“Ow, you’re just trying to rip me off.” I bark out a laugh. “She’s definitely hacked our phones and is listening to everything we say.”
Lily laughs—a sound I’m becoming addicted to. It’s unguarded, musical, and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that puts me on the hook with no chance of ever reeling in anything.
“HELLO, AGATHA!” she shouts into the canyon, causing a nearby bird to take flight. Her voice echoes off the rock face, bouncing back to us in diminishing waves.
“Way to blow our cover,” I tease. “Now she knows we’re on to her.”
“Please.” Lily rolls her eyes. “I guarantee Agatha’s already texted half the complex. By lunch, people will gossip we’re engaged with a kid on the way and have adopted a golden retriever. No one will believe we’re just friends.”
The casual comment hits me like a sucker punch. I try not to flinch, but something must show on my face because Lily’s smile falters.
“Sorry,” she blurts. “That came out wrong.”
“No problem.” I force a grin that hopefully doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “How about Agatha Junior if it’s a girl?”
That earns me another laugh, and the awkward moment passes. We continue climbing, the path narrowing as it winds higher up the hillside. We’re walking close now, our shoulders and arms brushing from time to time. Each contact sends a jolt through my system. I’m hyperaware of every movement she makes—how her ponytail bobs, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the contractions of her quadriceps.
“What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever carried up a mountain?” I ask, desperate for distraction.
She doesn’t even have to think. “A portable blender.”
“Were you throwing a rager in the hills?”
“No.” She shakes her head, that smile playing at her lips again. “I lost a bet. My punishment was making mountain-top guacamole.”
I picture a young Lily lugging a kitchen appliance up a trail, sweating and cursing. “That’s dedication. What was the bet?”
“I said I could drink more shots than my roommate without getting sick.” She grimaces at the memory. “I was wrong. Very, very wrong.”
“You know you don’t need a blender for guacamole, right?”
“Tell that to four twenty-year-olds with a group chat named ‘Bet Regret.’ And it gets worse.” Her eyes shine at the distant memory, to a time when she probably only had joy in her life. “I also had to carry the ingredients—avocados, tomatoes, onions, limes. And I wasn’t allowed to use a backpack or even a bag. Everything had to be in my arms.”
“No way.”
“Way.” She nods.
The mental image is so absurd I can’t help but laugh. “Please tell me someone took pictures.”
“Sadly, yes. My roommate documented the whole humiliating experience.”
“I would pay good money to see those.”
She elbows me lightly. “Not happening, Lieutenant.”
We reach a small plateau with a fallen tree that makes a perfect bench. By unspoken agreement, we pause to rest. Lily offers me her water bottle, and I take it, hyper-conscious that my lips are touching the same spot hers just did. It’s a middle-school level of crush awareness that would be so embarrassing if anyone could read my thoughts.
“Your turn,” she says, taking the bottle back. “Most ridiculous hiking cargo?”
“A giant ceramic pineapple lamp, shade and all. Had to carry it three miles up a ravine because the woman I was rescuing swore it was her ‘lucky charm.’ I spent the whole hike terrified I’d break it and get cursed.”
She eyes me like she’s weighing my sanity. “Did you?”
I shake my head, feeling the phantom weight of that stupid lamp. “No, but pineapples still weird me out.”
Lily squints, skeptical. “The whole fruit, or also if you see them on pizza?”
I lean back, palms pressed to the rough wood, legs kicked out and ankles crossed. “Both. But pineapple on pizza was already a war crime before the lamp incident.”
