Backpack Jack

Chapter 2

“Jack…Jack Faraway,” the visitor says, introducing himself. He pushes his right, muscled arm and hand forward for a quick, sturdy shake. He works out. Has to. Pushups for sure. Pullups. Some boxing. Maybe some weightlifting. Beyond any doubt he cares for his body.

I provide the shake and (without any tact again) lick my lips. “Nix…Nix Cutter,” I tell him my name. “Good to meet you.”

We break the hand contact, and our worlds continue to crash together like you see in romantic movies produced by GLADD.

* * * *

“That’s a great name,” he tells me. “Nix. I like it.”

“It’s not so great. My father, Ford Cutter, thought it would be cool to name me after Nixon. He has a thing with president’s names. It’s why I go by Nix. Who wants to be named after one of the biggest criminals in political history?”

“I get what you’re saying. But it’s still cool.” He checks me out from toes to head and maybe likes what he sees in pretty boy looks. For the most part: my beefy allure, the fresh and man-scaped blonde hair that covers my chest, my tapered waist, six-one frame, and bulging biceps. I’m not a dreamboat, but most guys think so, or have told me in the past, above all, because of my high cheekbones and the cleft in my chin; a total turn-on for the men I’ve attracted throughout my youthful years. Ugly or unattractive has never been whispered in my ears. Never. Lucky me.

“It’s a ridiculous name.”

He spares me his comment about my odd name. Instead, he says, “Let me guess. You have a brother named Adams or Clinton, right?”

I shake my head, smile. “No. I have a sister. Her first name is Reagan. She’s a few years older than me. Thirty-six. And yes, she’s a hardcore Republican.”

He raises an eyebrow, interested in chatting with me. “How old are you, Nix?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Same age as me. When’s your birthday?”

“Just passed. June thirtieth.”

He chuckles, keeping the handsome grin on his face. “I’m a June baby too. My b-day was on the sixteenth.”

I make a quick mental note how easy it is to talk-up-the-s**t (Dean’s saying, not mine) with Jack. It feels like we’ve been friends for the last dozen years. Maybe longer. Not just friends that see each other twice a month. I’m talking best friends who are in each other’s lives on a day-to-day basis.

Because I’m comfortable with him, I inquire, “Where are you from, Jack? And how long have you been hiking Hollandale?”

“Pittsburgh. And I’ve been trekking Hollandale for the last two weeks. Taking my good old time. I’ve stopped at a few places. Met some great people, and sucked up America the way it is intended. Hiking does this, if you haven’t tried it. You meet amazing people and see unbelievable things. It’s why I hike.”

My job takes me to Pittsburgh sometimes, to discuss blueprints with my clients, and I know the city. It’s why I ask him, “Where do you live in Pittsburgh?”

“South Side. Next to the Monongalia River. It’s not far from The Point and Three Rivers.”

“The Allegheny. The Ohio. The Mon…What street?”

“Thirty-sixth. Next to the…”

“Goodwill,” I prattle. “Been there. There’s a small café next door where I’ve met with my clients. It’s called the…”

“The Faraway.” He chuckles. “I own the place.”

I shake my head, surprised. “You do not. No way.”

He raises his right hand up, flexes the muscles in his chest, proving that he’s fit. “I swear to God. It’s my place. I have four cafes with the same name around the city. I’ve owned the cafes for the last ten years.”

“You own the Faraway?” I still can’t believe it and continue to shake my head. “Small world we live in. Small lives we all have.”

“I do. With my sister, Anne. She operates sites. I’m more of the money man behind the scenes. I work the numbers. She works the employees. I make sure the bills are paid and balance the money.”

“Which explains why you’ve been hiking for the last two weeks?”

In an informal way he snaps at me. “Spot on. You nailed it. I mostly work on my phone, which means I can be anywhere. I have batteries in my pack to keep it charged. Plus, I have a small iPad for backup.”

Got it. Interesting. He’s a smart, attractive, muscled entrepreneur. I’m into him and ask, “How many hikes do you take a year?”

“Two or three. They’re never this long. But Anne doesn’t mind. She works well inside the cafes. I work best outside them. We have great chemistry not mixing together.”

“Just like your name.”

“Exactly. Faraway Jack.

“Or Backpack Jack,” I call him.

He laughs.

I laugh.

Our eyes stay connected for a minute, hold tight, and now I ask him inside for a quick lunch, which he gladly—smiling from ear to ear—accepts.

* * * *

“I have to get a shower first before we have lunch. Hope you’re okay with this,” I tell him, entering the A-Frame.

He studies the open rooms after following me inside and drops his Yeti pack by the front door. “Nice place. Small and cozy and sweet looking. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom in the rear. Is there a bedroom upstairs?” He takes everything in. All the nooks and crannies. Everything about me.

“Yeah. And a powder room with a sink and toilet. Designed it myself. It’s what I do.”