She cracks up, head thrown back, hair catching the sunlight. “So pineapples are your sworn enemy?”
I kick at the dusty trail. “We have an understanding and keep our distance.”
Lily snorts, shaking her head, making me laugh in turn. The only sound in the valley is our laughter echoing off the rocks and drifting out over the canyon.
As we resume the hike and the slope evens out, we fall into an easy rhythm of conversation. We trade opinions on the best donut flavors (she’s mistaken—maple bacon beats chocolate old-fashioned any day), argue about whether you can trust anyone who doesn’t like French fries (you cannot), and confess our most embarrassing autocorrect fails—me when I texted my squad mate I was going for a nun instead of going for a run, and her when she messaged another mom “you’re so sweat” instead of “sweet.” I get caught up in our easy exchanges and forget the rules she set. Forget we’re supposed to be just friends. It feels natural, this back-and-forth, like we’ve known each other much longer than just a few days.
When we come to a fork in the trail, I pause, studying the markers. The right path leads higher up the mountain, while the left curves around toward a viewpoint. I pull out my phone to check the map I downloaded.
“Which way?” I ask, zooming in on our location.
Lily watches me with an amused expression. “Relax. Both paths meet up again.”
I hesitate, checking the markers again.
“Are you prepping for a search and rescue? Just pick one.”
“Occupational hazard,” I reply, tapping the map. “When you’ve had to find lost hikers in the woods, you develop a healthy respect for knowing where you are.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and the atmosphere shifts. Her smile dims a fraction, and I mentally kick myself. Way to go, Collins. Remind her of the job that took her husband and is the main reason nothing can happen between us.
“Left it is,” I fire off to recover. “The view looks promising.”
She nods and starts walking, but something has changed. The easy chitchatting fades, replaced by a subtle tension. The dull twisting in my chest surprises me—I’m not even sure if it is for me, for her, or her past.
We walk in silence for a few minutes, our footsteps muffled on the dirt trail, the rhythmic sound broken only by the occasional call of a bird overhead. I rack my brain for something to say that won’t come across as too flirtatious or too impersonal.
Thankfully, the path opens up to a scenic overlook that steals the need for words. The view is spectacular—rolling hills stretching toward the ocean, the city sprawling below us, tiny and distant. The morning haze has burned off completely, leaving everything sharp and vivid under the California sun.
“Wow,” I breathe, awestruck.
Lily stands beside me, her face tilted up to catch the breeze. “Worth the climb?”
“Definitely.”
She gestures toward my pocket. “First hike in LA. You have to take a picture. Give me your phone.”
Instead of pulling out my phone, I drop my backpack and unzip the main compartment. “I’ve got something better.”
Her eyes widen as I pull out a Polaroid camera. “You brought that on a hike?”
I shrug. “It’s a hobby.”
“What else do you have in there?” She peeks into my backpack. “A portable espresso machine? Emergency fondue kit?”
“Just the essentials,” I say, adjusting the settings on the camera. “Water, first aid kit, snacks, and this.” I hold up the camera. “Phone photos die inside the screen, never to be looked at again.”
“You’re such an overpacker,” she teases, but her voice is warm again.
I deadpan, “If The Stains don’t work out, I can join The Overpackers. We’d be huge in Portland.”
She snorts. “You’re scarily great at making up dreadful band names.”
I shrug. “Someone has to save the world from hipster bands with perfect hygge names.”
I hand her the camera, explaining how to frame the shot and press the shutter.
She nods gravely as she takes the Polaroid from me. “Thank you for the mansplanation.” She flashes me a merciless grin. “Did you say I have to push the giant button on top, the big red one here?” She taps it.
