He opens the screen door and holds it while I step through. The trail we take curves behind the lodge toward the water, and Jeremy stays close enough that his arm brushes mine, like he reallywould take on a wild animal—or anything—to protect me. The lake isn’t huge, but it fits this camp. There’s no one else out here for the moment, and it feels like we’re back in that magical island bubble.
Our footsteps are almost silent on the path of dirt and pine needles. A family of ducks skids across the lake’s surface, and somewhere in the trees a woodpecker hammers at the bark.
We don’t talk at first, but it’s a comfortable sort of quiet. Jeremy tips his head back to look at the canopy of pine branches above us, and I love this version of him. He can act like he’s put off by the age and condition of the facilities all he wants. But I see the boy who never got to be a kid—or even go to summer camp. That boy grew into a man who built walls along with his empire because he didn’t know how else to keep himself safe.
The fierceness of how much I want him to experience joy should scare me. I’m giving him access to the part of me I swore I’d never hand over again. I want to believe he’s different. I’m different. That together we’re something more.
Yeah, I’m scared to death right now.
“Thank you for coming with me,” he says.
I nudge his arm with my elbow. “Someone has to keep you from talking shit about the camp facilities at the kickoff meeting.”
“I’m not that much of an idiot.” He nudges me back. “But good reminder.”
We reach the dock and walk to the end, where two faded Adirondack chairs sit overlooking the water. I drop into one and he takes the other, and we watch the late afternoon sun turn the water golden. When he reaches over and laces our fingers together, neither of us says a word.
I tell myself this feeling of being exactly where I’m supposed to be with exactly the right person is silly. Remind myself that women who rush from one relationship to the next are the ones I swore I’d never become. That this can’t be anything more than a temporary arrangement. In the meantime, I hold his hand tighter.
24
JEREMY
A retired musicteacher plays “Take Me Home, Country Roads” on a beat-up Martin guitar, and even though I’d be the last one to admit it, I can’t be the only person in the crowd who has chills. The man introduced himself as Glenn from Nebraska over dinner and told me his wife died five years ago from lung cancer. I nodded and said I was sorry. He replied that NorthStar got him through the worst of it and she’d be happy that he was here in the mountains playing her favorite songs for strangers.
The caregiver camp is crawling with amazing people like Glenn, and they make me so fucking nervous.
For the first half hour of the welcome reception, I deployed my wealth like a shield, pretending that all those zeroes set me apart from everyone else in attendance. I know they don’t. And it quickly became clear that the people at this retreat could give a rip about my net worth.
A college-age girl—majoring in biomedical engineering, she told me proudly—whose mom is battling stage 3 ovarian cancer, said my fresh-off-the-store-shelf flannel is giving her “lumberjack dad energy.” I still can’t decide if that’s a compliment.
A retired firefighter who’s been caring for his adultson with esophageal cancer shook my hand and said he’s glad I’m here like he meant it. In a way that I’ve never quite believed when it’s directed at me. I knew what I was signing up for, but meeting survivors who now volunteer through NorthStar’s community platform and hearing caregivers talk about the particular exhaustion of loving someone through illness makes my goal of partnering with the Johnsons seem even more important.
My own cancer journey is something I try not to think about, let alone discuss openly. And I went into Sloane’s diagnosis believing I could throw money at it until a successful outcome was guaranteed. I flew her across the country on my jet for treatment at Vanderbilt like it was nothing. Funded every experimental protocol her oncologist suggested. Writing checks became my love language.
But I never spent time in the hospital waiting rooms talking to other families. Hell, I didn’t even bother to learn the nurses’ names or ask how they were holding up. I sure as shit never let anyone see that I was terrified my sister was going to die. I wrote checks and peaced out before anyone could see me as human.
What a fucking coward.
The realization isn’t new, but surrounded by fifty people who’ve done the unglamorous work of showing up with their hearts and a willingness to sit in discomfort, the truth crystallizes. I want to be part of NorthStar because these people built the kind of community I was too proud and too afraid to seek when I needed it most.
Glenn transitions into “Rocky Mountain High,” and about twenty-five voices around the campfire join in. A few are really good, and most are decently on key. Avah is neither.
She sits next to me on one of the log benches they’ve arranged in a wide circle, wearing the fleece and jeans she changed into before dinner because the temperature near Rabbit Ears Pass drops about twenty degrees once the sun disappears behind the craggy peaks. Her shoulder presses against my arm as she sings along with a commitment that has zero relationship to pitch. As if she can feelthe weight of my gaze, she tips her head and smiles up at me with a warmth that makes my chest feel too small for what I’m trying to hold inside it.
“You’re having a good time?” I keep my voice low enough that it stays between us.
“I’m not the one freaked out by low thread count sheets and small talk.”
“Mostly small talk,” I admit.
Her grin widens and she tucks herself against my side like she belongs there. I drape an arm around her shoulder, and the relief that moves through me when she doesn’t resist is overwhelming. At this point, I’ve stopped pretending I have any control over what this woman does to my nervous system.
“It’s powerful to hear the different stories,” she says after a minute, her eyes glowing from the flames in front of us. “These people have been through things I can’t even imagine, and they’re sitting around a campfire singing John Denver like it’s the best night of their lives.” She pauses as the fire pops, sending a spiral of sparks into the dark. “I haven’t been through a thing in comparison, and my pity party over the past few weeks is absolute bullshit.”
“You’ve been through plenty.” I tighten my grip. “Life isn’t a competition.”
She laughs. “Says the guy who wins at everything.”
