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Holden doesn’t drop his hand right away. Once he does, it feels like a loss.
My body is starved for attention. Forhisattention, specifically. I crave it like an addiction.
There’s another couple up here, the first people we’ve seen since leaving the campsite. They look to be in their mid-thirties; the woman giving us a small wave while the man offers one of the nostalgic, indulgent smiles adults often give anyone younger. Sort of agood luck you don’t know what life is really like yetgrin.
Holden stops about halfway down the rock, dropping his backpack and bending over to unzip it. “Water?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He passes me my canteen and I take a long pull, the bottle’s insulation keeping the water cool.
Holden’s pulling a beach towel out of his backpack, spreading it across the slanted surface and then taking a seat. I hesitate for a second, then sink down beside him.
“You hungry?” he asks, pulling a paper bag out and setting it between us.
I stare at the bag, both eyebrows raised.
“What?”
“I’m impressed,” I admit.
One corner of his mouth tilts upward before he drinks some water. “It’s just peanut butter and jelly.”
It’s notjustanything.
It’s him, electing to spend the day just the two of us. Waking up early to make us lunch. Asking about the animal shelter. Apologizing.
There are so many tiny moments that make up me and Holden.
Good and bad.
Ugly and beautiful.
No history is perfect. It’s a collection of memories that time twists and warps. The break this summer was supposed to emphasize that. To let me look at us from a distance and decide who we are now.
Instead, we feel more entangled than ever, eating sandwiches side-by-side at the top of a mountain.
We feel familiar and right, like the last two months were only a short chapter in a much longer story. We seem bigger than hurt feelings and harsh words.
We mostly eat in silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. It means something, I think, that there’s a lot unsaid between us right now and we’re still able to enjoy a peaceful quiet together. That we’re drawn to each other even when we’re pushing each other away.
Once we’re finished eating, Holden leads me in the opposite direction from which we came.
“The way back is shorter,” Holden tells me, sensing my silent question as the sun creeps directly overhead and then nearly disappears once we’re back in the woods.
It’s also downhill, which makes a big difference in our speed. The decline is challenging in its own way, sections of the trail shifting underfoot. But it’s much faster than the climb.
By the time the ground begins to even out flat again, I’m coated with sweat. Even though sunrays aren’t reaching us, the air temperature has risen. The muscles in my calves burn from remaining tense and ready to react to the changing topography. My neck is stiff from constantly looking around and down, keeping track of the surroundings.
And despite it all, I’m in a better mood than I can recall experiencing in a long time.
We’re rarely alone, just the two of us.
Whether it’s in Pembrooke or on campus at Richmond, there’s usually a rotating door of people around us. His friends. My family. Sydney. Roommates. Other students. Even if we go out to dinner together, chances are one or both of us will run into someone we know. Someone in my family is always home, and his aunt Catherine’s schedule is unpredictable.
Today feels special. Sacred.
Every possible distraction has been stripped away. We don’t even have cell service. Which is stressful, considering all the catastrophes that could take place. But also a reminder I trust Holden with my safety—with mylife—even if I’m disappointed when he doesn’t text me. That big feelings matter too, not just small moments.
