Chapter 23
twenty-three
SOPHIE
The quiet scrape of my sneakers against dirt stops me cold.
Through the canopy of fall-tinged leaves, I spot Mike and Hazel up ahead, Mike crouched beside her as she examines something on the ground.
And, while it’s true I had gone up ahead to find a spot, I was also curious to see how they were interacting.
“—aren’t even real ants,” Hazel declares with authority, her voice drifting on the breeze. “They’re actually wasps pretending to be ants. Isn’t that weird?”
“Who got you the bug book?” Mike’s voice carries that particular warmth he reserves for kids and dogs.
“Sophie.” The softness in how she says my name makes my chest ache. “She got me three different bug books last Christmas, right after Mom got sick.”
“That was nice of her.”
“Yeah.” There’s a pause, the sound of a stick dragging through dirt. “I think she thought books would make me stop being sad.”
“Were you sad?”
“Sometimes. But not like Sophie. She’s sad and scared all the time, even when she pretends she’s fine.”
The words hit me square in the solar plexus. Eight years old and she’s already cataloged my every tell, filed away my failed attempts at being the stable one. The fact that she’s sharing this psychological profile with Mike— God, Mike of all people —sends heat crawling up my neck.
But beneath the mortification, there’s a wisdom in her matter-of-fact assessment that makes my eyes burn and tears threaten. When exactly did my baby sister become the family’s emotional anchor while I turned into our resident doom-forecaster?
“Sophie’s not a scaredy-cat, though.”
Mike’s voice—suddenly louder—cuts through my spiral.
I freeze, not even breathing.
“She’s actually one of the bravest people I know.”
The certainty in his tone, the way he says it without a trace of doubt—something hot and grateful blooms behind my ribs. My cheeks burn for an entirely different reason now, but I decide I’m done with spying and I’m done with them talking about me.
“HAZEL!” My voice cracks through the trees before I can think better of it. “MIKE! I found the perfect spot!”
I spin and hurry back to the clearing, face still flaming. But beneath the embarrassment, that warm bloom in my chest keeps expanding. Mike defended me. Called me brave when he had every opportunity to agree that yes, Sophie Pearson is an anxious disaster who should probably invest in therapy.
By the time they reach the clearing, I’ve managed to spread out the blanket and arrange myself in what I hope looks like casual relaxation mixed with domestic goddess rather than “I just eavesdropped on your conversation and now I’m having feelings.”
Hazel bounds in first, already mid-monologue about the ant colony. “—must have been thousands and thousands and did you know some ants are farmers?”
“I don’t think they have tractors,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “Lunch first, then we can discuss ant agriculture.”
She plops down and immediately attacks the cooler. “What kind of sandwiches are there?”
“The best kind,” Mike says, settling onto the blanket. The heat of him radiates through the space between us, close enough that the slightest shift would bring our thighs together. “PB&J, turkey and cheese, and chicken salad that’s my secret recipe…”
“Wait, are these homemade?” My mouth falls open. “And you have a secret recipe for something?”
His grin should come with a warning label. “Well, technically the chicken salad is my friend Linc’s recipe with modifications.”
“Linc? NHL Linc?”
He nods. “He’s a great cook and he has a mean slap-shot.”
“What modifications?” Hazel asks suspiciously.
“Grapes instead of raisins. Raisins in chicken salad are a crime against humanity.”
“Finally, someone who gets it,” I say emphatically. “Also raisins in cookies. Just commit to chocolate chip.”
“Thank you!” Mike passes me a water bottle.
Our fingers brush and electricity shoots straight up my arm—not like touching a live wire, but like every nerve ending suddenly remembers how to feel. Jesus. Pull it together, Sophie. It’s beverage distribution, not a declaration of everlasting?—
His knee presses against my thigh as he reaches for napkins. The warmth of him seeps through denim, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning into it. From cataloging the exact pressure, the way his leg muscle flexes slightly when he shifts.
“Sophie makes really good grilled cheese,” Hazel announces. “But only grilled cheese. She burned spaghetti once.”
“You cannot burn spaghetti,” I protest. “The smoke alarm was defective, and nobody else?—”
“What about the pancake fire?”
I throw a grape at her. “Are you done with the character assassination?”
“I’m just saying Mike should know these things before you have babies.”
Water. Lungs. Not compatible. Mike thumps my back while I wheeze, my face approximately the temperature of the sun’s core. Because while today started as a test run—could Mike Altman fit into the chaos of my actual life?—I wasn’t prepared for Hazel’s matrimonial projections.
“Hazel,” I gasp, “we talked about thinking before speaking.”
“But Maya said this is a date. That means babies eventually, right?”
Mike’s hand stills against my spine. “Maya said that?”
“Maya says many things. Wine is usually involved.”
“But you do stare at each other. And touch when you don’t need to. Like now.”
We spring apart, which probably proves her point. Mike becomes deeply interested in cloud formations while I rearrange items that don’t need rearranging.
“So about that dessert,” I try.
“Smooth,” Mike murmurs, fighting a smile.
“I’m exceptionally smooth. Like chunky peanut butter.”
“The chunkiest.”
We find our rhythm again after that. Mike regales us with practice stories, using his whole body in the telling—arms wheeling, face morphing between characters. I try not to catalog the exact way his eyes crinkle, the way enthusiasm transforms his entire face.
“Boys are weird,” Hazel concludes.
“The weirdest,” I agree.
My phone buzzes: Mom. My stomach does its automatic clench-and-drop, but the message is harmless:
Having a lovely day! Can you keep Hazel a bit longer?
Relief washes through me. Not at the extended babysitting, but at the image of my parents actually enjoying life instead of managing symptoms and appointments. I punch out a quick reply that, yes, we can keep Hazel for longer, and no, they shouldn’t hurry back.
“Good news?” Mike asks.
I realize I’m smiling at my phone. “My parents are happy.”
“That’s great. Your mom must be feeling well?”
The casual care in his voice does something dangerous to my heart. “Yeah.”
“Does this mean more fun?” Hazel asks hopefully.
Mike and I lock eyes. I should take her home, put the TV on for her, and tackle my mountain of reading. Be responsible. But Mike’s knee finds mine again, and the afternoon light turns his brown eyes to whiskey, and I desperately don’t want this to end.
“Actually,” Mike says slowly, “there’s a rock-climbing gym I’ve been wanting to try. They have kids’ routes…”
“Can we?” Hazel bounces. “Please please please?”
My brain immediately catalogs potential disasters: broken bones, rope burns, liability waivers that will leave us bereft and without legal recourse while trying to pay for expensive medical bills?—
But Mike interrupts gently. “They have auto-belays and trained staff. Foam padding twelve inches thick. I checked.”
Of course he researched safety protocols before suggesting an activity for my sister. “OK,” I hear myself say. “Let’s do it.”
Hazel cheers. Mike grins. And I pretend this doesn’t feel dangerously like something I could get used to.
And, as we pack up, I watch him organize the cooler with the same focus he probably brings to power plays, and there’s this tiny scar at the corner of his jaw that I’ve memorized but never asked about.
“Where’s the scar from?” I ask. “Hockey?”
“Nah,” he shrugs. “I slipped on a diving board and hit my chin.”
“New thing?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah, won’t be diving again any time soon.”
I smile. “You ever gonna run out of new things?”
“Not as long as I have you.”
Heat races to my face. “You tried things before me…”
“True.” He rocks back on his heels. “But it’s more fun with you. Everything is.”
His gaze drops to my mouth—quick, there and gone—but enough to send my pulse into cardiac arrest territory. I should say something witty. Defuse this before I do something stupid like tackle him onto the picnic blanket and find out if he tastes as good as he smells.
Instead, I grab the nearest container. “We should go. Beat the climbing rush.”
“Right. The famous 3:00 p.m. climbing rush.” Amusement colors his voice.
“Very real thing. Peak hours. Ask anyone.”
“Anyone in the extensive climbing community?”
“Exactly. It’s common knowledge.”
“Based on your years of climbing experience?”
That smile should be illegal in several states. He knows exactly what he’s doing, sitting there looking like a sports equipment ad that gained sentience and decided to torment me specifically. But before I get the chance to admire him any more, or throw out another witty retort, Hazel sighs.
“Are you two gonna do this all day or are we climbing?” She stands by the trail, hands on hips, eight years old and already over our bullshit.
“We’re not doing anything,” I protest.
Mike grins. “Define ‘anything.’”
Hazel looks between us with weary patience. “You’re lucky you make good sandwiches. And you don’t run away from bugs. Sophie’s last boyfriend sucked.”
“He wasn’t—we went on two dates!”
Mike’s laughter echoes through the clearing, rich and unrestrained, and despite my mortification, I’m laughing too. Because yes, this is my life. Even when she’s exposing my dating history, even when she sees straight through my defenses…
And if Mike keeps laughing at my disasters, keeps looking at me with those eyes, keeps finding excuses for our legs to touch, keeps defending me to eight-year-olds like I’m worth protecting... Well, maybe there’s space in my life for him after all.
Probably.