“And you definitely weren’t talking in your sleep about butter.”
My stomach dropped. “I hate you.”
He just smirked. Teasing, easy. Familiar.
And something about it made my pulse stumble.
Not friendship. Not exactly.
I turned toward the window, but instead of the view I’d grown accustomed to over these last two days, I was greeted with an enormous, looming wall of golden-red rock, just a few feet beyond the edge of the road. There was hardly any green at all that I could see, aside from the occasional scraggly bush or tree that turned into little more than a blur as we sped along the winding road.
“We’re officially driving through one of the most scenic stretches of interstate highway in the country—Glenwood Canyon.” Tay would keep us all informed. “It was completed in 1992 after twelve years of construction, and even by today’s standards, we can all appreciate this incredible feat of engineering.”
A few people murmured their agreement, phones already out and recording or else snapping pictures. Personally, I wondered what the big deal was, but then I saw that most of the passengers were doing their best to pile onto the other side of the bus. I tried to peer around Noah unobtrusively, but I still couldn’t see much.
“The highway itself is built into the canyon,” Tay continued. “The eastbound and westbound lanes are stacked on top of each other in certain places, instead of side by side, to fit the terrain and reduce the impact on the river.”
Seriously, I couldn’t see anything.
“Plus,” Tay added, “they used helicopters to put some of the bridges and retaining walls in place. That’s how inaccessible some of this canyon is.”
“If you stand up, you can see the river,” Noah said quietly beside me, his hand pulling gently on my arm. “It should be full—spring runoff. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
I braced myself against the seatback as I stood, the movement making me wobble just enough that my other hand had to grab onto something as well, and that something wound up being Noah’s shoulder.
It was a very nice shoulder. Noah had some solid muscle on him, that was for sure. I squeezed a little, reflexively, to stabilize myself as the bus went over a small bump. No other reason.
Anyway, he didn’t seem to mind.
Which…why should he? We were friends. Friends touched each other sometimes. Nothing wrong with one friend helping another.
Still, I couldn’t entirely ignore the soft fizz of warmth bubbling under my skin, even as I shifted my focus to the view outside.
And wow.
The river wasn’t just full, it was raging, a silver-white surge that crashed and churned through ancient, worn stones like it had someplace urgent to be. It looked…alive. Beautiful. Equal parts inviting and dangerous.
“Is that a raft?” A tiny speck of red bobbed wildly in the rapids. As we came up behind it, however, I realized it was actually too small to be a proper raft. It was a kayak, with just a single person perched inside, paddling frantically through foamy waves and around massive boulders and fallen logs.
Noah, who, even sitting, wasn’t much shorter than I was while standing, nodded. “Hey, look at him go,” he said, lifting his chin in appreciation.
I blinked. “Does he have a death wish?”
His lips quirked into a half-smile. “Looks fun, doesn’t it?”
I stared at him. Fun? One wrong move, and the guy was toast.
But I didn’t say that.
Because the truth was, five years ago, I might have, maybe, kind of, agreed with him. Okay, not about the kayaking—I’d never been that fearless—but I would have once loved the idea of rafting down a river. Not the terrifying, flip-your-boat-and-break-your-neck kind of river, but the tamer stuff.
I mean, I learned how to surf when I was nine. Before Ashley, even. It was just for fun, I was never good enough to compete or anything like that, but I remembered enjoying the thrill of it back then, the speed, riding at the mercy of something so much more powerful than me, secure in the knowledge that I was capable enough to stay on my own two feet. Even when I wiped out, I knew how to recover. I always got back up.
When had I stopped wanting that?
The realization landed, cold and bracing: I hadn’t been on a board in years. Not since…before Leo.
Leo didn’t surf. Leo didn’t even like the ocean. And somehow, somewhere along the way, I’d just stopped chasing waves.
