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“And then what happened?” she says dramatically. “I ran into you on the street as an overcaffeinated buzzard flying high on the rush of Christmas cheer and really, what else was I gonna do? I had to think of something fun.” She pauses. “And on a school salary. So, free.”

I think back to her very, very enthusiastic singing with the children as they walked down the sidewalk. Three cups of coffee in two hours. That explains a lot. “Mrs. Reinhart really hates you, doesn’t she?”

“Loathes,” she says, as though she’s never considered letting it bother her. She puts one heavy boot on a tree in the path, pauses, thinks better of it, and sort of slithers her body over the snowy tree. Like a slug.

I adjust my old high school backpack so it’s no longer grinding into a shoulder blade. For my part, I don’t hate this. The air feels like it’s purifying my lungs from the last lingering memories of experiences I wish to release. The sky is a million sparkles against a dark canvas, a feast for the eyes I haven’t taken time to enjoy in, honestly, years. It’s incredible. And I’m with people I care about (mostly Peter, Genie . . . and, well, him). Without distraction. Without disruption.

The group consists of thirteen people I’ve known in varying degrees all my life, including a couple of newbies married into the family who were either desperate to get out of their packed-for-the-holidays houses or are also camping enthusiasts, Peter, and, of course, James.

I say of course, but a part of me really thinks unbelievably.

James and I had exchanged phone numbers (finally?) when I dropped him off, and I fully anticipated that I’d get a text saying he couldn’t make it after all. Honestly, he had plenty of excuses available: He was tired from spending the day out. His family wanted more time with him. He forgot he’d committed to XYZ activity and now couldn’t refuse. I wouldn’t have blamed him. In fact, I convinced myself he was definitely going to bail with one of these excuses when he surprised me.

He came.

Sure enough, as I rolled into the gravel parking lot, there he was, leaning beside what I presumed was his family member’s borrowed car. In jeans. And that deep forest-green coat.

And—my favorite of all—one of our matching hats.

I wore mine too.

We talked until the rest of the group got there about things we’d missed in each other’s absence (mostly packing, but there was an interesting tidbit about his sister’s rogue dog), and as soon as Genie and Peter rolled up, Peter steamrolled the conversation with enthusiasm onto Strava and the pair of them ended up leading the hike up front. I think it was planned. Peter gets intel and reports back to Genie behind the big stick three trees down from the pee tree at midnight. That kind of thing.

As far as Genie and that comment about this whole idea being schemed up just to see how “into” me James is . . . and then her conclusion that the answer must be “a lot” considering he said yes . . . Well, I heard her.

I just felt the comment so much I decided to pocket it and play it over later.

But as we trudge the two or so miles to Maple Falls, I can’t help but think: Wouldn’t it be nice if it were true?

We hear our campsite before we see it, the roaring waterfall tumbling into the river where I spent many an hour skipping rocks, making picnics, and even holding a fishing rod (although the fish always eluded me). There are two good camping spots on either side of the falls, and our group has chosen the bigger, flatter space off to the right. An old campfire ring sits so freshly used that the ash is still smoking. But the space is clean. And within a short time, tents are popped up and, in the bravest cases, a few hammocks are strung between trees.

Spirits are high.

Everybody is eager to get a fire going. I’m dubious we’ll be able to in this cold and wet climate, but sure enough, not even twenty minutes later, I smell hot cocoa going over an old pot right in the thick of it.

While people mill around, I sit at the foot of my tent with my feet in their layers of wool tucked under me, a sleeping bag around my shoulders, and a book I picked up from the nightstand in hand. I don’t know much about it; I’m only beginning chapter 3 so far. But it’s cheery enough for my mood, with minimal protagonist troubles, and perfect for a little light reading on a camping trip.

“You know, for an inaugural tradition your friend made up six hours ago, I’d say this pulled together spectacularly well,” James says, interrupting me. “Well, except for that one guy.”

“Sure. Hope he’s okay.” I smile and allow my book to droop as James settles beside me.

The trees around us glow in the flames of the fire. There’s something about the mixture of fire and ice around us that makes the evening feel magical.

His eyes shift downward, peering to the pages I’m holding. “Heavy reading?”

“Opposite actually.” I flip it shut to show him the cover. It’s the typical kind of Christmas cover for stories like these. Snow falling on a glowing Main Street. Glitter everywhere.

“Any good?”

“I was promised happy feelings and I’m getting happy feelings. What about you? You reading anything right now?”

His grin is cute and mischievous, as though he were expecting this exact question. He reaches behind his back and pulls out a worn-looking finance text.

I laugh.

“Why do you think I came over to the reading tent?”

“Because you don’t know anyone else here.”