“I’m so happy for you.” I say it over and over, caught in disbelief, delirium, raw excitement.
Thomas holds me by the shoulders, shaking me with a sheepish but worried smile, desperately trying to get me to compose myself before Jude comes back from her mid-backcountry hike bathroom break.
“Get it together, Vince, she’s suspicious enough. Fuck, dude.”
It takes raw discipline to will the tears back into their ducts, a moment of pure focus and willpower to block out the flood of joyous reminiscing that emerged after learning about his plan to propose. But it isn’t good enough, because he tells me I’m smiling too hard, that she’ll want to know if there was a joke or if she missed something, that I’m too bad of a liar. He asks too much of me. The best I can do is a mild grin.
He tells me the plan is to do it next month, when they take another trip up north to a cottage he’s booked. By then, he hopes the leaves will have begun their change, that they’ll be in the deep embrace of a cozy fall. I nod slowly, turning my gaze out towards the gap in the trees where the warm smell of lake water trickles past the pines looming over and around us. The smell of needles and clear air. We take a breath and I find myself marvelling now at the time that has passed, the time that is currently passing.
I carry this thought with me when Jude returns, by which time I have calmed myself, nodding stoically to her. We begin the hike, lapping around the lake and veering into the deep wood, past a clearing of tamaracks, and stopping at a small, mostly dried up creek bed to take our shoes off and make the crossing. The sun is hot. A hefty pool of sweat forms where the straps of my pack squeeze against my back and shoulders. We pause for sips of water, passing around a bag of jerky. I watch him and Jude sitting together on a rock, catching their breath. She’s pointing at a snail sitting on the base of his shoe.
The sky takes on a vibrant orange by the time we arrive at the campsite, marked with an old sign. Thomas and I set up the tent while Jude works on the fire. We dine on rehydrated chili and toss on some wetter logs to smoke out the bugs. The exhaustion of the day feels good.
We sit by the fire, poking at the logs, listening to the crackle of embers and the lone call of a loon somewhere in the dark. We make smores using sticks we find, plowing through both packs and getting melted marshmallows all over our fingers that we happily lick off. We decide to take the rainfly off for the night and fall asleep to the sight of the tree canopy above and the stars resting beyond them.
In the morning, before either of them wake, I step out to pee, finding a good spot between some trees that allows for a view of the lake. A clear sky, morning dew fading into the air, water lapping softly against the bank. I opt for a swim, my feet sinking into the mud, water lilies and sedge tickling my legs as I brush by. I lay back, floating in the water with my head slightly submerged. The sounds of this morning dialed down to a muffle.
Later in the afternoon we’ll go for a hike, and that night we’ll finish the rest of the hot dogs and drink warm beers that we’ve decided take priority over a breakfast for tomorrow. We’ll hike back on empty bellies and barely make it to the car—dizzy and near collapse. Some overpriced jerky and dusty bags of candy from the camp lodge will fuel the drive back, where they’ll drop me off and we’ll hug goodbye.
A month later they are engaged, and I see how happy they are in the photos. He’ll tell me he got a good deal through hiring a photography friend of Elizabeth’s. A year later at the wedding I give a speech, some version of the story of when he had told me, the two of us standing guard over a thick bunch of pine trees as his now wife searched for a suitable spot to take a dump. It’ll get a laugh.
I’ll try in my ego fueled by the role of best man to turn the speech into some reflection of time and its undeniable, ultimately obvious truth. A truth we are constantly coming into awareness about, especially during occurrences of life events monumental enough that in an attempt to make some sense of the madness that is change, you find yourself—after a lengthy interrogation of every decision, every choice, every encounter you’ve ever had—arriving finally at that same obvious conclusion. A truth so visceral as to grab you by the shoulders, snap you awake and remind you how good it feels to float in a lake in the company of friends. How good it feels to be doing anything at all.
I snap my head out of the water at the sound of my name. It’s Jude asking if I want one or two ramen packets. I hold two fingers up. The water dripping down from my head. Thomas walks up behind her, a sleepy look on his face. He waves to me and I wave back.
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