Not this time.
Not from him.
Not from whatever this was becoming.
And maybe that was the first step toward something worth staying for.
We walked along the narrow path beside the lake, following the curve of the lake’s shoreline where winter’s grip had finally begun to loosen. Meltwater trickled between the rocks, little streams weaving their way into the larger pools. The sunlight brushed the surface of the water with faint peach and gold, diffused by thin clouds drifting in slowly from the west. It was beautiful in that quiet, understated Wisconsin way. It wasn’t dramatic, just steady and real.
Carson kept his hands in his pockets as we walked, but every few steps our arms brushed, a brief whisper of contact that made my pulse lift.
I tried to breathe evenly, tried to act normal. But normal had become slippery lately, especially around him. He seemed aware of it, too. His posture wasn’t tense, but he wasn’t fully relaxed either. It was the stance of someone who was trying to be careful, not because he didn’t want to reach for me, but because he really, genuinely did.
We reached a cluster of birch trees where their white trunks created a loose circle. He slowed, letting the quiet settle, then glanced at me with a softness that made the back of my knees feel alarmingly unreliable. For a moment, I thought he might stop, might turn, might say something that would push us past the edge of this fragile, almost-state.
Instead, he slid his gaze toward the lake.
“You know,” he said, “I was thinking earlier that this place feels different…not just the lodge, but the whole town. I’ve been in a lot of outdoor communities, and none of them felt like this. There’s something rooted here.”
He hesitated, searching for a word. When he couldn’t find one, he let the thought settle between us instead of forcing it.
I nudged a small pebble with the toe of my shoe. “Buttercup Lake is like that. It grabs onto people. Sometimes a little too hard.”
“And you?” he asked quietly. “Does it grab onto you too hard?”
I didn’t answer right away. The breeze caught a loose strand of hair and brushed it across my cheek. He reached up withoutthinking and stopped halfway, lowering his hand before he touched me. The restraint was so gentle it hurt.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. “Maybe that’s why I keep running off to other states to climb mountains. It’s easier to love a place when you don’t stay long enough to belong to it.”
He looked at me as though he already understood the part I hadn’t said aloud.
“And what about people?” he asked softly. “Do you stay long enough to belong to them?”
I felt the question all the way to my ribs.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I’m still here. And I just want to add that this is not normally how new-hire orientations go.”
And the small smile that tugged at his mouth wasn’t triumphant, merely grateful and quiet, like he knew that for me, staying was the first real step toward anything at all.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Carson
I hadn’t woken up planning to study the guide calendar like a man reading his own obituary, but that was exactly what I found myself doing at nine o’clock on a Thursday morning.
The lodge office was quiet. It was the kind of morning softness that felt temporary, like the place was only holding its breath until the next wave of guests stormed through the front door. A few sunbeams filtered through the windows, catching dust motes drifting lazily above the check-in desk.
I’d stopped in to grab a copy of the equipment checklist for the next guided trip, expecting to find the usual neatly printed assignments:Carson + Siennafor anything involving lake treks, ridge routes, or overnight hikes. That’s how it had been all spring so far, after all. We’d endured several weeks of overnight trips together. No accidental tent rendezvous, just two guides doing our best at staying focused.
Except this time, the printed sheet wasn’t what caught my attention.
It was the pencil scrawl on the whiteboard calendar.
Weekend Trip — Upper Falls Ridge
Lead Guide: Carson
Support:
