I nearly choke on my tea. "The article is about community resilience and reinvention. How Angel's Peak transformed itself from a struggling tourist town into a sustainable destination."
"Mmm." Ruth's expression suggests she doesn't believe this is the whole story. "Well, you've come to the right place. The PickAxe has weathered every storm this town has seen—financial crashes, population exodus, that disastrous attempt to rebrand as an 'extreme sports destination' in the early 2000s."
For the next half hour, Ruth regales me with stories of Angel's Peak's evolution. She's a gifted storyteller, painting vivid pictures of boom-and-bust cycles, community controversies, and colorful characters who shaped the town's development.
But somehow, every anecdote circles back to Noah.
"Of course, when the mill closed, that was a hard blow. Nearly lost half the town's jobs overnight. Noah organized a job fair, brought in employers from three counties... The flood of '19 took out the old bridge. Noah was first on scene,directed the whole evacuation... That observation deck they're building at Lookout Point? Noah's proposal. Fought the county commissioners for two years to get approval..."
I jot notes dutifully, trying to filter the useful historical information from the Noah Morgan appreciation narrative.
"You know," Ruth says, refilling my tea without being asked, "that boy was ready to follow you to Chicago back then."
"Excuse me?" The statement lands like a boulder in still water.
"Had applications in to the Chicago Fire Department. Was all set to transfer his credits to a college there." She polishes a glass with methodical precision. "Then you left without looking back, and suddenly his future was right here in Angel's Peak."
"That's not—" I stop, recalibrating. "Noah never told me about any applications."
"Course not. Wanted it to be a surprise." Ruth's gaze is sharp enough to cut glass. "Pride's a terrible thing, isn't it? Makes us do all sorts of foolish things. Like pretending we don't care when our hearts are breaking."
The door opens before I can respond, admitting a group of hikers in search of a late lunch. Ruth moves to serve them, leaving me with her words repeating in my mind like an accusation.
Did Noah really plan to follow me? Why didn't he ever say anything?
I'm still processing this revelation when the door opens again, and the object of my thoughts walks in. Noah pauses when he sees me, surprise flashing across his features before he composes himself and approaches.
"Riley." He settles onto the barstool beside me, nodding to Ruth, who materializes with a beer he apparently doesn't need to order. "I thought we were meeting at eight."
"I'm interviewing Ruth for my article." I gesture to my notebook as if it might shield me from the effect his proximity has on my pulse rate. "The historical perspective."
"Ah." He sips his beer, watching me over the rim with those blue eyes that see too much. "Getting the full story, I hope?"
There's something in his tone that raises my hackles. "That's generally the goal of journalism, yes."
"Is it? I thought the goal was whatever narrative sells the most magazines."
Ruth wisely retreats to the other end of the bar, leaving us in precarious privacy.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I keep my voice low, aware of the attention we're already attracting.
Noah turns to face me fully, one arm resting on the bar. “I’m curious if your article will include how this town pulled itself up after people like you left it for dead.”
The unfairness of this stings. "I didn't leave Angel's Peak for dead. I left to pursue my career."
"Right." His beer hits the bar with a dull thunk. "The career that mattered more than anything—or anyone—else."
And there it is. The real conversation hiding beneath the polite one. This was never about the town.
"You know why I left." Guilt claws at my chest, sharp and familiar.
"I know what you said at Lookout Point." His voice drops low. "I know we were young, and we got in over our heads. That I pushed too hard, too fast, because I was obsessed with what we had. Because the rush of having you was so complete that everything else blurred. I know that now."
The pain in his voice slices through me.
"But that knowledge doesn't erase what it felt like. Waking up after graduation, expecting to see you at our spot—and realizing you were gone."
"I couldn't breathe anymore." My words come fast, too sharp. "You wanted more than I knew how to give. You were already calling all the shots in and out of bed, pushing things further every day. I was eighteen and still figuring out who I was, and you were already so sure of what you wanted from me."
