Chapter 2
Noah
Max slops up his water in the back seat as I merge onto the main highway to Pinebrook. It’s a small town, about twenty-five minutes from Yosemite where many of the park’s visitors stop to eat, shop, and stay overnight in one of the few motels or inns.
I grew up here, so I guess the novelty of it all has worn off despite the location outside the foothills of Yosemite and the towering pines that surround us.
While I live within Yosemite itself, in a modest, standard-issue cabin provided by the National Park Service, I make the drive out to my mother’s three to four times a week. I have to in her condition.
She lives in the single-story house we moved into when I was in seventh grade, set on two acres just outside downtown.
The house sits on a hill, with about thirty concrete steps climbing from the carport up to the front door.
I’ve climbed them more times than I can count, and every time, they feel steeper—it’s hard to face what’s at the top.
Traffic is sparse today, making my weekly trip to the local grocery store easier. As I do every week, I pull into the pickup spot and give Morgan a text that I’m here. There’s only a single reserved spot, and I swear I’m the only one who uses it.
Morgan sends me a wink face, and I smile, glancing toward the double glass doors leading into the small store.
When they automatically open, her blonde hair piled into a messy bun pokes out.
She’s dressed in pale blue skinny jeans and a hot pink long sleeve, and behind her she hauls the cart stacked full of groceries.
I roll down my window, grateful for her willingness to see to my mother’s grocery order herself each week. When she looks up, I meet her eyes, and they sparkle as a grin breaks out over her face. She’s always been beautiful.
I’ve known her since I can remember. Always hanging out with our friends throughout high school. There was a handful of us in our class that stuck around Pinebrook after graduation, and she’s one of them.
“A diamond in the rough,” Brent used to say.
He had a major crush on her in school, and I always knew he was a little jealous when Morgan and I dated our sophomore year.
For seven months we were inseparable, and it worked out great that we all shared the same friends.
Morgan could roll with the guys like the best of them.
Unfortunately, something was missing, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what. We were compatible in almost every way, and I guess I realized our relationship was a bit too predictable. Too easy.
She must’ve been feeling the same and ended up at a party with another guy.
While nothing happened between them, like the jerk I was, I used that to justify breaking up with her.
It took another six months, but with time, we started hanging out again as friends.
But while I dated throughout high school and college, she never did.
“Hey, you!” Morgan says, pulling the cart to a stop by the back doors. She gnaws on her lip, her gaze inspecting my face like she does each week I’m here.
Morgan is the owner of Pete’s Market, the local grocery store her great-grandparents founded. After her parents divorced a few years ago, she took over the management and, after a while, bought the place.
“Hey. How is everything going this week?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, the usual. We had a bad shipment of produce that set us back, but everything you ordered for your mom was in stock, so no substitutions.” Her laugh is airy and light, a direct correlation to her overall personality.
I’m not sure there’s a mean bone in her body—the girl has the attitude of a saint.
The exact opposite of that girl on the trail today.
I’m not sure why my brain scrolls through my interaction with her, or why it’s comparing her to the sunshiny disposition of Morgan, but it does. Annoyingly.
I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but Max had a long day of tracking work, and I picked a path I knew would be somewhat unoccupied this time of year. Max all but led me to her, and when I first glimpsed the woman hovering over the edge of the canyon, my heart jumped into my throat.
Don’t do it, I’d thought.
When she turned to look at Max, the brightness of her eyes blew me away. Hazel for sure, but they weren’t your average green-blue color. No. Her eyes were like starlight, and I was so taken aback I barely noticed the vape smoke seeping from the corner of her mouth.
High cheekbones accented her sharp features, including her nose, poked through with a pointed gold stud.
Her hair, dark brown with strips of reddish-purple, was tied into a wavy ponytail and she was dressed in average hiking gear.
Nothing fancy. I couldn’t help but think she was stunning in an ethereal way, although her attitude was the devilish picture of pure insolence, and I’m not sure I can trust someone who “doesn’t do dogs. ”
I would normally write a ticket to anyone vaping in Yosemite, especially when I think about my mom. I wanted to. I did, but there was something in her eyes haunting her—perhaps even consuming her on that ledge. If there was any moment to let it slide, it was then, despite my unease.
Morgan tilts her head in my direction while my arm is propped in my open truck window. “In the back?” She smiles at me with her extended lashes batting over her earthy eyes.
I nod, chuckling out a “yeah” as I get out of the truck to help her.
When she opens the back door, Max whines at the same time his tail whips the leather seat in a rhythmic thump. He makes to jump toward her.
“Bleib,” I command, issuing the stay order.
Max is still considered a young pup when it comes to working canines, so I don’t trust him not to bulldoze over Morgan.
Even though he knows her. Although, he impressed me on the trail.
As much as he wanted to say hi to the girl, he held back—sensed her tension, the way her body stiffened when he got close.
He gave her space, even though his tail was going a mile a minute.
I work with him regularly, and the training never stops. He’s been with me since he was nine weeks old, and it’s been the best two years out of my six-year tenure.
“He’s just happy to see me, Noah. Wouldn’t kill ya to take a few tips from him.” Morgan grabs a bag of produce from the plastic crate and sets it on the seat.
I force a laugh to appear casual, but I know her comment is anything but.
She’s made her intentions clear through the gossip vines of town.
She tells everyone she’s holding out for me besides telling me of all people.
However, I pretend I’m clueless, content to relegate myself to my cabin with my dog.
I value my friendship with her, but I’m not sure she’d be so happy if that’s the future I saw for us.
“Noah! How are you, good sir?”
I’d recognize Old Man John’s voice anywhere. He’s the closest thing my mom has to a neighbor, living about a mile down the road.
“John, it’s good to see you. Was just heading out your way toward my mom’s. You holding up okay?”
He shuffles toward me, leaning heavily on a worn wooden cane that clicks against the pavement. His thin frame rests hunched over, his shoulders rounded forward as years of working his three-acre fruit orchard have taken their toll.
“I’m getting old. What do you think?” John finally grunts out as he nears where Morgan and I continue to load the groceries into my truck.
I take in his red-faded plaid shirt, too large for his narrow build. It’s tucked loosely into high-waisted trousers secured with a brown leather belt. His thinning gray hair is combed over to the side, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of his nose.
He sniffs, scratching the shadow of stubble on his chin.
I meet his pale blue eyes. “Old? I think more like eighty-five years young.”
He scoffs, switching the cane from his right hand to his left and pointing at me. “I told your mother you were trouble the moment the lot of you moved in.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out.
John Darcy and his wife were some of the first people to welcome us to the neighborhood.
He was the only father figure I knew growing up, besides my mother’s brother who never came around, and was the perfect example of a husband I someday hope to be.
His wife, Millie, passed away three years ago.
“Is there anything you need me to do while I’m out that way today?” I ask.
“Nah. You just take care of that momma of yours. I stopped by the other day and brought her a peach pie my daughter made. Shipped all the way from Georgia. Can you believe that? Shipping pies in the mail. Thought I’d seen everything until I’d seen a pie come in box.”
Morgan giggles, and I smile at John.
“Well, I better get this shopping done. I’m making pot roast for all the guys tonight. Stop by if you want some,” he says, turning to hobble toward the automatic doors. “You can bring your lady friend, too.”
In my peripheral, Morgan blushes, but John is already through the doors. She clears her throat as I load the last bag into the truck.
“So … how is your mom?” She crosses one foot over the other, looking through her lashes with a pitying expression.
“She has her good days and bad days. Doctors put her on oxygen this last go around, but it’s a struggle to get her to eat. The other day, her nurse said most of the food I’d dropped off last week hadn’t been touched.” I swallow down the pit in my throat.
“Oh, Noah. Please tell me if there’s anything I can do. I’d be happy to go out and check in with her on the days you can’t make it out here.” Morgan rubs my shoulder, fingertips clasping my sore muscles. She lingers, then drops her touch.