He mutters something about regretting every life decision, but I grin as I crawl in beside him and turn off the light.
The spectacle is going to beamazing.
Chapter 22
Harris
I know my rib cage is sore, but I’ve fared worse.
Nothing is going to stop me from going out with a bang or giving her one last perfect date before the festival and before I leave.
It’s a day of grand gestures.
And this date?
Is going to be the coolest.
I pull into her driveway, eager to give Lucy one perfect date if it kills me.
And so far, it almost has; getting dressed was painful, and bending to tie my boots was worse—but we’re powering through in the name of a good time.
Also: Fuck my teammates, who have given me endless shit about all the time I’ve been spending with Lucy when I should have been bonding with them. In fact, they’re probably at dinner right now, talking more shit—all the shit!—schmoozing with coaches and talking strategy. But what’s more important than prioritizing the people we care about most, new as the relationship may be?
So no.
I don’t care about dinner.
Not even a little. I will catch up with them tomorrow.
Scout’s honor.
The guys can roast me all they want. They can call me whipped, soft, distracted—all three things are true. Say what they want, they’re not the ones leaving someone behind they already can’t stop thinking about. I am.
Now? Now I’m making damn sure Lucy knows exactly how impossible it will be to leave her, and I want to show her what she means to me. I have a plan for one last ridiculous adventure lined up, meant to impress. Earlier, I texted her three simple instructions:
Wear boots.
Pack snacks.
Bring your sense of adventure.
What I didn’t text:We’re going Bigfoot hunting!
Goddamn right, we are! Fun surprise, am I right?
I cannot wait to see the look on her face.
Dex was regaling us with the Bigfoot lore the night we arrived—something about sightings in the woods, enormous footprints on the Ice Age trail—and the tale of a man who claims Bigfoot stole his fishing pole and left behind a turd in a granola bar wrapper.
I was like,Dex, bro, that’s not Bigfoot. That’s your cousin Greg.
As usual, he was not amused.
Equipped with a tackle box full of what I’m callingexpedition supplies(read: trail mix, two flashlights, a hand-drawn trail map, and some beef jerky), I ease to a stop and throw the truck into park.
Sit back for a second, surveying the same trellis I tried—and failed—to climb, giving it a respectful nod. “We meet again, old friend.”
As if on cue, the side door opens. She steps out onto the porch, looking suspicious and amused all at once, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a sage green sweatshirt that readsNamaste in Bed.
