I finish securing the tent, then move on to building a fire for later. By the time I’ve gathered enough wood and arranged it into the pit, the sun is lowering over the horizon, casting long shadows across our campsite. Lily joins me, kneeling beside the fire pit to help arrange the kindling.
“Thanks for doing this. For planning everything. Penny’s having the time of her life.”
“What about you?” I tilt my head to look at her. “Are you having a good time?”
“Yes. I am.” She hesitates, then adds, “I forgot how much I love being out in nature. I haven’t been going since Daniel…” She trails off. “It isn’t as fun alone.”
She gives a small shrug. Mentions of Daniel no longer create an automatic awkward pause. It’s becoming normal for her to share these glimpses of the life she had before—before the fire, before the grief, before me.
“Well, you’re not alone now,” I tell her, meaning it in every way.
Her expression shifts—a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of lips—and for a breathless instant, I think she might say something more. But then Penny calls, announcing that Ethan and his family are leaving, and the moment breaks.
We say goodbye to our temporary neighbors, then turn our attention to dinner. The sun hangs low now, painting the sky in streaks of purple and pink. I get the fire going while Lily helps Penny unpack the sticks for roasting hot dogs and marshmallows.
The meal is simple: hot dogs cooked over the open flame, a bag of chips passed between us, cold sodas from the cooler. Penny regales us with tales of the fish she and Ethan spotted in the lake, each story more elaborate than the last, until she’s invented an entire underwater civilization.
As night falls, the temperature drops, and we huddle closer to the fire. The stars emerge, more brilliant here than they ever are in the city. Penny, bundled in a sweatshirt, stares up at them with wonder.
“Can we make s’mores now?” she asks, her eyes reflecting the firelight.
“Of course.” Lily grabs the marshmallows. “It’s not camping without s’mores.”
I demonstrate how to toast a marshmallow to golden perfection, but Penny ignores my technique and sets hers in the flames until it’s a charred, flaming mess. Lily laughs as Penny blows out her fiery creation, then helps her sandwich it between graham crackers and chocolate.
“Perfect,” Penny declares, chocolate and marshmallow smeared all over her chin.
I take a bite myself, eyeing Lily across the fire. She’s even more beautiful bathed in the firelight, her hair loose over her shoulders, her face relaxed, happy. I want to freeze this moment, to live in it forever—the three of us around a campfire, laughing and sticky with s’mores, the night spreading above us.
This is what I want. Not just Lily, though heaven knows I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. But this family, this life. Penny, with her wild stories and dramatic complaints. Lily, with her understated strength and reluctant smiles. Us together, building something from the ashes of what she lost.
But as Penny yawns and Lily calls bedtime, the two separate tents we built become a stark reminder this isn’t my family. Not really. I’m the friend, the neighbor, the guy who knows how to build a fire and set up a tent. The man who promised to keep his distance, to respect Lily’s boundaries, to be whatever she needs without asking for more.
Even if, with every passing day, keeping that promise chips away at my soul.
23
LILY
I sit by the fire, belly too full, cheeks sunburned, enjoying the unfamiliar quiet of the woods. The crackling flames cast dancing shadows across our campsite, highlighting the two tents standing like sentinels against the darkness—mine and Penny’s on the left, Josh’s on the right. The physical distance between them mirrors the invisible fences I’ve put up, but that are getting flimsier the longer we’re out here. I fidget with a long stick, poking at a glowing log that sends a flurry of sparks spiraling upward to join the bright stars.
“Mom, I’m not tired,” Penny insists for the third time, despite the yawn that contradicts her statement. She’s wrapped in her purple hoodie, hair wild, eyes heavy-lidded with the exhaustion only fresh air and adventure bring.
“Your body disagrees,” I point out, standing up as she yawns again. “Come on.”
Penny sighs exaggeratedly—everything with her is dramatic these days—but stands, resigned to her fate. “Fine.”
Instead of following me, Penny turns toward Josh. “Will you stay by my tent until I fall asleep? It’s dark, and there might be bears.”
Josh’s eyes find mine across the fire, questioning, careful, always so attentive to our boundaries. That invisible line I drew weeks ago that we don’t mention anymore but constantly dance around. He waits for my nod, for my permission, before answering her.
“There are no bears,” I assure Penny with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder.
“But if there were,” Josh adds, “they’d be more scared of you than you are of them.”
Penny looks unconvinced. “Please?”
I nod at Josh, grateful for his constant awareness of my comfort level, for never overstepping. “I’ll get her settled,” I tell him. “Just give us a few minutes.”
