“Yes.”
“Good.”
She frowns. “Good?”
“Nerves keep you careful.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m not here to comfort you.”
The second I say it, I know it’s not true. Not fully. Because I want to comfort her. I want to put my hands on her hips and tell her she doesn’t have to prove anything to me, the lake, gravity, or whoever made her feel like the only choices in life were safe or sorry. Instead, I adjust the strap of the first-aid kit across my shoulder and nod toward the trail.
“I’m here to teach you where to step.”
She looks toward the water, then back at me. There it is again -- that fear teetering against the want. The combination is a dangerous thing on a woman like her.
“You can still change your mind,” I say.
Her chin lifts another inch. “I know.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She swallows. For a second, I think she’ll give me some easy answer. Vacation. Bucket list. Curiosity.
Instead, she says, “Because I’m tired of promising myself I’ll do things later.”
I know a woman’s confession when I hear one, even if she doesn’t mean to offer it. I keep my eyes on Layla.
Later -- that word has killed more dreams than fear ever did.
I nod once. “Then we go slow.”
Layla lets out a breath. “Okay.”
“And you listen.”
“I’m a teacher, Hudson. I’m very good at listening.”
“Teachers are usually better at talking.”
Her eyes narrow. “You really do enjoy being irritating, don’t you?”
“Only when it works.”
She makes a sound that might be annoyance and might be a laugh. Either way, it loosens something in her shoulders. That’s good. A scared body is a stiff body. Stiff bodies make bad jumps.
I start down the trail, and after a second, she follows. The path curves along the lake, still damp with morning. Birds move in the brush. Sunlight flashes between pine trunks and throws pieces of gold across Layla’s hair every time I glance back. I should not keep glancing back. But I do, noticing where she steps, the way her hands clutch the straps of her backpack, the sway of her hips. It’s enough to make a man forget all kinds of practical things, so I force myself to focus on the trail.
“Loose rock near the bend,” I call out to her. “And watch the exposed root just before the rise.”
Behind me, Layla clears her throat. “So, is this your job?”
“One of them. I help keep the cabins running in summer. Docks, trails, kayaks, firewood, safety checks. Guide work when people request it. Repair work when something breaks.”
