We worked through the list: stoves, water filtration, dry bags, trekking poles, and snow gaiters, just in case March decided to behave like February.
The entire time, the air between us felt charged.
She tossed another sleeping bag into the pack for the trip bin.
“So, you’ve guided a lot of trips?”
“Yes.”
“What made you get into it?”
That stopped me cold.
She didn’t notice at first. She was rummaging through a bin of fire starters, humming under her breath.
But I completely froze.
Because that question, simple, innocent, and normal, wasn’t one I let people ask. The past wasn’t something I wanted poking at me.
But the answer was simple: to escape.
She turned when I didn’t respond. “Carson?”
I forced my face back into neutrality. “It was just… work. A way to stay outdoors.”
“Oh.” Her expression flickered when she heard how flat my voice had gone. “Right. Sorry. Too personal.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t, and she could tell.
She took a slow step back, as if realizing she had accidentally touched something sharp.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “We’ll stick to equipment talk.”
The warmth between us cooled.
Not gone.
Never gone.
It was just pushed behind the walls we both instinctively raised at the same time.
We were two people shutting down for completely opposite reasons.
She fiddled with the edge of the clipboard. “You know, talking about the gear is safer anyway. Gear never makes things awkward.”
“Sometimes it does,” I countered.
Her eyes widened. “How?”
“You can make anything awkward.”
She stared at me for a long second.
Then, thank God, she laughed.
Soft at first, then bigger, rolling through the shed like a burst of sunlight.
