Chapter 47
Clementine
A hundred kayaks gleam in the early morning sun along the bank of Frog River, numbers stenciled bold on their sides.
The air smells like wet cedar and camp coffee, like someone split a log just for the occasion.
Racers swarm in pairs, all elbows and nerves, cinching vests, shoving shoulders, jittery with adrenaline.
The whole shoreline hums, paddles clattering against plastic hulls, names shouted across the current.
Behind the crowd, the town shows up in layers. Trucks parked crooked in the dirt lot, coolers swung open on tailgates, kids in puffy coats weaving through legs with dogs chasing behind them. People wave their cowbells like they’re personally responsible for morale.
I stand still beside the yellow kayak Alec and I checked in two days ago, ninety-three painted on the side, Lennox and Hastings scrawled beneath it.
It looks ordinary, just another bright shell lined up with the rest. Except it isn’t.
Because there is no Hastings. Not today. Not standing here with me.
Across the river, mountains shoulder into the sky, jagged and unapologetic. Snow clings to their crowns even though it’s only early fall, streaks of white like warning signs.
I tug the zipper on my life vest until my ribs ache and stretch my arms, my legs.
The motions are steady, automatic, a shield against the fact that I’m the only one without a partner.
I avoided Gran this morning, told her to just show up with Cody before the race starts.
I didn’t want to explain why I’d be racing alone.
Whatever Alec couldn’t carry, that’s his burden. Not mine.
“Clem, is Alec grabbing snacks or something?” Finn’s voice cuts in as he wheels up beside me on the shore, Yura close behind.
“You tell me,” I say.
“We just got here.”
I plant a hand on my hip, heat rising in my chest. “I thought we were building a friendship. You could’ve at least warned me he was going to bolt.”
“Alec’s not here?”
“I don’t have time for this right now,” I say. It’s not an answer, but it’s all I can give them right now.
Finn frowns, pulling out his phone, panic already creasing his forehead. Yura’s mouth opens, but the loudspeaker cuts her off.
“Racers, sixty seconds until start. Get your life jackets on and your paddles ready. Your bags will be waiting fifteen miles downstream at checkpoint two.”
That’s my cue.
I bend, grip the kayak’s edge, and haul it into the water.
I wish I’d had time to at least get a single kayak.
I’ll need to sit in the back and steer the boat.
In Alec’s spot. The river snaps cold against my ankles.
The boat wobbles under me as I get in, then steadies.
I plant my paddle, jaw tight, back straight.
The bell clangs, and the shoreline explodes into motion.
Paddles slam against the river in a syncopated thunder, fiberglass boats scraping and knocking as racers shove for space.
Cold spray hits my cheeks, the taste of brackish river water on my lips.
My kayak cuts its own crooked path through the churn, steadier with every pull.
I don’t let myself look at the empty seat in front of me, at the pairs moving in perfect tandem. I will not break here.
Through the roar, one sound cuts clean.
“Clementine!”
It rips across the river. For an instant I think it’s a trick of sound, my mind filling the absence with what it wants to hear.
My paddle dips wrong, skidding over the surface instead of slicing through.
My pulse is frantic against my rib cage.
My arms are moving, but I can’t feel them, the current dragging me forward whether I’m ready or not.
Again, louder this time, undeniable.
“Clementine!”
I know that voice. I would know it anywhere.
I don’t turn. Not yet.