“You’re covered in goosebumps.”
I reach for the headlamp and angle it toward the jumble of clothes at the foot of our sleeping pads. “Let me help you for once.”
I find her shirt and sports bra and hand them over. She pulls the shirt on without the bra, which is practical given that we’re operating in approximately four square feet of usable space. Then I locate her leggings and help her work them over her feet because her hands are shaking.
“I need to—” She gestures towardthe tent flap.
“Yeah. Go. I’ll get dressed.”
She unzips the tent, and a wall of cold, rain-washed air hits us as she scrambles out. I hear her footsteps recede into the dark and use the time to pull on my own clothes. I straighten the wreckage of our sleeping bags so that by the time she unzips the tent flap and ducks back inside, smelling like rain and cold, both bags are more or less where they’re supposed to be.
“It’s not letting up,” she says, rubbing her hands together. Her nose is pink.
“It’s a good thing one of us is prepared,” I say, earning a laugh as she slides into her sleeping bag and zips it up to her chin. I get into mine, and we’re back to where we started—side by side with the nylon barrier between us.
I hate it, even though it’s necessary. Reaching over, I hook my arm around her sleeping bag, pulling her closer until her back is up against me.
“This okay?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Her breathing slows, and the tension drains out of her body as she warms up again. I hold her tight, my face pressed against the back of her head through the sleeping bag. The rain provides a continuous soundtrack as I think about spending the better part of a year wondering if I’d imagined what it was like to be close to her.
It’s better than I remembered, which shouldn’t be possible, but here we are.
She falls asleep before I do. Her breathing deepens and her body goes soft. I keep holding on through the stupid sleeping bags and remind myself to be grateful for small wins.
Tomorrow, Sloane’s going to meet the woman whose words set her on this journey, and I have no idea what happens after that. Will she still want me around once the trail ends and real life starts back up? Or will what happened between us tonight stay in the same suspended reality as the rest of this hike?
15
SLOANE
I stepout of a clearing mid-afternoon the following day, and the small cabin where Kristen Quinn is staying to write her new book is right there in the meadow. Looking every inch a mirage that might dissolve if I blink too hard.
“You did it,” Jensen says, nudging my shoulder with his.
You could knock me down with a feather right now, because, yeah, I did it. I hiked through wilderness I had no business being in, slept on the ground for three nights, and I made it. But staring at the weathered wooden door, the triumph I expected feels a lot closer to nausea.
“What if she’s pissed?” My voice is barely audible. “She could be staring at us through the window right now, loading up a shotgun.”
“From what you’ve told me about this author hero of yours, she doesn’t seem like a shotgun type,” Jensen says, missing the point entirely.
I’ve been imagining this moment for so long, but now that it’s here…
“What do I say to her? ‘Hi, I low-key online fangirled you for ayear then hiked three days through bear territory, but I swear I’m not a stalker’?”
“She’s going to love you,” he says, like it’s simple.
Hearing Jensen speak the word love out loud, even though I’m well aware he isn’t talking about the two of us, doesn’t feel simple after last night. We didn’t plan last night, and trail sex in a tiny tent was a logistical challenge of monumental proportions. But it was also fun and felt so freaking good. And it made me realize I hadn’t actually amplified the memory of being with him. It was that mind-blowing.
This morning, I felt the need to fumble through an explanation about how it didn’t change anything for the future. We were beyond a two-night stand, but only in the realm of a trail fling between two consenting adults who’d go back to their regular lives at the end of it.
He’d cut me off before I could finish butchering the speech.
“I get it, Sloane. You don’t need to put me in my place. I know it.”
He’d said the words without bitterness. But instead of feeling relieved, which would have made sense, I wished I’d said something else.
