For a while, we walk without talking, and it is not awkward. That surprises me. Silence with Harold was always filled with the soft clicking of his keyboard, the rustle of tax documents, the muted television, the hum of appliances in a house where we had both run out of things to say.
Silence with Hudson feels different. It feels like being allowed to listen. Birds. Leaves. His boots on the trail. My own breath. The distant hush of water somewhere ahead.
Eventually, I say, “What is Willow Falls?”
“Small waterfall up the ridge. Feeds into a creek that runs down toward the lake. There’s a pool beneath it, but it’s shallow this time of year.”
“Safe?”
He glances at me. “I wouldn’t take you if it wasn’t.”
I believe him. That may be the most alarming part of all.
“Do you bring guests there often?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
My pulse jumps. “No?”
“It’s not part of the cabin activities.”
“Then why are you taking me?”
He steps over a fallen branch, then turns and holds out his hand. I take it. This time, I do not pause first. His fingers close around mine as he helps me over the branch.
“Because I thought you’d like it,” he says.
My foot lands on the other side of the branch. His hand stays around mine for one extra second. Or maybe mine stays in his. It is hard to assign blame when neither of us moves. Then he lets go because he is decent, or because he is trying very hard to be.
The trail narrows after that, forcing me behind him. I watch the flex of his shoulders beneath his shirt and silently ask every sensible part of myself why it has abandoned me in my hour of need.
No answer. Typical.
The sound of water grows louder. Not lake water. Moving water. Rushing. Falling. Hitting stone. The trees open suddenly, and Willow Falls appears.
It is not enormous, not some grand tourist waterfall with railings, warning signs and a gift shop selling magnets. It is smaller, tucked into the mountain like a secret. Water spills over dark rock in silver ribbons, dropping into a clear pool surrounded by moss, ferns, and flat stones that look made for sitting. Sunlight filters through the trees overhead, catching the mist.
For a moment, I forget to speak. Hudson stands beside me, watching my face instead of the waterfall. I can feel him doing it.
“You were right,” I say softly.
“About?”
“I like it.”
His expression shifts. That quiet thing again. The one that looks almost like pleasure before he hides it.
He nods toward the pool. “Water’s cold. Rocks are slick near the edge. Don’t step where it’s green.”
“Anything else?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Only for a second. But I feel it.
“Probably.”
The air changes again. I wish I understood how he does that. How a man can say one ordinary word and make it feel like a hand sliding along my spine. I turn away first, because one of us has to remember we are not here to finish what almost happened beside the kayak rack.
