Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
I’VE GOT YOU
Connor
My legs feel like tissue paper and my lungs are on fire.
“‘Let’s go on a hike. It’ll be fun’, she said,” I wheeze, staring ahead at an incline I find truly offensive.
“I heard that.”
“Well, I said it loud, so…” I reply, tone drier than my scorched earth throat.
We approach a narrow part of the trail only wide enough for traffic to flow in one direction at a time and move aside to make room for a group of hikers descending down a tower of jagged rocks. I step in front of Gretchen to assist a few middle-aged women cautiously navigating their way down.
One by one, I offer them a hand. Each of the women take it with a death grip as they seek the right combination of hand and foot placement to make it to the bottom.
Once they’ve all descended safely and are on their way, I turn back to Gretchen who sports a half-smile and one hip popped out, arms crossed over her chest .
“I bet you help old ladies cross the street, too, don’t you?” she says.
“Only the blind ones. Preferably with bags of groceries.”
Her head falls back, smile stretching ear to ear as she erupts in laughter—loud, unashamed and beautiful.
There’s plenty to admire about Gretchen’s body, especially today with the dark green shorts and sports bra that shows off her lean, tight figure. Her long hair is gathered atop her head, her tanned skin glowing in the sun, silky smooth and flawless.
But her laugh, her smile—they’ve got my heart in a chokehold. If she’d let me, I’d spend my life chasing them.
As her laughter settles, she quirks a brow toward the tower of rocks and asks, “You ready?”
“Ladies first.”
“Good call. You can break my fall that way.”
Less than ten minutes later, we reach the end of the trail and the landscape opens up around us. The view is a true sight to behold.
A sharp curve in the path leads to Devil’s Bridge namesake: a massive peninsular rock formation jutting out from the hillside with a large hollowed out section underneath.
In the distance is a massive display of red-tinted mesas, valleys in between generously speckled with lush green trees, red dirt, and vast gaps of nothing but the horizon all setting beautifully under the clear, blue sky and high noon sun.
Several other hikers and small groups are gathered in the area, admiring the same view, taking turns walking onto the narrowest portion of the rock bridge for a photo op.
Instinctively, Gretchen and I snap pictures of the view from every angle on our phones.
When the crowd clears a bit, I gesture for her to go ahead while I hang back to take her picture from across the canyon.
“Do you guys want a picture together?” a stranger’s voice calls from behind us.
Without a second thought, I hand Gretchen’s phone to the kind woman and the two of us make our way around the curve of the trail together.
The bridge is plenty wide to walk on, but the sheer drop on either side, the expanse of the valleys around us, can send anyone’s adrenaline into the stratosphere.
Her hand brushes mine like it’s searching for an anchor.
I open my palm to hers and she doesn’t hesitate.
Our hands connect, fingers intertwining—two magnets drawn together.
No sudden looks in each other’s direction, no hitched breaths, no battling of inner dialogue.
She has a hand and it belongs in mine. Pure and simple.
When we reach the center of the bridge, I expect her to let go.
Instead, she pulls our clasped hands up and over her head, bringing my arm to rest on her shoulder, our interlocked hands draped across the front of her chest. The motion naturally draws our bodies together and I don’t allow myself a second to overthink it before I tighten my arm around her, hauling her back flush against me.
Her free hand comes to rest on my forearm while mine finds her waist.
“I’ve got you, Fish,” I say with a light pinch to the exposed skin of her midriff—teasing, but holding her secure.
We look across the gap to the woman holding the phone, fingers indicating a three second countdown. I rest my head against Gretchen’s temple. When the stranger signals she’s finished, Gretchen begins to move forward, but I pull her back, speaking softly into her ear. “Hold on a sec.”
I keep her warm body close as I use my other hand to grab my phone from my pocket and extend it out in front of us in selfie mode. With our temples pressed together, hands held across the front of Gretchen’s body, we’re the image of a wholly in love couple.
Maybe it’s the possibility that I’ll never get the chance to be with her for real, or maybe it’s seeing her tucked into me the way I spent so many years wishing she would be—all I know is that I want to capture this moment up close.
I don’t want the version that ends up in the picture frame with the panoramic horizon behind two tiny, indistinguishable figures at its center.
I want to look at us —be reminded of every place her body touches mine and how, for this flicker of time, we felt perfect and right.
Gretchen and I fell into a natural rhythm of effortless banter and sparring years ago—it’s what we do.
This girl’s been able to hold her own with me since we were kids.
I shouldn’t have been surprised the relationship we forged over that year—that feels like a century ago—became the most intimate connection I’ve ever shared with another person and we weren’t even in the same state.
Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes—that was all it took to turn the shy girl with the brown eyes into the only woman I’ve ever wanted more with.
Before I broke my promise. Before I touched her. Before I kissed her. I knew it even then.
I may have screwed things up beyond repair, but I’ll spend the rest of my life with this picture as a reminder that soulmates do exist—even if I never get to call her mine.
Gretchen doesn’t let go of my hand until we’re safely off the bridge, away from the cliff’s edge.
Opting to rest and enjoy the view before beginning the trek back, we find a patch of shade tucked up above the trail. Once we’re situated on the ground, Gretchen grabs some granola bars and water from the bag while I try to work out some of the tightness in my back.
I roll my neck from side to side, rotate my shoulders forward and then back. Next thing I know, there’s a pill bottle pressed against my ear being shaken like a baby rattle. “Just take ’em, old man.”
Huffing, I swipe the bottle from her hand. “Geez, okay, Mom.”
“Hey! Don’t disrespect Mama V like that. That woman’s a saint,” she mumbles through a mouthful of granola.
I toss back the pills and chase them with a swig of water to hide my smile.
“You actually are an old man, so where’s the lie?”
“Twenty-eight is old now?”
“You’re almost twenty-nine, which might as well be thirty, which basically makes you forty, which, for all intents and purposes, means you’re middle-aged.” I snicker. “I mean, look at you. We hiked a measly three miles and you’re over here poppin’ pills. ”
I stare at her, unamused, yet entirely entertained. Gretchen eyes me sidelong, lips lifting at the corners as she tilts the water bottle to take a drink.
Faster than she can react, I reach out and give the bottle a quick squeeze.
Water gushes all over her face and down her neck and she jolts forward.
I casually sit back, the portrait of infantile innocence, and tear into my granola bar.
When she turns to look at me, hand still wiping water from her chin, I give her my proudest grin.
“The road to hell is paved with the arrogant smiles of grown ass man-children.”
“Noted.”
She tuts. “Mama V would be ashamed.”
“Nah. Being the favorite child has its perks.”
She shakes her head in good-natured exasperation as she leans back on her palms. I mirror her position and turn my gaze to the view ahead of us. We sit in silence for a few minutes as hikers come and go on the trail below.
“You still talk to your mom every week?”
I grin. “Every Friday at five like clockwork.” Same day, same time since the week I left for college. Mom doesn’t let me miss our weekly phone date for anything.
“Such a good little son,” Gretchen coos, pinching my cheek.
When she leans back on her hands, our shoulders brush and I turn toward her. Her gaze drops to my mouth and the air between us instantly sizzles. I hesitate even though every nerve ending in my body says to grab her by the neck and yank her lips to mine.
But it’s Gretchen who leans in first. I follow her lead, my heart a jackhammer in my chest. She moves an inch, I do the same, the two of us drifting together in slow motion.
Every inch gained feels like its own small finish line as an invisible string pulls us close enough that I can taste her scent on my tongue.
She pauses, eyes lowered. But mine are up, appraising her; I need confirmation that she wants this.
I sense it a moment before she says it. Her chin drops a fraction and she retreats a millimeter that might as well be a mile .
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she says on a breath so close I feel it wisp over my jaw.
My lungs inflate heavily as my stomach sinks. Nearly the same words I said to her three years ago come back to haunt me. This is what I deserve. Gretchen owes me nothing. Not even her apology.
I pull back a healthy distance, determined to not make her any more uncomfortable than she already is. “No. You, uh…” I clear my throat. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes, I do,” she says, voice low and weary. “I was…flirting…earlier, with you. I was flirting and I?—”
“Gretch, stop.”
The heels of her palms come to her temples, head shaking like it might make the last thirty seconds disappear. “I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just…today has been so?—”
Perfect. “I know, Gretch. I swear, it’s fine. I was flirting, too.” She winces; the sight a shot of arsenic straight to my heart. “ I’m sorry,” I finish.
If she hears my apology, she doesn’t acknowledge it as she turns away to dig through the bag—for nothing, I’m sure.
Every bit of the emotion she tries to hide hits me like a ton of bricks—the quiet sniffles, the shallow breaths, the quick swipe of her fingers over her cheeks she thinks I can’t see.
The tears she won’t show me. All parts of her that I used to have but lost.
“I’m sorry,” I say once more, so quiet she doesn’t hear it, yet desperate for the moment she tells me she’s ready to.