“How much longer?” she asks.
Her shoulders droop with exaggerated fatigue as she scuffs the toe of her hiking boot against a rock.
“Just a little further,” Lily answers, her voice light and patient despite having answered this exact question at least ten times already.
I glance at my watch—we’ve been walking for forty-five minutes. We’re not even halfway to our picnic destination. I bite back a grin, projecting my inner Yoda:Strong with the Drama, this one is.
“I still don’t get why we couldn’t eat at the campsite,” Penny continues, stopping to adjust her small backpack. “It had a picnic table and a view of the lake.”
“Because,” Lily says, waiting for her daughter to catch up, “the whole point of camping is to explore places you can’t see from a parking lot.”
Penny looks supremely unconvinced. “I’ve seen so much dirt already. And rocks.” She gestures at the winding path ahead. “More dirt. More rocks. Mystery solved.”
I shuffle next to them. “Hey, your mom promised one of the most incredible views in Southern California at the end of the trail, don’t you want to see it?”
Penny squints up at me, skepticism radiating off of her. “Is there a snack bar?”
“Better,” I promise. “I packed lunch.”
“Did you make chicken nuggets?” She crosses her arms.
Lily catches my eye over Penny’s head, her lips quirking in that half-smile that makes my heart do stupid flips. This thing we’re doing—this not-dating, just-friends arrangement that has evolved into weekend outings, regular dinners, and now a full-blown camping trip—keeps blurring at the edges, leaving me off-balance, no closer to figuring out where I stand.
“Better even than McDonald’s, I promise. Come on.” I nod toward the trail. “Let’s get over that ridge and around the bend, and we’ll take a water break.”
Penny sighs but trudges forward.
Lily falls into step beside me. “You’re great with her.”
I shrug, doing my best to hide how stupidly pleased I am by her compliment—total step-father material here, ready to serve. “Complaints are proportional to distance from food.”
Lily laughs, the sound blending with the rustle of wind through the pines. “True. But I appreciate you not getting annoyed. Daniel used to?—”
She stops, her mouth snapping shut, her dead husband a sudden, unexpected visitor on our trip. I wait, giving her space to either continue or change the subject. Over the past few weeks, Lily has mentioned him more often. Little snippets about his habits, his favorite foods, the way he would read to Penny. Like she can share the memories now without them shattering her.
“It’s okay to talk about him,” I tell her.
She swallows, eyes fixed to where Penny has stopped to examine a pinecone. “Daniel used to come up with these elaborate stories on hikes to distract her. Made up quests where each bend in the road might reveal a dragon or hidden treasure. But she was so little, he ended up carrying her on his back most times anyway.”
I nod, tucking away this piece of Lily’s past like a precious stone. It goes on top of my hoard made of the stories she drops like breadcrumbs, the expressions she thinks I miss, the flinches, the heat I catch in her eyes sometimes. I’m collecting her like treasure, but even dragons can drown in gold.
“I’ve got zero storytelling skills, but I have shoulders sturdy enough for piggyback rides if she gets exhausted.”
Gratitude and grief wrestle across Lily’s features before settling into a soft smile. “You’re lucky she didn’t hear you.”
We walk in comfortable silence for another fifteen minutes before Penny’s complaints grow louder. The trail has steepened, winding up toward a ridgeline that promises the panoramic view I’ve been hyping. But an eight-year-old cares more about immediate discomfort than future payoffs.
“I can’t,” she announces, collapsing onto a large rock at the side of the trail. “My legs are broken. You’ll have to go on without me.”
Lily checks her phone, then looks at me with a questioning eyebrow raised. I nod, understanding her silent query—we’re good on time and can take a break.
“Five minutes,” Lily tells Penny, who flops backward on the rock like she’s been granted a stay of execution.
I set down my backpack and pull out my steel water bottle, while they drink from theirs. The mid-morning sun beats down on us, warm but not yet the scorching heat it’ll become by afternoon. Perfect hiking weather. I take a long drag, watching as Lily dabs at the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand. Even flushed and disheveled, she’s breathtaking. I’ve spent over a month trying not to stare at her, and I’m no better at it now than I was on day one.
When Penny shows no sign of moving after five minutes, I crouch down in front of her rock. “Want a ride the rest of the way?”
Her eyes light up, fatigue miraculously vanishing. “For real?”
