Chapter 22 Harris
Harris
I know my rib cage is sore, but I’ve fared worse.
Nothing is going to stop me from going out with a bang or giving her one last perfect date before the festival and before I leave.
It’s a day of grand gestures.
And this date?
Is going to be the coolest.
I pull into her driveway, eager to give Lucy one perfect date if it kills me.
And so far, it almost has; getting dressed was painful, and bending to tie my boots was worse—but we’re powering through in the name of a good time.
Also: Fuck my teammates, who have given me endless shit about all the time I’ve been spending with Lucy when I should have been bonding with them.
In fact, they’re probably at dinner right now, talking more shit—all the shit!
—schmoozing with coaches and talking strategy.
But what’s more important than prioritizing the people we care about most, new as the relationship may be?
So no.
I don’t care about dinner.
Not even a little. I will catch up with them tomorrow.
Scout’s honor.
The guys can roast me all they want. They can call me whipped, soft, distracted—all three things are true. Say what they want, they’re not the ones leaving someone behind they already can’t stop thinking about. I am.
Now? Now I’m making damn sure Lucy knows exactly how impossible it will be to leave her, and I want to show her what she means to me. I have a plan for one last ridiculous adventure lined up, meant to impress. Earlier, I texted her three simple instructions:
Wear boots.
Pack snacks.
Bring your sense of adventure.
What I didn’t text: We’re going Bigfoot hunting!
Goddamn right, we are! Fun surprise, am I right?
I cannot wait to see the look on her face.
Dex was regaling us with the Bigfoot lore the night we arrived—something about sightings in the woods, enormous footprints on the Ice Age trail—and the tale of a man who claims Bigfoot stole his fishing pole and left behind a turd in a granola bar wrapper.
I was like, Dex, bro, that’s not Bigfoot. That’s your cousin Greg.
As usual, he was not amused.
Equipped with a tackle box full of what I’m calling expedition supplies (read: trail mix, two flashlights, a hand-drawn trail map, and some beef jerky), I ease to a stop and throw the truck into park.
Sit back for a second, surveying the same trellis I tried—and failed—to climb, giving it a respectful nod. “We meet again, old friend.”
As if on cue, the side door opens. She steps out onto the porch, looking suspicious and amused all at once, wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a sage green sweatshirt that reads Namaste in Bed.
I watch as she descends the stairs, looking hella fucking gorgeous and already apprehensive. She rolls her eyes and hops into the passenger seat. “If I die, you’re the one who has to explain it to my mother.”
From the dash, I pull out a camo ball cap that says Squatch Squad in neon-orange letters and tug it down over my head. It’s amazing.
She stares at it—then at me. “Where on earth did you get that?”
“The hardware store.” Obviously. I reach back and feel around the seat. “I have one for you too.”
“Whatever is about to happen, I regret it already.”
I grin. “Adventure awaits us, babe!”
She sighs, but I catch the twitch of a smile as she buckles up.
I crank the engine, the truck rumbling to life, and we head in the direction of the trailhead, to the spot where all the locals say to go. It’s a scenic drive, the road winding up into the woods, trees thick and golden with late-afternoon light.
Lucy side-eyes me. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Incorrect,” I say, flipping down my visor and fixing my hat. “I’m enjoying this exactly the appropriate amount.”
It takes fifteen minutes before we pull into the lot.
I step out, plant my feet wide, and tip my head back to take it all in.
The air is crisp and sharp, filled with the scent of pine sap, fresh earth, and a faint curl of smoke from some distant campsite.
The old wooden trailhead sign stands weathered, carved with decades of initials and hearts—proof that plenty of people have passed through here chasing adventure.
“Ahh, nature.” I point at my chest. “Me outdoorsy. Me like forest.”
Lucy snorts as she climbs out of the truck behind me, eyeing me like I’ve completely lost it. “You are so weird.”
I flash her a grin. “Weird and prepared.”
I grab the tackle box—which, frankly, looks more suited for fishing than tracking a beast—and hand her a tall, handcrafted walking stick.
She stares at it. “Did you make this?”
“Pfft, I wish,” I say. “Bought it at the hardware store, along with all the other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
I pop open the tackle box with dramatic flair. “Ta-da!”
Lucy’s laughing so hard she has to sit down. “You brought candy to bribe Bigfoot?”
“Everyone loves peanut M&M’s. You don’t?”
I let her look around at the supplies before securing the tackle box and pulling the cross-body strap across my chest.
The path stretches ahead of us, winding through towering evergreens, the forest floor soft with fallen pine needles and speckled sunlight. Birds chirp somewhere above us, and every now and then, a breeze rustles the leaves, making the whole forest sound alive.
“All right, Squatch Squad,” she says. “Lead the way.”
I tap the map, squinting into the tree line dramatically. “We follow the ancient markings of our forefathers.”
She groans but follows me into the woods—right where I want her. The trail crunches under our boots as we walk, sunlight filtering golden beams that make the place feel almost magical. Or possibly haunted. Hard to tell.
Two minutes in, I stop dead in my tracks and point with great authority at a suspiciously large mound of dirt. “Evidence,” I whisper.
She glances down. “That’s a molehill.”
I shrug. “Bigfoot’s mole.”
Lucy shakes her head, laughing, and grabs my hand, dragging me farther down the trail.
We walk on, and every now and then I pause dramatically to point out another “clue,” and every time she meets me with pure, unfiltered sarcasm.
Honestly? She is goals.
Following the winding trail, she teases me with every step. I of course pretend to take this mission deadly serious.
I stop again, holding up a hand like a park ranger. “Shhh.”
“Oh God—what now?”
I point to a low-hanging branch that looks freshly bent. “New break.”
Lucy gives me a shove as we move along the trail. “You’re such a goofball.”
When we make it to a little clearing that Monty McNair—owner of the hardware store—told me about, I set the tackle box down on a stump with great ceremony.
“Time to bait the legend!” I announce, pulling out a handful of M&M’s and sprinkling them dramatically in the grass.
“Is this considered littering?” She glances around nervously, as if waiting for the actual park ranger to jump out of the woods. “I don’t think we’re supposed to feed the animals.”
I pop one in my mouth and roar, “I am the animal!”
Lucy groans, but she’s smiling, that kind of smile that crinkles her nose and makes me want to kiss her senseless.
Before I can make another ridiculous proclamation, there’s rustling in the underbrush.
Her eyes go wide. “What was that?”
I halt, holding the bag of M&M’s midair. More rustling.
Lucy freezes. “If this is one of your teammates in a gorilla suit, I swear to God I’m slashing your tires.”
More rustling. I square my shoulders, ready to take on a mythical beast.
Out strolls . . .
A deer.
Trepidatiously. Tentatively. It blinks at us curiously, one foot in front of the other, walking toward my carefully placed M&M offerings. It steps forward, daintily sniffs the candy—and promptly starts eating.
“Holy shit. I almost crapped my pants.” Lucy has her hand on her heart and is breathing heavy. “I thought we were about to die.”
Honestly? Same.
The deer flicks its tail.
Lucy collapses onto the grass, still laughing. Her hair spills around her, fanning out and framing her face like a halo. “I cannot believe you dragged me out here for this.”
I flop down beside her. “You love it.”
“I do,” she says, turning her head toward me, nose crinkled, eyes shining. “You’re ridiculous. It’s perfect.”
She takes my hand as we gaze up through the clearing in the trees. The sky is streaked with shades of pink and orange, the last light of the day filtering through the evergreens like something out of a postcard.
The breeze rustles the branches above us, and somewhere off in the distance, an owl hoots. “I feel like we’re in a nature documentary,” she whispers.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“Bigfoot hunting? No.”
I shake my head. “Hiking.”
“Sure—of course.”
Our gazes find the sky again. For a moment, neither of us says anything. The forest settles around us, crickets chirping, the air cooling as night sets in.
Her voice drifts over. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
“Always.”
“What would you have done if you had found Bigfoot?”
Shit my pants. Run.
But I clear my throat and say, with as much dignity as I can muster, “I would’ve offered him candy and taken a selfie. Obviously.” I roll onto my side and prop my head up on my elbow. “Okay. Your turn.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“If you’d actually seen Bigfoot tonight,” I ask, “what would you have done?”
She considers this for a long, long moment. Grins. “Asked him if he’s single.”
“Ouch!” I clutch my chest dramatically. “Betrayal.”
She shrugs. “He’s tall, mysterious, and elusive. What’s not to like?”
I grin and lean in closer. “I’m tall, mysterious, and only elusive when I’m trying to avoid press conferences.”
She hums, pretending to consider. “Close second.”
I tackle her with a playful growl, and she squeals, laughing beneath me, her smile wide and real and perfect. Pinning her hands gently above her head, I gaze down at her.
Her chest rises and falls with laughter, but there’s something softer in her eyes now—something that makes my breath catch.
Her smile is slow. Sweet. “I don’t even know what to do with you anymore.”