Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
VICTORIA
B y Friday, I’m finding my rhythm. Today it’s one foot in front of the other, on a loop trail that feels like it’s been entirely uphill for a thousand miles. Noah’s leading our group, Sophie’s somewhere in the middle, and I’m at the back, cursing myself for letting my gym membership lapse. I offered to take this spot so I have an excuse to walk more slowly and hang back with the kids who aren’t charging ahead like little mountain goats.
The joke’s on me, though, because these kids are itching to get to the waterfall, and I’m struggling to keep up with the slowest of the bunch. Keeping my eyes on the trail to watch for roots and snakes means I’ve hardly been able to take in the details of my surroundings. We’re on a densely wooded trail that cuts through evergreens and mountain laurel, and all I want is to stop long enough to soak it all up: I want to trace my fingers over the leaves and touch the big pale pink blossoms. I want to stand in the stillness and listen to the birds twittering in the branches and picture the bright colors of their feathers. I want to close my eyes and feel the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy and falling on my face. But we’re moving so fast that all I can focus on is the dirt trail in front of me, the space between my feet and the kids up ahead.
Probably, this is an apt metaphor for my lack of work-life balance.
My focus has been too narrow. I’ve been too preoccupied with moving forward, being productive, and making progress—what do those ideas even mean anymore? My work with Rayanne’s realty firm was so fast and frenzied that I forgot how to be unhurried and still. For years, I was focused on building my career: being better and faster than everyone around me, and now those years are a blur.
When did I stop paying attention to all the bits of beauty around me?
I stop by a huge rhododendron with magenta flowers as big as my hands. Tracing the broad leaf with my fingers, I’m mesmerized by the tiny veins in the leaves. The blossom is silk-soft, and when I tip it towards me, I find a sleeping bumblebee inside, at the very center of the blossom. Its body is dusted in yellow pollen, and I move the flower back gently, so I don’t wake it. It’s a surprising delight—one of Noah’s glimmers—something I’d never have noticed in my regular life.
And then a tiny voice in my head says, What if this was your regular life?
Further down the trail, a whistle pierces the air. I jog towards the sound to catch up with the group, and once I’m around a curve in the trail, I see the kids have all stopped. Noah, towering over them, zeroes in on me and cocks his head to the side in a question: You doing okay?
Aside from my burning calves and the stitch in my side, I’m great. So I give him a wave and a thumbs-up that says, All good .
“Okay,” he says to the group, “we’re almost to the falls. Remember to watch for slippery rocks.”
Sophie leads them onward while Noah waits for me to catch up. His eyes drift to my feet and then back up to my face as if he’s looking for any outward signs of distress. I’m certain he can hear the pounding of my heart from ten paces, even as I plant my hands on my hips and inhale slow and deep. I’m breathless from the hike, but also from this feeling of wonder—and a persistent thought that I’ve been chasing the wrong kind of success.
And the wrong kind of meaning.
That pursuit hasn’t felt right for a long time, but I’ve been afraid to admit it. Because, at best, it means I’ve wasted my time and effort. At worst, it means I’ve been sacrificing what’s most important to me because of someone else’s expectations.
Both feel like a loss.
“You all right?” he asks. His hair’s standing out every which way, his eyes curious. It’s such a simple question, but it has a complicated answer.
“Sure,” I tell him, because now’s not the moment to explain my existential crisis. “Just wanted to stop for a minute. It’s been a while since I saw a place with zero concrete.”
That lazy smile pulls at his lips, and now my heart’s pounding for a different reason. Ever since we kissed, I’ve been trying to keep more distance between us. Because as much as I’d like to do that again, we can’t.
My brain has gone over the logic of this line we’ve drawn a thousand times, but my body’s having none of it.
“It’s not far,” he says, nodding in the direction the kids went. “And it’s totally worth the screaming quads.”
I swallow hard because I do not need to think about Noah’s muscular thighs and powerful glutes and the masterful way they propel him up this mountain.
Nope.
He leads me onward, and I keep his pace as we climb rustic steps made from packed dirt and railroad ties. The trail turns downhill again where there’s a drop-off to a clearing, the waterfall just beyond. The sound of crashing water fills my ears, and Noah holds out his hand to help me down.
I hesitate, but only for a second. The downward part of the trail is steep and rocky, and I don’t trust myself to not slip. I take his hand, and his fingers squeeze as he gently guides me to where he stands solidly on the earth.
His eyes meet mine, and my breath hitches as I try to focus on my feet and not the firm grip of his hand. Then my foot slips on a loose rock, and I instinctively reach out to him. Noah steps forward, placing his other hand on my hip to steady me. “I’ve got you,” he says, his voice a deep rumble.
Heat rushes through me as he lowers me to the ground. And then I’m just a breath away from him, the toes of our boots touching and my whole body pressed against his. Somehow, both of his hands are on my hips, and my hands rest on his chest. When I look up at him, his pupils widen, and a blush races from my cheeks down to my collarbones.
“Thanks,” I say, and the word whooshes out in a way that’s entirely too breathy. My heart’s pounding from trying to keep his quick pace going uphill, and I know I should put more space between us, but I can’t.
Or rather, I don’t want to.
His eyes darken to a deep green, and I know he feels it too—the invisible thread that tugs us closer.
“Anytime,” he says.
As he glances over his shoulder at the clearing where the kids are gathered, his hands tighten, and my entire body hums in response. It’s only then that I notice the fifty-foot waterfall behind him—because as gorgeous as that rushing water is, it still has nothing on Noah Valentine.
Turning back to me, he whispers, “Come on. The falls are the best part.”
Debatable , I think. Because this part—right here—is tough to beat.
I follow him to a quiet pool near the waterfall, encircled by rocks. A wooden footbridge stretches across the stream, and the kids have fanned out into groups to explore. Some are on the bridge with Sophie, some are gathered on the rocks, and a few have taken their shoes off to wade in the shallow pool.
“Derrick caught a chipmunk!” Layla sings, because she apparently lives every day like she’s in a high school musical. She’s impossible to miss out here, in her bright red top and yellow shorts, aqua socks pulled to her knees. Her wardrobe is like a rainbow—in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many colors on one person.
Noah turns toward the pool, where Derrick’s crouched by the rocks with Priya. He waves at us with one hand, the chipmunk peeking out of the other.
“Careful,” Sophie calls to Derrick. “They can get bitey.”
Noah lets out a weary sigh and gives me a look that says, We’ll continue this later , before jogging off to join the kids gathered around Derrick.
Still reeling from being held in Noah’s firm grip, I inhale deeply, taking in the beauty of the falls. I count to four with each breath to calm my racing heart because one minute with Noah has turned it into a powder keg.
When I close my eyes, I listen to the twittering birds and feel the cool air drifting from the water. I can’t recall the last time I felt this kind of calm, and I’m so glad that I took this risk and came here. I can’t help but wonder what other moments like this I’ve missed out on just because I spent so much time focused on doing what other people expected of me. My parents, Theo, my friends—even Gwen sometimes. I’ve been so wrapped up in making the people around me happy—and proud of my accomplishments—that I lost track of what I really wanted.
And who I truly am.
Out here, though, all the noise in my head dies down. I see why Noah likes it so much, and I see that it’s good for me, too.
When I open my eyes, Derrick is crouching next to Noah, releasing the chipmunk into the brush.
“Godspeed, little doodle,” Noah says, giving a tiny salute. This man is like a young, hot, Mister Rogers of the wilderness, and my heart feels like it might crack in half—because everyone deserves to have a Noah in their life, sparking their curiosity and inspiring them to grow.
And I want him back in mine.
I don’t know exactly where I’m headed, and I don’t yet know what I want. But what I need is to feel like I’m doing something that matters. And that I’m making decisions that align with my purpose and not what others think is right for me.
I’ve spent too much of my life trying to please other people, and today, I’m taking the first step in leaving that behind. I pluck a stone from the pool, a green-tinted one that’s worn smooth by the current. As I close my fist around it, I etch this moment into my memory and then tuck it into the pocket of my shorts.
After having snacks and stowing their trash in their backpacks (“Pack it in, pack it out,” Noah reminded them), the kids are taking their last few minutes to snap photos with their new friends.
Overhead, big puffy clouds have passed over the sun. I hadn’t even noticed the sky darkening, but an ominous gray cloud is sweeping in from the direction we came.
“We should head back,” Noah says, gathering everyone up. He usually only has to speak two words, and the kids snap to attention like he’s the Pied Piper. He’s always had that effect on people, though, even when we were in college. He always claimed to be an introvert, spooked by large groups of people, but he drew people to him just the same. His quiet confidence makes you feel at ease, like you’re simultaneously safe with him and also about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime—if you’re willing to follow.
And if he invites you to come along.
After we met on that balcony, he chose me—and it made me feel like I was special. Worthy of his attention and his friendship. And that just made it harder when graduation rolled around and he didn’t choose me.
But it wasn’t just harder —it was the worst feeling in the world.
The kids all grab their designated buddy, and we do our head count before heading back onto the trail. Ethan and Priya are right by Noah’s side, trying to emulate his confidence and ease.
“The good news,” Sophie tells me, “is that it’s mostly downhill from here.”
She winks and then practically skips ahead down the trail, the most eager kids following close behind her. She’s like a little wood sprite in her hiking shorts and tank top, her hair somehow still styled into flawless braids in this wretched humidity. She seems to be perfectly at home in this place, like all the cute woodland animals and the blossoming flowers, which for a second makes me feel like an imposter again.
But then I wonder: was she naturally like this, completely at home in nature, or was it an acquired skill? And then: could I acquire it, too?
This time, I end up in the middle of the group, with three kids behind me and Noah following in the back. We’ve moved about a hundred yards when that dark cloud splits open and the rain starts to fall. The kids up ahead giggle, and one of the boys behind me grumbles. It’s Jacob from Cleveland, who so far has groused about everything from the altitude and the lunch menu to our choice of board games in the evening.
“Just the usual shower,” Noah tells him. “You know what they say around here? If you don’t like the weather, wait twenty minutes.”
Jacob lets out a heavy sigh, and I can tell he feels out of his element, too. At least two of the kids said they’d never been in a mountain climate before, and that’s partly why these outings were planned. The kids are here to learn about supernovas and Mars rovers, but Noah was quick to tell me that it’s just as important that they learn a little about the world here outside the lab, too.
It’s good training, giving them opportunities to look for those glimmers, he said during our last planning meeting. And the way his brow arched told me, It’s good for you, too.
The rain falls heavier as we walk, pattering on the big rhododendron leaves in a calming way that would put me to sleep if I was lying in my cabin. I catch myself smiling, even though the rain has plastered my hair to my face and my arms are chilly from the cooling air. The kids talk quietly as we walk, focused on the sights and sounds of the trail. Up ahead, there’s a gasp and some giggles—Priya and Layla have flushed a rabbit out of the brush, and I see the flash of its cotton-white tail as it skitters under a fallen tree.
Thunder rumbles overhead. This is one of those summer storms that comes out of nowhere, so fast that the clouds don’t fully block the sun. The leaves on the trees sparkle with raindrops, and I try to remember the last time I was caught in the rain—in a place that wasn’t a parking lot. The three kids behind scurry around me to catch up with the rest of the group, leaving me to fall back with Noah as another low rumble of thunder rolls overhead.
“Should have brought my rain jacket,” he says, walking beside me and matching my stride. His shirt’s stuck to his chest now, almost completely soaked. Mine probably is, too. My eyes catch on the defined muscles of his shoulders and biceps, and I tear my gaze away.
Another glimmer , I think. Once you start looking for them, you really do see them everywhere.
He rakes a hand through his hair, shaking out some water, and droplets hit my arm. Something in my chest pulls at the thought—these tiny drops of rain that have touched his skin and are now touching mine. A part of him that’s now a part of me.
I want more of our parts to overlap. I want to know everything that’s happened to him since I left him on that beach outside of Charleston. I want to know all of his secret feelings. And most of all, I want to know what he’s thinking about us now.
We’re headed downhill, the trail sloppy from the rain. My feet feel less sure, and I’m back to staring at the ground, choosing my steps carefully as I mind the growing space between us and the kids. When we come to a small creek that’s rushing from the rain, Noah walks right through with no hesitation—two big steps and he’s on the other side. It’s only a few inches deep, but I try to dodge the loose rocks and aim for the shallow spots.
“Let’s catch up,” he says, and even though I know he’s talking about the kids, my brain snaps right back to that last night we saw each other before everything blew apart. My chest tightens as I remember straddling his lap on the beach, trying to communicate all of my bottled-up feelings in one fiery kiss. We’d been building toward that moment for so long—it’s easy to see in retrospect, but it was impossible to see at the time. That moment had felt inevitable but also clumsy, in that way that collisions so often do. Kissing Noah had been thrilling and terrifying, and then when he’d clasped my hands and pulled away from me, I’d panicked.
There’s someone else , he’d said. It was the one variable I hadn’t considered, and it blindsided me.
It also hurt like a punch to the kidney.
After that night, I avoided him completely. Part of me had hoped that he’d choose me instead. He’d tell me that he felt the same and would break up with Samantha and spend the summer with me.
But that didn’t happen. He and Samantha left for their backpacking trip the week after graduation. He posted endless photos of them hiking in Ireland, playing with puffins in Scotland, and swimming in an ocean that was an impossible blue.
He texted me a few times and sent a photo of himself posing with an adorable Shetland pony in a knitted sweater. It was charming and hilarious—one hundred percent Noah—and it broke my heart in half.
I wanted to call him and tell him, Choose me. Pick me.
But that seemed unlikely. Samantha was tall and model-gorgeous with big doe eyes and a warm smile. She had perfect skin, perfect hair, and had graduated summa cum laude—every time I scrolled through her social media channels, I felt more inadequate.
And in every picture she posted of them together, she and Noah looked like they were head over heels for each other.
When Gwen had scraped me off the floor for the tenth time, she grabbed my phone and unfollowed both Samantha’s and Noah’s accounts. I love you too much to watch you torment yourself like this , she’d said, and part of me was grateful.
I should have just talked to Noah—I see that now. But back on that beach, I didn’t know how to explain what I was feeling and what that meant for us. And afterward, I was too embarrassed to try. We knew how to do a lot of things together, but we didn’t know how to talk about our feelings for each other. I was terrified that my words would ruin our friendship—instead, I wrecked it by holding them in.
I won’t make that mistake again. I touch the smooth stone in my pocket, just to remind me of this new promise, too.
When we’re past the creek, he slips his hand into the crook of my arm and starts to jog slowly. My body follows his without a thought because it remembers that Noah’s safe. My feet fall into rhythm next to his as his fingers tighten on my arm—just enough to let me know that he’s there, he’s got me—and we quickly close the gap and catch up with the group.
A growing part of me, though, would like to be out here alone. Just the two of us. Catching up for real. Saying those things we should have said a long time ago. I want to know why he let me go so easily and why he never reached out again after Samantha left him. I want to tell him why I panicked and how sorry I am for shutting him out.
But how do I tell him that now, without dragging all of that hurt back to the surface? Talking to him here seems like a very bad idea—the worst, actually. Because that conversation could either help us mend this terrible break, or it could blow up like one of those mega black holes that the kids learned about this week. And those things are seriously brutal. Like, swallow the galaxy and rip a hole in space-time brutal.
I really don’t want my talk with Noah to rip a hole in space-time.
But sometimes the scary move is the right one , that voice in my head whispers. And it’s right, I know—but knowing it’s the right move doesn’t make it any easier.
When we finally make it to the parking area, the rain has slowed to a drizzle, the sun shining bright again. Soaked to the skin, I cross my arms over my chest, thankful that I wore a loose tee shirt and hoodie, but wishing I’d brought a rain jacket, too. When we unlock the vehicles, the kids all pile inside. They’re laughing now, chattering as they climb over each other, taking the rain in stride. Tonight’s game night, and they’re already deciding who will team up at which game. Sophie opens the back of her van and starts passing out bottled water from a cooler, and even though I’m cold and drenched, I see why Noah does this every summer. For the first time in ages, I feel like I belong—and am a part of something that matters.
Noah rakes his hand through his wet hair, pushing it out of his eyes. Then he gives me a long look that I can’t quite decipher, and I feel the heat of his hands on my hips again. His gaze drops to my lips for one brief moment, so fast that I wonder if I imagined it.
But I definitely didn’t. When his eyes flick back to mine, they’re back to that deep shade of green that will haunt me until the end of time. I’m pinned in place by this look that’s heavy with longing, and I want so badly to pull him into my arms and kiss him until we’re both breathless.
A squeal and a giggle erupt from somewhere behind us, and then the moment’s gone.
“You two ready?” Sophie says, and my heart flutters in my chest like a bird. “Or you want to stay out here and get wetter?”
More chatter and laughter ripple over us. Noah smirks as he turns back to me and nods toward the cars. It’s a look that says, Come on, we’re in this together, and it’s precisely the message I needed to see.