Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
VICTORIA
T hree days later, I’ve made it clear to everyone on this mountain that sports are not my superpower.
Today’s afternoon game is ultimate Frisbee, which as a concept sounds easy enough and potentially fun—if you’re a kid who likes to run around at warp speed and not a twenty-nine-year-old woman who has zero hand-eye coordination and gets winded after running thirty yards. We’re twenty minutes into the afternoon game, and already I’m wheezing and have been smacked in the face by a Frisbee. Twice. But I’m going to rally because that’s the point of this whole camp adventure: I’m supposed to be proving to myself that I can thrive outside my comfort zone. I can do more than I give myself credit for.
Frisbee, though, might be my undoing. I feel like one of those inflatable air dancers that wiggle around to get your attention at car dealerships—completely goofy and bending at all the wrong angles.
I definitely do not want anyone’s attention. I’d prefer to rally from the sidelines.
Half the kids love this game and ask to play it every afternoon—but a few of them are hanging out on the fringe of the action, moving only when it’s necessary to get out of the way of the players who are intent on winning this game. Sophie’s on my team, and Noah’s on the other. Sophie, trying to keep me from feeling excluded, tosses the Frisbee to me every chance she gets—and keeps saying, “You’ll get the hang of it,” every time I drop it. Or bat it out of the air when it flies anywhere near my face.
Bless her heart for throwing all that optimism my way. She’s like an endless well of affirmations—but what I want her to do is pretend I’m not here so I can stop looking like a goofball. I offered to stay safely on the sidelines and take photos to share on the website, but she gave me this speech about how important it was to bond with the kids and play with them, and then I just felt like a jerk for trying to weasel out of the game.
Noah, of course, is the complete opposite of me. If you were to send your kid to camp and put in an order to the universe for the coolest camp counselor it could manifest, Noah is who you’d get. With the kids, he turns into this big scruffy teddy bear with a movie-star smile that draws them in closer, like plants leaning toward a sunbeam. He’s like their easygoing big brother, telling them stories about how he went backpacking in Maine, swam with dolphins in the Virgin Islands, or trekked through the Rockies and met some amazing forest dweller who changed his perspective on life.
It’s completely adorable, and yes—I’m a little jealous. Noah and Sophie are like the cool aunt and uncle at the reunion, and I’m the weirdo cousin that no one wants to stand next to for too long in the buffet line.
Every word Noah says keeps the kids riveted, their eyes sparkling with delight. When I talk to them, I bumble through questions about their favorite class, their hometown, their favorite hobby. Sometimes, I get a blank stare, but I see the eye rolls that pass between them when they think I’m not looking. It reminds me too much of high school and how I was never quite cool enough to fit in with the popular girls. How I constantly felt like a chameleon and needed to change myself to fit in with whichever crowd I was with that day. The kids here tolerate me, but they seem excited to hang out with Sophie and Noah. It’s just one more way that I feel completely out of place here.
Today, though, I’ve pulled out all the stops. I’m cheering my team on, giving high-fives galore, and doing everything I can to channel Sophie's energy so the kids like hanging out with me, too.
When I trip over my own foot after missing yet another pass, I roll back up to my feet and throw my hands up in victory. Layla and Priya give me sympathetic smiles and giggle as they chase the Frisbee on the next play.
Across the field, Noah gives me a questioning look, and I respond with an exaggerated smile and a big thumbs-up. He smirks as he shakes his head, and I try to ignore the way the muscles in his forearms ripple as he rakes his hands through his sweaty hair. I’m not sure when forearms became my catnip, but from this point forward, all others will be measured against his.
Probably, all others will fall short.
Half of my problem today might be that Sporty Noah takes my breath away. Today, he showed up in soccer shorts and a vintage Queen tee shirt, a blue 1980s-era sweatband wrapped around his head like this was the most serious game in the history of games. He got the kids all pumped up to have fun and went over the ground rules (no tackling, no tripping, no trash talking) before dividing us into teams.
He’s gone to great lengths to research different ways to assign kids to teams so that no one is choosing and no one has that sucky feeling of getting picked last. Today, it was “All people born between January 1 and June 10 are Team Noah, and everyone born between June 11 and Dec 31 are Team Sophie.” Yesterday, it was those who have more than one sibling and those who do not. Each day, he makes it seem like this is a system he’s just thought of on the fly, a not-quite random way to change up the teams and keep them even.
When he first explained this system to me, it tugged at something in my heart so hard that it almost made me tear up. He shrugged it off like it was the simplest idea on earth and not a super sneaky way of making sure no kid felt like they weren’t wanted on a team.
It’s no surprise that these kids love Noah. They ask him questions all during the evening, hang with him at mealtimes, and seek him out when there’s downtime, too. They’re like a bunch of little asteroids orbiting their sun.
“I’m on to you,” Sophie says, giving me a playful nudge.
“What?” The word comes out like a squawk. She’s caught me drooling over Noah, and now it’s game over.
“This whole clumsy act,” she says with a smile. “It’s totally working. Some of the kids are self-conscious about sports, but you’re taking the pressure off. It’s sweet.”
“It’s no act,” I say. “I’m truly this bad at sports.”
She smiles. “You’re good with the kids, though. We’re really lucky to have you here.” She claps me on the shoulder and then jogs back over to where the action is.
The tightness in my chest loosens. Good. Lucky.
Ethan tosses the Frisbee to Noah, a wobbly throw that he all but dives for. Noah’s right by the end zone, but instead of running across the line, he tosses the Frisbee to Layla, who’s just ten feet away. She catches it and dodges another kid as she bolts across the line and scores.
Together, she and Noah do a funny end-zone dance that earns cheers from the kids and a laugh from Sophie. Noah rips the sweatband from his head and shoots it across the goal line like it’s a rubber band, then gives us some finger-guns. It’s both the dorkiest and sweetest display I’ve seen in ages.
Noah slaps Layla a high-five, and she grins like she’s won a trip to Disney World. My heart just grew three sizes, and I am in so much trouble.
Sometimes when we encounter people from our past, they don’t live up to our memories of them, and we realize that we’re better off with just the memories. Sometimes, though, the opposite is true. I know that we’re the sum of all of our experiences, and I wouldn’t be who I am without mine. But when I look at Noah, and this big-hearted man he’s become, I wonder how different my life might be if I’d done a few things differently.
Starting with not walking away from him on that beach.
The kids take their places as the Frisbee’s thrown into play again, whizzing across the meadow in a bright orange blur. Noah hangs back as his team chases the play, and when he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow, time stands still. My eyes track the long lines of his body, and I stare far too long at his ridiculously chiseled abs. My mouth goes dry as I allow myself one moment to fully appreciate those hard edges and solid lines that will haunt me for the next decade.
Noah’s focused on the kids, and I can’t tear my gaze away as he runs a hand through his hair, back and forth, back and forth, leaving it standing up in all directions. He stretches one arm over his head, revealing another tattoo peeking out of his shirt sleeve. His bicep looks like cut marble, and I know I should follow the sound of my teammates’ voices, but my feet are rooted to the earth because despite all the natural beauty out here, Noah Valentine is still the most captivating thing on this mountain.
He places his big hands on his hips, which makes his arms flex in a delightful way that tugs at something low in my belly. Then he turns toward me and his brow arches as his lips curl into a hint of a smile. My heart drops to my feet because he’s definitely caught me staring—and then his mouth falls open at the same instant that pain shoots through my temple and the world wobbles on its axis.
“I told you to pass it to me, instead,” Derrick says, matter-of-factly. He’s deadly serious about winning Frisbee games.
Someone snorts back a laugh, but all I see is Noah’s face, backlit by the golden afternoon sun, the sky a brilliant blue behind him. His stubble’s grown out today, reddish in this light, and his eyes are a deep green-brown. He’s so close I can see little flecks of gold in them. I’d forgotten the way they change color in the light.
“Good job, Tyrone,” a kid says. Ethan, I think. “Death by Frisbee.”
Tyrone has a good arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Priya says. “No one’s dying from a Frisbee strike.”
But in this moment, that idea doesn’t feel so ridiculous, because I might as well have cartoon stars circling above my head and it feels like a rock is poking into my liver.
“Are you okay?” Noah says, kneeling next to me. His brows are pinched with concern, but all I can think about is how my body is tingling all over because he seems to be hovering above me, his face close enough to touch.
That’s when I realize I’m lying on my back in the grass, the kids huddled around me, eyes wide like this is another opportunity for them to collect some data to analyze. Is there an equation that calculates one’s level of mortification over time and what that might mean for her overall success in life? I hear a few chuckles, but most of the kids have the decency not to laugh. Probably, this strikes them as more pitiful than funny, and that idea hurts a whole lot worse.
“Come on, y’all,” Sophie says, clapping her hands. “Let’s give her some air and take a water break.” She tucks her phone into her back pocket, and I say a silent prayer that she didn’t capture that moment in a photo for the web page.
Noah lifts a brow. He really does have epic eyebrows—he might keep his thoughts close to the vest, but those eyebrows make whatever emotion he’s feeling front and center. “How do you feel?” he says, his voice doing that sexy-rumble thing that makes me feel like a match being struck.
“Aside from feeling like an idiot?” I say.
“Harsh, Griffin.” He smiles, revealing that deadly dimple. “I think that means you’re okay.” He moves his index finger back and forth in front of my face and stares intently into my eyes as I track the movement. He’s probably just putting his first-aid merit badge to good use and not using this as an excuse to spend time with me.
Probably.
He holds one hand out toward me, then slips his other behind my shoulder and helps me to sit up. His eyes are still heavy on mine, his palm warm on my back. I shiver when he lets me go.
“Dizzy?” he asks.
“No,” I say after a moment. “I’m fine. The Frisbee just caught me by surprise. Again.” He frowns as if to say he’s in total agreement there. Everything about this week has taken me by surprise—especially him.
Gently, he brushes my hair from my face and says, “Come with me and I’ll do something about that cut.”
When I touch my left eyebrow, my fingertips come away red. That explains the stinging pain that’s coming from somewhere above my brow.
“In case it’s not evident yet, I should tell you that sports are not my strong suit,” I tell him. “Probably should have told you that on Day One.”
He pulls me to my feet. “Don’t sweat it. We all land in the dirt from time to time. It’s how you know you’re playing the game.”
“Not sure I agree with that a hundred percent, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
Another tiny smile. One that says we’ll agree to disagree.
Holding my arm in a firm grip, he walks me out of the meadow, where Sophie’s transitioned to referee as the kids finish the game.
“I have a first aid kit in my room,” he says, leading me into the boys’ cabin. It’s the mirror image of the girls’ cabin, but this one smells like sweaty old socks and middle school boys. Thankfully, Noah’s room smells like cedar and cloves, and there’s not a single dirty sock in sight. Just like mine, it has the same dresser, desk, and chair. The space is tidy, his clothes hanging neatly in the closet and his bed made. I spot two pairs of hiking boots in the closet, a notebook on his desk with a couple of sci-fi novels, and a reed diffuser that’s no doubt the source of the heavenly smell. This is the room of a man who knew what he was getting into—someone who knows how to prepare.
He pulls a first-aid kit from his bottom dresser drawer and motions for me to sit on the bed. When he sits next to me, I’m yanked back in time to that night at the beach house, when we sat together by the campfire under the stars. Something in my chest coils tight at the thought, and I swallow hard, trying to forget about how his hands felt around my waist, how his lips felt on my neck as he pulled me tight against his chest, so close that I could feel his heartbeat against my skin.
He tears open a sterilizing wipe and pushes my hair behind my ear before he gently swipes it over my eyebrow. I wince at the cool touch.
“I’ll try to be gentle,” he says. “It doesn’t look deep.”
He carefully cleans the wound and then applies some antiseptic with a cotton swab. His fingers are whisper-light, his eyes flicking to mine every few moments. At this distance, I can fully appreciate his long lashes, the way his lips pinch together when he’s concentrating hard. I hadn’t exactly forgotten these details about Noah, but I hadn’t let myself think about them—and that’s not quite the same thing.
I wince as his fingers brush over my brow, so delicate.
“Sorry,” he breathes. “It stings a little.”
What also stings is that memory of him that has never quite slipped away. And worse, this feeling that I’m failing at every part of my life and can’t even manage to do summer camp right. That critical voice in my head grows louder and more insistent, and before I know it, I’m choking back a sob.
“Vic?” he says, his hand frozen in mid-air. “Are you hurt somewhere else?” His voice is so calm, so soothing, and I want to tell him that I hurt everywhere, down to the deepest crevices of my heart.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, but the words come out sounding strangled and weak. But that’s what Griffins do. We roll along chanting Everything’s fine , even when the world’s burning down around us. Because to admit things are not fine is to confront all the difficult, uncomfortable feelings—like hurt, regret, and fear.
And that’s another hard truth I’ve gotten used to evading.
“Victoria,” he whispers. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help.”
I brush the tears away, avoiding his gaze. “I really want to not suck at this.”
“Frisbee?” He gives me a tiny smile, the kind he always used to make me feel better.
“All of it,” I sigh. “I’ve made so many mistakes lately, and I’ve wasted so much time. I don’t want to keep feeling like a failure.” When I think of the time I wasted with Theo and with a job I didn’t like, it makes me wish I’d stood up for what I wanted. That nagging voice in my head has kept immaculate records of every mistake I’ve ever made, and now they’re washing over me like a tidal wave. Before I know it, I’m telling Noah more about my near-marriage and my unfulfilling job—all the ugly details I’d left out when we talked before.
It’s only when Noah’s big hand touches my shoulder that I realize I’m shaking all over. My brain is buzzing, and my skin feels too tight, but Noah’s hand is like an anchor, and when he moves it in a tiny circle, the warmth spreads across my back and into my chest, and it becomes easier to breathe.
“Vic,” he says. “You’re not a failure.”
I let out an unladylike snort. His gentle hand is the only thing keeping me from crumbling into pieces. “This was supposed to be easy,” I tell him. “Help kids have fun at camp. How am I failing at that, too?”
“You’re not,” he says, and there’s that warm smile again. The one that says everything’s going to be okay, no matter how it feels right now. “So Frisbee’s not your jam. That doesn’t mean you’re failing.”
“You make this look so effortless,” I tell him, a little envious of how he seems so perfectly suited to this role, this place. “You’ve so clearly found where you belong, and I thought that by now I would have found that, too.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been doing this a long time. But my first summer was a disaster.”
“It was not. You forget that I know when you’re lying. You have a tell.”
He shakes his head, biting back a smile as he dabs more ointment on my brow and tears open a tiny bandage. “During my first summer, at the New Mexico camp, I planned a day trip with horseback riding. First, my horse threw me into the biggest cactus I’ve ever seen, and I spent the rest of the day pulling spines out of places I won’t even mention. Then I realized I’d left all of our food and water behind, so we had to cut the trip short and go raid the nearest gas station—thirty miles down the road—for snacks. And let me tell you, feeding kids beef jerky and peanut butter cups is hands-down the worst decision one can make on a road trip.” He grimaces. “The next day, I made two kids cry, and one went home early. I thought for sure I’d get fired. But then Roxy told me the same thing I’m telling you.”
When he leans in closer to examine the cut, his knee presses into mine, and he doesn’t pull away. Then his eyes flick to mine as he lifts a brow, as if daring me to argue. “We all have to find our rhythm, Vic. No one’s perfect, so we shouldn’t beat ourselves up for that. We just need to be excellent to each other and leave the world a little better than we found it.”
“Did you just quote Bill and Ted ’ s Excellent Adventure to me?”
He shrugs. “It’s sound advice, and I will die on that hill.”
I snort out a laugh because I’ve missed this feeling so much—being able to relax and be my goofy weirdo self without worry about who’s watching and judging my actions against some impossible standard.
Noah smiles—a real one that makes his dimples pop and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and it’s like feeling sunlight on my face. When his eyes meet mine, there’s a flicker of something that tugs deep in my ribcage, and another chunk of that wall between us crumbles.
I stay still, feeling the heat from his knee burning into my thigh, his fingers warm on my brow. Before I can stop myself, the words spill out. “Have you ever thought about that night on the beach? I mean, before I showed up here?”
He pauses, brows raised in surprise. When he meets my gaze again, his eyes are stormy gray-green. “Lots of times.”
It would be so easy to lean over and kiss him right now and turn all of this hurt into something else entirely. “Did you miss me?”
His voice is gravelly. “You first this time.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He leans closer, his gaze dropping to my lips. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Same,” he says. “So much.”
He reaches up, and my body hums, waiting for his touch. He tugs a blade of grass from my hair, his thumb grazing my cheek.
Heat blooms in my chest. He’s just a breath away, and I’m about to combust. It would be so easy to kiss him, and no one would ever have to know.
No more pretending.
I move closer until we’re only a breath apart. His hand rests on my thigh, and that small touch breaks the last of my resolve. When his eyes lock on mine, he dips his head—an invitation—and I’m a goner. In a blink, my hand is in his hair, and my lips press against his gently at first. He’s still for a moment, but then I catch his bottom lip in my teeth, and he makes a low sound, deep in his throat that makes those butterflies swirl in my ribcage like a hurricane. His tongue parts my lips, and I know I should stop this—but this is Noah, and it just feels so right.
A door slams down the hall, and Noah jumps back as if he’s been zapped with a cattle prod. We both leap from the bed at the sound of the boys’ voices as they come closer, their sneakers squeaking on the tile. Noah glances toward his half-open door, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.
“I should go,” I tell him, just as he says, “I think you’re all set,” and eases away from me. It’s a tiny movement, but says everything.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... brought up ancient history.”
His lip curves into a sad smile. “It’s okay.”
“We can’t,” I whisper.
His brow lifts. “I know.”
Willing my heart to go back to its normal rhythm, I take a deep breath, pushing all of the feelings I stupidly brought to the surface back down again.
“I’m going to go,” I tell him, even though leaving him is the last thing I want and my feet feel rooted to this spot.
His gaze pins me in place. “Yeah.”
I head for the door and pause. “I had a thought. Before I ate dirt.”
He busies himself closing the first-aid kit. When he glances up at me, there’s a hunger there that nearly unravels me.
“What’s that?” he says, his voice low.
“What if we had a second activity each day for the kids? We could offer a sporty-sport like Frisbee, and then also something that’s a little less... contact.”
“A sporty-sport?” he says lightly, and just like that, my teasing Noah is back.
“We could do yoga, or dancing, or just walk one of the easy trails around the property.” I shrug. “Some of the kids were hanging on the sidelines, looking like they’d rather be at the dentist than standing out on that field. I remember that feeling as a kid—playing sports was agony if you felt like you were terrible at it.”
“You want to lead the alternate activity?” he says.
“Given my record with the sporty-sports, I think that’s the safest solution.”
He smiles. “That’s a great idea. Make a list of what you want to offer, and I’ll add it to our schedule. We can start tomorrow.”
“Thanks for patching me up,” I tell him.
“Of course,” he says.
When I open the door to leave, he says, “One more thing.”
I turn and find him looking at me intently. His gaze drops to the floor between his feet—another tell—and when he looks up at me again, his smile is a little more than friendly. “I’m really glad you’re here, Vic.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Despite my slip-up, he’s back to being my colleague now, the nice guy who put me back together after a bad spill and is trying so hard to make me feel welcome. As I slip out the door and head down the hall, I try to imagine what else he wanted to say—because when Noah looks down at his feet, it means he’s reconsidering. He’s shoving down a thought he thinks he shouldn’t share.
And now, despite my better instincts, I’m dying to know what precisely that thought might be.