things any better than we can understand the call of the mountains. The pull they have. But we know it’s present. And I know there was a reason for you—that things worked out how they did. I know it has meaning.”

“You just don’t know what the meaning is.”

“Correct.”

“Well,” I said, “that makes two of us.”

“You have a good heart, Julian.”

“Right,” I said. “Real good. Just up and left everyone I know to go run across the country. Left my wife, high and dry.”

“She wasn’t good for you.”

“You didn’t know her.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she said. “Of course I didn’t. I only know her through what you’ve told me. But the relationship was destructive, Julian. I’m sure of it. You practically told me as much.”

“As much my fault as hers.”

“But why does that matter? What is the importance of placing blame?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It always seemed important.”

“Julian, if the relationship was fallacious—if it wasn’t beneficial to both parties—it doesn’t matter which party is at fault. All that matters is recognizing fault exists. And you did that. Rightfully. There’s no need to tear yourself down for it.”