He watches me, his forehead furrowing. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. But I’m not, because my whole world just exploded.
My heart is a dangerous, treacherous thing. Feelings I thought I’d dismissed long ago are now pushing at the seams of me, threatening to split apart my entire being.
“Should we go for that hike?” George asks.
I look at my best friend, my pulse racing. “Okay.”
His eyes narrow. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just not quite myself right now.”
“Maybe a walk will help?”
“Maybe,” I murmur.
But I know there’s no helping me. Because I think I have feelings for George, and only peril can lie ahead.
Chapter Thirty-two
Rain pelts the car so loudly I have to raise my voice.
“Should we go back?” I ask. We’re wearing the yellow waterproof jackets from the resort, but it’s raining so heavily I can barely make out the mouth of the trail through the windshield.
“Let’s just give it a minute,” George suggests.
I haven’t been able to meet his eyes since we were on the hammock. I’m terrified that as soon as I do, he’s going to see I’m panicking. My mind is a tornado.
How is this happening?Whyis this happening? Maybe the mountains and the mist and the rose petals are messing with my head. George and I have been friends for most of our lives—wouldn’t I have felt something before now?
But I have, haven’t I?
He says something, but I’m distracted and miss it.
“Sorry. What was that?”
“The rain has let up a bit. Do you want to chance it?”
I glance his way, and it’s gobsmacking how good he looks in a yellow anorak.No onelooks good in a yellow anorak. He’s far too close to me. I don’t care how wet it is, I need to get out of this car.
“You bet!” I say. “Let’s go for a hike!”
George looks at me like I may have lost it, and yes, I absolutely have.
I pull my hood over my head, but the rain isn’t so bad. It’s little more than a drizzle now. The plant life is so thick that after a few paces, we’re engulfed by some of the oldest and largest trees in Canada—giants that have survived for hundreds of years. Moss creeps along the wooden railing, and lichen climbs the tree trunks, embroidering the forest in green. George points out the various types of trees—western red cedars, grand firs, and hemlocks. He tells me about how nurse logs support the rainforest ecosystem, but otherwise, we walk in silence. With each turn, we’re presented with an even more staggering sight, another kaleidoscope of emerald, olive, and lime. It doesn’t take long before the beauty drowns out my frantic thoughts.
The rain falls more steadily, but the canopy is so thick, the full extent of the downpour doesn’t reach us. We walk until we reach a fork, where we can take a set of steep stairs into a valley or continue on flat ground. We go down, stopping at the bottom to look up.
The trees are so tall we can’t see their tops. Water drips onto my face. I open my mouth and shut my eyes, tipping my head back and extending my arms, stretching like one of the mighty firs.
I stay that way for a solid minute, and when I open my eyes,I’m awed all over again. The young trees struggling up to the light. The ferns and mosses and bunchberries. The lichen that hangs from the branches like discarded scraps of lace—nature’s unworn wedding gowns.
But I’m also struck by the sight of George. He’s taken off his glasses and has his eyes closed, his face tilted to the sky. He catches a droplet of rain on his tongue, and all I can think about is how much I want to taste him and how badly I want to dig my fingers into his hair. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out with a guttural sigh. Ineedto swallow that sound.
“I’m having one of those moments,” he says. Beads of water cling to the ends of his curls. One loses its grip and rolls down his nose.
“What kind of moment?” My blood is rushing so loudly, my voice sounds muffled.
