Outside, Fire Mountain had put on Sunday like it wanted credit for the lighting. Sun cut through the pines in clean angles. The air smelled of warm dust, sap, dry grass, and the faint cold ribbon of creek water. Flint’s truck sat in the clearing, battered, practical, and exactly the sort of vehicle that could survive my family’s fairground parking lot without developing a personality disorder.
We drove down the ridge road with the windows cracked. Gravel popped under the tires. My knee brushed the canvas bag when the truck bounced over ruts. Flint kept one hand on the wheel and one near the gearshift, his forearm scar pale in the morning light.
I wanted to touch it.
I wanted to ask whether last night had scared him. I wanted to ask whether after today meant anything to him or whether his cabin was going to become a story I told myself when I needed to remember I’d once let someone see me without the glitter and still felt beautiful.
Instead, I said, “If Caprice asks where I was, I’m saying I got an early safety tutorial.”
Flint’s mouth twitched. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It had a practical component.”
“It had several.”
My face went hot. “You’re not allowed to get funny now. It changes the competitive balance.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I might not. A dry, amused Flint is a serious late-game threat.”
He glanced at me, and there was warmth in his eyes before he put his attention back on the road. “You calling me a threat, Sunny?”
“I’m calling you a complication.”
He was quiet long enough for the truck to bump over two ruts.
The truck rolled out of the pines and into the edge of Cinder Ridge Meadow. The production camper gleamed cream and cherry-red under the high morning sun. The cook stations sat quiet in the correct clearing, tables covered, fire rings cold, water buckets lined up, sand placed beside each station. Joelle stood by the camper with a clipboard, a headset looped around her neck, and the expression of a woman who had already lived three workdays before nine.
She looked at Flint’s truck.
She looked at me.
She looked at Flint.
Then she lifted her pen. “I’m not asking.”
“Great,” I said. “I’m not answering.”
“Excellent works for me. Caprice wants final-prep footage at ten, your phone has eleven messages, Ed is complaining about cable shadows, and I put your Sunday clothes on the bed because I assumed whatever happened, you’d come back with poor timing.”
Flint came around the truck with the canvas bag. “Good morning, Joelle.”
“Good morning, Flint.” Her eyes flicked to the bag. “Please tell me that doesn’t contain more ruined shoes.”
“It contains exactly that,” he said.
Joelle sighed. “Then the morning is already on brand.”
I took the bag from Flint. Our fingers touched again. Joelle looked at her clipboard like it held state secrets.
“I’ll change,” I said.
Flint nodded. “I’ll check the rings.”
“I’ll check my station first.”
Both of them looked at me.
