I am the woman who climbed the mountain. And I am exactly where I belong.
Chapter Twenty
NASH
The problemwith happiness is that it has no mass. You can't weigh it or strap it down to a sled. You can't calculate its drag coefficient. It's light, and it's volatile, and the moment you take your hands off it, it tends to float away.
Grief, on the other hand? Grief is heavy. It has density. It sits on your chest like a wet wool blanket, and it stays exactly where you left it.
I'm currently standing on the wooden harbor pier in Port Promise at 6:45 in the morning, watching Hank fuel up the Beaver on the harbor ice, and I'm not ready for any of this.
The sky is a bruised purple, the sun struggling to drag itself over the eastern peaks. The air is cold enough to freeze the moisture in your nose instantly. It's a perfect flying day—unlimited visibility, calm winds.
I hate it.
I wish for a blizzard. I wish for a whiteout. An engine failure would do nothing serious, just a fouled spark plug that would ground the plane for another twenty-four hours.
"You're glaring at the plane, Nash," Finn says, walking up behind me with a clipboard. "Stop it. You're going to spook the aerodynamics."
"I'm checking the fuel load," I lie.
"You're wishing for ice in the carburetor," Finn corrects. He stands next to me, his breath puffing out in white clouds. "She has to go, man. You know that. Reynolds is waiting to swing the axe."
"I know." I shove my hands into my pockets. "I'm not going to stop her."
"Good. Because if you do, Mags will kill you. She's very invested in Aris's career. Which, given that she's the one with the head for budgets around here and the half-ownership of this lodge, is not a thing you want to be on the wrong side of. I think she's already planning the tenure party."
I look up the ramp toward May's. The café door opens, and Aris steps out.
She's wearing her city coat, the wool trench that looks ridiculous against the snow. But she's carrying her boots in one hand and her laptop bag in the other. She looks tired. We didn't sleep much. We spent last night existing in a suspended reality, pretending the morning wasn't coming. We backed up data, ate Mags's cooking, stayed wrapped around each other until the alarm went off.
But morning came anyway. It always does.
She walks down the ramp, the snow crunching under her feet. When she reaches the dock, she stops in front of me. Her eyes are dark green and serious.
"Hank's ready," I say, nodding toward the plane. "He'll get you to Fairbanks in fifty minutes. You'll be on campus before nine."
"Okay," she says. She grips the laptop bag tighter. "Nash, I?—"
"Don't," I say softly. "If we start talking, you're going to miss the flight. And then Reynolds wins."
She bites her lip. "I left the base layers in the drawer. The thermal shirt. The socks."
"I know. I saw them."
"Keep them," she says. "I … I want to know they're here."
"They'll be here," I promise. I'll be here, I don't say.
Hank leans out of the cockpit window. "Clock's ticking, folks! I got mail to deliver up the coast after this. Let's get this show on the road."
Aris looks at the plane, then back at me. We have an audience: Finn and Mags up on the rise above the dock, and Hank already in the cockpit pretending he isn't watching. We can't do the movie goodbye. We can't do the tears.
So I do the only thing I can.
I step forward, grab her by the waist, and pull her in. I kiss her hard, a quick, desperate seal on everything we haven't said out loud. I taste coffee and mint and hesitation.
I pull back before I lose the resolve to let her go.
