Chapter 52 Alec
Alec
It’s strange. Seeing my entire family, and now hers too, filling a house that only two months ago was cobwebs and creaking floorboards.
For years, I thought joy was a summit. The burn in my lungs, the sting of wind so harsh it cut, the silence pressing heavy against my ears. I thought that was the point—being alone on top of the world, higher than everyone else, untouched.
But this—this noise, this mess, this warmth—it gives me a high I’ve never found on any wall of rock or sheet of ice. Turns out, summits don’t mean much if you don’t have someone to climb back down to.
Control is a stupid illusion, one I told myself made life worth living.
But I’m tired of taking my life for granted.
I want to stay up late and hold my girl and pup while watching the stars.
I want to share a glass of whiskey with Finn while he reminds me of all our stories together.
I want to get to know Yura, Margaret, the people of Misthaven, and let my family in more.
Fear is death on the ice was useful to me for years, but fear was just an excuse that kept me from taking the scary risk of letting people in.
I want to build a life that’s loud and messy, even if that means I risk losing people in ways that have nothing to do with the mountain.
I want to live.
I want to be happy.
I want to love my girl more than I ever thought possible.
And the only person holding me back…was myself.
I kiss Clementine’s forehead and feel something click into place. It isn’t a vow to stop climbing. It’s a small, honest truth that I will wake up and choose this. Choose her and us every day.
Out the window, I watch Dante and Cameron race through the shallows, Reese and Daphne shrieking as water splashes up around them.
Ezra and Hazel paddle smooth circles across the lake, heads bent close, easy in their rhythm.
My brothers have been in love for years, swapping stories about trips and weddings, talking in a language I never thought I’d learn.
But now I get to have that too.
Showing my parents our lodge is nice. Mom cries, of course. She never thought I’d settle. Neither did I, if I’m honest. But the pride on her face, like she can finally breathe knowing I’ve found something worth coming back down for—that’s worth everything.
“I never knew you knew color like this,” she says, stroking the cherry wood cabinets and the lace curtains Clementine picked.
“Oh, that’s all Clem,” I say, pulling her close. She’s holding a glass of mulled wine, lips stained red, laughing with my mother. And God, she belongs here.
“You two must come redo our kitchen,” Mom says.
“Only if you don’t mind a tad bit of flooding,” Clem teases.
“It was her damn muffins distracting me.” I pinch her side, and she slaps my chest.
“What can I say? Lennox muffins are irresistible,” Margaret calls from the barstool, pouring glasses of Bill’s favorite whisky.
“You two gonna start a house-flipping show? Who knew Alec could do something other than climb! Rock. Big. Me climb.” Frankie crouches under the dining table, trying to sweet-talk Mozart out from beneath it.
The dog is gnawing a log like he’s carving his own furniture.
Better the woodpile than the chair legs—he already whittled one this morning.
“Be careful, Frankie,” I warn, “or a tree branch might fall on that shiny new car of yours.”
She jerks up, smacks her head on the table, and raises a fist without flinching. “You wouldn’t dare, bro.”
“Try me.” I smirk.
Dad steps in, arms crossed, his grin all mischief. “I’m surprised one of these rooms doesn’t have a climbing wall.”
“He’s actually working on one out back. He already showed me the sketches,” Clem says, pride lighting her face.
Dad grins. “You always wanted a wall at the house. Now you’re finally getting one, son.”
Finn comes in on his crutches, dressed in a button-up shirt and dress slacks. His hair is combed, and his beard is trimmed.
“You’re walking!”
“Just for the next five minutes, until Yura makes me sit back down.”
“Did you get shorter, bro?” I laugh, giving him a soft hug.
“So, what’s next? You really bunkering down here?” Dad asks.
“Iceland next month,” I say. “Finishing the docuseries on glacial melt.”
“Finn, you going?” Mom asks.
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m starting an expedition prep program here, like Clem’s grandpa did. To help people get ready to climb Denali. I need to hire some real climbers, obviously, ’cause it’ll probably be a few years before I can go up.” He slings an arm around Yura’s blue cotton dress.
“So you’ll be doing Iceland alone?” Mom asks me.
“No, Jillian got some experienced climbers to come with me.”
“Bet they’ll be half as handsome as me.” Finn slaps my head, playfully. “And don’t worry, Mom, he promised to come back before winter so I can crush him on the slopes this year.”
“Okay, maybe we can wait another year before skiing,” Yura says, bopping his nose.
Mom’s hand finds my cheek. “I love seeing you happy.”
I grip her hand, but I’m staring at Clem. “I am. I really am.”
“Will you make a speech, Alec?” Margaret motions to the drams of whiskey on the kitchen counter.
“He’s not much of a wordsmith.” Finn smirks.
“I’d love to.” I shove Finn’s shoulder. People come in and grab a whiskey.
My people.
“To Bill Lennox, who built this lodge with his hands and left it standing strong enough for us to fill it again. To Margaret, for not coming after me with her gardening shears and for making this place look better than it has any right to. Those ornamental cabbages mean a hell of a lot to me, even if nobody else here gets it.”
Clementine’s smiling at me, and Margaret’s beaming like I just handed her a medal.
“To my siblings—thank you for making me tough and for teaching me that tough doesn’t mean unkind.
To my parents, who taught me the only three things worth learning: work hard, be decent, and don’t be hasty.
To Finn—for surviving the stupidest things we tried on K2.
I can’t wait to see what we get up to in the next twenty-seven years. ”
Finn lifts his glass, grinning at me.
“To Yura, for making my best friend laugh like I’ve never heard him laugh before, and for your physical therapy spreadsheets, which frankly scare me. They rival mine.”
Gleams of amusement dance from face to face.
“And finally”—my throat tightens, but I don’t care if my voice cracks—“to Clementine. Thank you for not hitting me with a shovel the first day we met, even though you had every right to. Thank you for showing up to every single practice, for your patience and your smartass comments. Thank you for being curious and kind and funny. For turning this house into a home. For turning me into a man who has one. I’d choose you, Clementine, over and over again. I love you. I love all of you.”
I lift my glass, and the crowd roars with it.
When I turn, she’s already in my arms. I kiss her hard, and the world blurs. My ears are red—I can feel it—but I don’t care.
“I love you,” I whisper into her mouth. Then, to everyone else and still grinning like an idiot, I say, “Now, I’m stealing away my Wild Trails partner for a proper thank-you.”
They all boo, but I flip them a finger and whisk Clementine away.
“I love you too,” she says.
“I love you three. I’m serious,” I answer, and I am. It’s the most serious I’ve ever been.
The hallway is quiet as we walk to the back of the lodge. “Where are we going?”
“You deserve a place to teach your classes. If you want to teach at the community center, you can. But I thought you needed something of your own. A proper studio.”
I push open the door to the old briefing room, Bill’s maps and gear long gone, and she stops cold in the doorway.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line one wall. A pale barre stretches the length of another, sanded smooth. The floor gleams with polish, the faint scent of lemon oil and sawdust still clinging to the air. The space hums like it’s been waiting for her.
Clem covers her mouth with her hand. “Alec…”
“I think I was promised a dance lesson,” I say softly, holding out my hand.
Her laugh is a broken thing, halfway between disbelief and wonder. “Now?”
“Yes, Miss Lennox. Now.”
I scroll the wheel on my ancient silver iPod. From the speakers, the cello of Gnossienne: No. 1 spills out, slow and velvety. The sound curves around us, filling every inch of the studio.
She steps into my arms, and the world rights itself. My hand at her waist, hers clutching mine, we begin to move. It isn’t ballet. It’s clumsy, swaying, too much of my boots catching on the floor.
But it’s intimate.
Honest.
Ours.
She tilts her head up at me, smiling through tears. “How are you so good at this?”
“Family galas. Parents forced all of us into dance lessons.”
“And you never said anything.”
“We have a lifetime for me to tell you things.”
She lets out a choked laugh, shaking her head. “Good at dancing and sappy. Where was this guy all these months?”
I spin her gently, guiding her back into my chest. “Waiting,” I murmur, “for someone like you to remind me what life is all about.”
Her forehead presses to mine, and for a moment it feels like the whole room is holding its breath.
I shift my grip, careful, steady, and lift her. Higher, until her toes leave the floor. She gasps, laughing, suspended in my arms the way she made me watch in Dirty Dancing and on my birthday. I kiss her, and it feels like oxygen after too long without it.
“I could get used to this,” she whispers.
“Then get used to it,” I tell her. “Come to Christmas in California with me. Bring your gran. Finn and Yura too.”
Her brow lifts. “I could ask Mom to drive up from Concord?”
The thought lands in my chest like something heavy and solid, like stone. Like building a world brick by brick. “I’d love to meet her.”
“If you think Gran’s spicy, just wait until you meet Mom.”
“I’d love that,” I say again, and I mean it. “And Iceland. Will you come? Not to climb. Just to be on the boat when I come down.”
She bites her lip. “Yes. One hundred times yes.”
Her laugh rings out, filling the studio. I know I’ll carry that sound with me anywhere.
“I love you, Clementine,” I tell her. The most certain thing I’ve ever said. “You’re my favorite adventure.”
She looks at me the way people look at something they’ve been searching for. “I love you, Alec Hastings.”
We sway across the polished floor, her weight trusting against mine, my hand steady at her back. This is the next summit of my life. The family dinners, the brutal climbs, the mornings with her hair a mess, the nights with Mozart chewing furniture.
Everything I needed was always waiting for me.
I’m not afraid of the climb ahead.