Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
VICTORIA
A t least we have showers,” Sophie says. “This is way better than some of the other campgrounds we’ve used.”
The campground that Noah reserved for us is in a state park just a fifteen-minute drive from the institute. Surrounded by dense woods, it feels secluded even though it’s just a mile off the main highway. The kids are already paired off and choosing the spots where they want to pitch their tents before we head out on this afternoon’s short hike. So far, this exercise feels like a logic problem from grade school: if your group has eighteen kids, three adults, and twelve campsites, how long will it take to set up a tent before a hungry bear comes looking for a snack?
Noah keeps telling me that black bears won’t eat me, but I still have my doubts. They have pointy teeth, after all, and those aren’t made for scarfing down blueberries.
According to Sophie, this outing is one of the kids’ most anticipated traditions. The institute provides tents and camping supplies, and the kids bring their own sleeping bags. Our plan is simple: first, we set up camp, then we go on a short hike through the afternoon. Then it’s dinner and a little free time, and at dusk, the instructors will meet us to do an evening stargazing program. Tomorrow, we break down camp, do a half-day canoe trip, and then get back to the institute before dinner time. Sophie makes it all sound so easy—if I follow her lead, I’ll be fine.
Probably.
Noah’s making the rounds with his campground map and a clipboard as the kids choose their sites. He’s already marked off three sites on the perimeter for the adults—Noah, Sophie, and I will each have a tent to ourselves and will be positioned in a triangle around the kids so we can monitor them. Everything with Noah feels like a tactical formation.
When everyone has chosen, Noah and Sophie demonstrate how to set up a tent. A few of the kids have done this before, but those who haven’t are watching with rapt attention, like they’re going to be tested on this later. I’ve never set up a tent in my life since my idea of camping is staying in a two-star motel with no complimentary breakfast.
You can do this, I tell myself. Camping is fun. Let yourself have fun.
I watch carefully as Sophie and Noah extend the poles from Sophie’s dome-style tent and snap them into place. Easy-peasy, kids! While they slip the poles through the fabric and stake them into the ground, I try to focus on the sequence of steps and not on the delicious way that Noah’s forearms flex as he snaps those poles together.
Once Sophie hammers the last stake into place, they declare it done and slap a high-five in true camp spirit that earns a cheer from the kiddos. Noah flashes his megawatt smile, and when his gaze rests on mine, it sends an electric current straight through my belly and down to my wobbly, traitorous knees.
Ugh. Get it together, I scold myself. But I can’t help it because Outdoor Survivalist Noah is even hotter than Protective Noah.
The kids scatter to set up their tents, and soon the air is filled with shouts and laughter. Sophie goes around to help troubleshoot while I head back to my campsite and try to hold Noah’s demo in my brain. If the kids can do it, I can do it. This part, mercifully, is not rocket science.
Twenty minutes later, I’m surrounded by bits of fabric and thin metal poles, and clearly I’d have a better shot at completing a complex equation that describes the behavior of black holes than assembling this tent. None of the pieces connect the way they should, and what I’ve managed to piece together looks like an elaborate modern hat someone would wear to the Kentucky Derby.
Meanwhile, the kids closest to me are hammering their tent stakes and tying on rain flaps like they were born in the wilderness. Never have I felt so inadequate. Layla waves to me when she catches me studying their moves, and I give her a big thumbs up and shout, “Nicely done!”
Turning back to my tent, I yank a corner of the fabric into position and it pops free and smacks me in the face.
Noah and Sophie had his tent together in under ten minutes. Why is this so difficult to wrap my head around? I can stage houses so even the most outdated ones look inviting. I can negotiate prices with investors, juggle contractors, and make the most demanding clients happy. I did the demolition in the house I shared with Theo myself, knocking down walls with nothing but a sledgehammer and low-level rage, for Pete’s sake. But now this crummy one-person tent is going to be my undoing.
I ball my hoodie up and shove it over my face, letting out a muffled scream.
“Hey there,” Noah says, because of course he’s suddenly right by my side when I’m about to fall apart at the seams. “Need a hand?” As he surveys the debris field that is my campsite, he has the audacity to look amused.
My shoulders slump. I was finally starting to feel like I fit in here and was getting the hang of this whole wild, wonderful outdoorsy thing, but this tent is throwing my high hopes in my face. It’s telling me that I don’t belong here on the mountain—not hiking, canoeing, or sleeping in a tent.
But this is where I am, and the only way out is through.
“I really wanted to get this one thing on my own,” I tell him. “You made it look easy.”
“It’s not always,” he says. “For starters, though, I’d suggest setting up a little farther away from that poison oak.”
I stare at the plant where he’s pointing and sigh.
“It’s okay to ask for help, you know.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hiking pants—which naturally fit him like a glove—and lifts a brow. “I promise you won’t burst into flames if you do.”
“If you’re wrong about that, I’ll start a wildfire.” I know he’s teasing, but he’s right. “In the Griffin house, asking for help meant you were weak,” I explain. My parents were experts at making demands—but for them, asking meant being needy. I didn’t want to be weak, but didn’t want to be a demanding jerk either. It was easier to just do everything myself—because that way, the only person who could fail me was me .
He steps closer, so we’re toe-to-toe, and brushes a lock of hair from my cheek. “Victoria, in a million years, I’d never describe you as weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
I swallow hard, leaning into his touch.
“You don’t have to be amazing at everything,” he says. “You’re plenty amazing, just as you are.”
My heart flutters against my ribs and I blink back tears. No one’s told me that before. Not ever. And I never realized how much it would mean to hear those words.
A peal of laughter erupts from somewhere behind us, breaking the spell. Flashing me a tiny smile, Noah picks up a couple of poles and snaps them together, then motions for me to grab the biggest piece of fabric.
“To be fair,” he says, “these older models are extra tricky.”
“You don’t have to say that. I know I’m woefully out of my element.”
He smirks. “Isn’t that part of the idea of summer camp?”
“For the kids, sure.”
Those tiny creases reappear at the corners of his eyes. He slips the rod through the loops in the fabric, wiggling it through a stubborn part as he guides the pieces together. And just like that, this lump of nylon and aluminum is starting to take shape. “You want to get the other side?” he says.
I repeat his movements on the other side of the frame, careful not to pinch my fingers as I wrestle the pole into place. He holds it steady, and then hands me the rubber mallet that we use to pound the stakes into the ground.
Next, I let him help me tie on the rain flap, even though I remember how to do this part. It’s not supposed to rain tonight, but this is classic Noah—always prepared for anything.
“You’re all set,” he says. “Achievement unlocked.”
“I might have to curl up like a cat to fit inside that thing.” Somehow it looks smaller now that it’s put together properly. “How is it possible to fit two people in one of these without being twisted up like pretzels?”
His brow lifts as a bit of pink creeps into his cheeks, and now I’m thinking of being tangled up with him and feeling all those chiseled muscles pressing against mine. This is bad. Very bad.
A whistle splits the air, and Sophie yells, “Gather ‘round, campers!”
Noah turns to where the kids are gathering, but before he heads toward them, he flashes his deadly smirk and says, “Two people fit just fine.”
The trail is well-maintained, wide enough to walk two abreast. Birds chatter in the evergreens that tower above us. The rhododendron and laurel are heavy with blooms, their broad leaves dappling us in shade. Noah’s in the lead again, but this time I’m in the middle of the group, with Sophie at the back. Layla and Priya are on either side of me, telling me all about the research project they’re working on this week. Talking about it lights them up and makes me wonder: when’s the last time my work made me feel excited to dive in? When’s the last time I felt passion for what I was doing?
I was great at my job in real estate—it was a kind of problem-solving that comes naturally to me, and it was satisfying to help people find their dream homes. But did it light me up? No. Did it make me excited to get out of bed each morning? Not really. It made me feel like I was successful, though, like I’d found something I was good at and could make a living with. After ending things with Theo, I realized I’d been telling myself that I was happy—that I should be happy—because I had a good job, could save money, had made my parents proud.
But I wasn’t proud of myself. I was afraid to think too hard about what it meant if I stopped doing the work that made my parents proud of me. Who was I if not the scrappy real estate agent, the successful daughter with the solid ten-year plan and the healthy 401(k)? Who was I, if I wasn’t chasing down my next big milestone?
Deep down, I’d felt like an imposter for a long time. After college, I’d run back home from Charleston and taken the path my mother wanted me to take. I’d kept telling myself Fake it till you make it , but that just left me feeling…well, fake.
I’ve been operating on autopilot for so long that I lost track of what I want most. It’s buried deep somewhere in a corner of my heart, under the crushing weight of everyone’s expectations. But being here is showing me how I might be able to lift that weight.
“You have to come visit me in Atlanta,” Layla says to Priya. Ever since she found out that Priya’s aunt and uncle live in her hometown, the two have been cooking up plans to see each other after camp.
“My parents have scheduled my whole summer,” Priya tells her. “After this, it’s soccer camp. Then it’s engineering camp, and then violin camp. My mom says it’s important to be well-rounded.” She rolls her eyes. “Even though I don’t like sports and I’m tone-deaf.”
“Yikes,” Layla says. “The only other one I go to is theater camp. But my parents are sending me to Japan for two weeks in August to visit my grandparents.”
“I’d love to do theater camp,” Priya says. “But my mom would never let me.”
“I’ll sneak you in,” Layla says. “Just skip soccer camp and come stay with me.”
“My mom would kill me,” Priya says. “For real.”
“She’s on another continent!” Layla says. “She never has to know.”
“My parents are in Italy for the summer,” Priya tells me, a sad note in her voice.
“Well, I’m really glad you’re here with us,” I tell her, and she gives me a genuine smile that makes me wonder how often she hears those words.
“And we’re really glad you’re here,” Layla tells me.
“Yeah,” Priya echoes. She plucks a small white flower from the trail and sticks it behind her ear.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
Layla shrugs. “You make it seem like you don’t have to be good at everything to still be amazing.”
I’m stunned speechless. Here I thought these kids would be cataloguing my failures, thinking my being here was some colossal joke. I’ve been so fixated on what I’m doing wrong that I hadn’t imagined what I could be doing right.
Maybe I’ve been doing that even longer than I can remember.
They’ve moved on to telling me a story about Derrick getting poison ivy in an unfortunate location when we come to a set of steps leading up. Just like the other trail, these are made from weathered railroad ties and look like they’ve been here for a hundred years. My thighs are burning by the time we reach the top, where there’s a small clearing in the laurels. I pause to catch my breath, taking in the panoramic view from the top of the ridge. It’s gorgeous up here, with the deep greens of the trees in the gorge below and the bright blue sky above. Noah’s standing with the kids from the front of the group, gathered on a wooden platform. Priya and Layla gasp and hurry toward it, chattering with delight. I’m still trying to catch my breath when Sophie comes up behind me with the last few kids. They all scramble down to where Noah stands and Sophie gives my shoulder a nudge.
“This is the best part,” she says. “Get ready to have your mind blown.”
I follow her to where Noah’s gathered the kids, wondering what on earth is about to happen on that platform.
Then I see what has everyone so captivated.
I’ve been to the Smokies before, and I’ve seen some stunning panoramic views of the mountains. But this takes my breath away. To our left, the mountains undulate like waves, shades of blue and green that seem unearthly. There’s a scattering of puffy white clouds, and the sky feels impossibly wide. I turn slowly, taking in the endless bursts of white and pink from the laurels, and when my gaze rests on Noah, he’s grinning like he’s just discovered that these mountains exist.
But then he steps to the side and my chest tightens with panic. My heart falls straight down to my toes and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that my brain is playing tricks on me.
But it’s not.
Because just beyond Noah and the platform is a narrow bridge that looks like it’s made from fishing line and two-by-fours. Beneath it is a gorge that looks ten miles deep.
Noah’s going over the rules—no jumping on the bridge, no horseplay—and I’m considering scribbling my last will and testament on a napkin in my backpack.
“Is this an in-and-out trail?” I ask Sophie.
She smiles. “Nah, it’s a loop. We only get to cross once, so take all your photos now.”
I swallow hard. There goes my idea of waiting here for them to circle back.
“This used to be a swinging bridge,” Sophie tells the kids, stepping off the platform. “But now it’s updated with reinforced cables and wood beams.”
That sparks a dozen questions from them because they’re fascinated. A tiny bridge strung from one mountaintop to another? They’re here for it. Sophie and Noah are tag-teaming this moment, their excitement contagious as they go on and on about how we’re a hundred and twenty feet from the ground, on a bridge first built eighty years ago that took two years to complete. The kids are soaking this knowledge up like little sponges, but I don’t want to hear any more about engineering today. Yes, this is a construction marvel, but my brain keeps picturing that bridge in Romancing the Stone , the one made from vines and scrap boards so narrow that Kathleen Turner couldn’t even get her whole tiny foot on them, and my heart is pounding so hard it hurts .
Sophie leads the way, and the kids start crossing with her, and how on earth does this bridge not snap like a pencil under their weight? I’m shuffled closer to Noah by all the eager moving bodies, and pretty soon, there are just five kids standing between me and Noah, and my untimely exit from this mortal plane.
Priya looks over to her right, where I can see straight down to the river below. Next to her, Derrick yanks his lucky hat from his head and shoves it into his back pocket. Priya’s eyes widen and Noah tells her, “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe.”
I have serious doubts about that, but I can see from this angle that the bridge is not made of vines and scrap board. It’s built from cables as thick as my forearm and massive wooden beams with steel bolts big enough to hold a ship together.
Layla grins at Priya as she takes her hand and says, “It’s okay. We’ll help each other.”
Noah smiles at them and says, “Y’all got this,” and something inside me melts at the way he so easily offers this gentle encouragement.
The girls peek over the chest-high rail, and then Priya’s shoulders relax and they take a few more steps.
“You good?” Noah asks me.
I nod, but my feet have rooted to the earth. My heart is at a full gallop now and I want to curl into a ball.
He arches a brow like he can see right through me, straight to my shivering heart, but he doesn’t push. I want to do this on my own, without his help. Because I’m a grown woman, and I should be able to cross a bridge, even if it’s a mile above the safe, solid ground. It’s just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other—a fact that my brain logically knows, but my body refuses to believe.
Probably, this is an apt metaphor for several parts of my life.
I swallow hard, because I don’t want the kids to see me standing here terrified, freezing like a rabbit. Fear is contagious, and I don’t want to ruin this moment for them when they’re being so brave and full of wonder.
“Go ahead,” I tell Noah. “I’ll come over last.” This is our protocol, after all. One adult comes after all the kids, making sure no one feels rushed or left behind. On the other side of the gorge, the first kids over wave and shout. A few are still crossing, some lingering to peek down and soak in the view.
Was I ever that fearless? When did I stop believing that I could do anything I could dream?
Taking another deep breath, I feel my chest expand the slightest bit. The last two kids start across, and now I’m alone on this side of the gorge.
Noah’s standing near the middle of the bridge, no doubt waiting there just in case any of the kids get nervous. So far, none of them are. It’s just me whose knees have turned to Jell-O. When all the kids have crossed to the other side, I realize that he’s hanging back because of me. So I take one step onto the bridge, and then one more. He looks at me and smiles—a real one, like the one that tugged at my heart on the night we met—and it feels like this will be okay.
Still gripping the rail, I focus on Noah’s warm gaze, the relaxed line of his shoulders, his lips as he mouths the words, You’ve got this.
And then I make the horrible mistake of looking down. Below us, a river winds through the trees like a thread. My heart hammers against my ribs and I sink down, stopping before I’m on my knees.
“Whoa,” Noah says. His voice is gentle, quiet. “You’re okay.”
My hands grip the rail so tightly that my knuckles are white. When I look back at Noah, he’s taking slow steps toward me. His lips are moving, but my ears are ringing so loud that I can’t hear his words. Each time he takes a step, I feel the vibrations ripple through the bridge, into my hands and feet.
This is a fear I didn’t know I had. It doesn’t make sense, because I’ve stopped at scenic overlooks. I’ve stared off the side of a mountain, and I’ve driven across bridges over inlets that stretch to the horizon. This shouldn’t be that big of a deal.
But my pounding heart tells me that it is.
“Hey,” Noah says. He’s only about ten feet away now, but he seems to understand that the footsteps and the vibrations are making this so much worse. “It’s okay,” he tells me, keeping his voice calm and quiet. “I promise you’re safe, and I’ll help you.”
I nod, though I don’t agree. None of this feels okay.
“You want to hear some fun facts about this bridge?” he asks, his tone light.
I snort. “Not really, Valentine.”
He bites back a smile, no doubt thinking that having me irritated at him is better than being terrified. “It has a weight limit of four tons. It can hold at least thirty people safely, and it was reinforced with more steel cables about ten years ago. You could ride a buffalo over this thing.”
“Super,” I wheeze. My brain helpfully supplies me with an image of this bridge snapping in half and I’m sinking to my knees again.
“The distance across is shorter than the distance from your cabin to the dining hall,” he says. I know he’s trying to help, but I heard Sophie when she told the kids it was just over a hundred feet across. Right now, it might as well be a mile.
I look past him to where all the kids are now staring, and a wave of embarrassment nearly knocks the wind from my lungs. Why can’t I just put one foot in front of the other the way that they all did?
“Vic,” he says quietly. “Do you want me to come over to you?”
I shake my head, biting my lip.
“What can I do?” he asks. “What do you need?”
Again, I shake my head, because I honestly don’t know. Lately, everything feels off. I can’t get a handle on what I want anymore. I don’t trust myself to know what I need. My skin feels too tight and my brain feels scrambled, and now my whole body feels like concrete.
“You got this, Victoria!” Priya yells. Next to her, Layla gives a loud whistle and throws her hands in the air.
“You can do it!” another kid yells. And then another. And then all the kids are chanting my name, shouting out encouragements, and something in my chest loosens.
I’ve never felt so many people rooting for me in all of my life. Sophie, Noah, these kids who barely know me and don’t want a single thing from me—except to have me join them on the other side.
My heart feels like it cracks wide open, and I take another step toward Noah. He smiles—that secret smile that’s only for me—and I take another step.
Behind him, the kids keep cheering and calling my name, and Sophie’s clapping right along with them.
“That’s it, Vic,” Noah says, his voice still low and steady. “You got this. Just a few more steps.”
I inch toward him, but it still feels like I’m trying to wade through cement. I take a couple more steps and my foot catches on something. When I look down to check, I see the gorge down below, and seeing the sheer amount of air between me and the ground makes my gut churn.
“Hey,” Noah says. “Look at me. Don’t look down.”
I close my eyes, gripping the rail. Every muscle in my body has gone rigid and moving my feet again feels like an impossible task. I want to tell him this, but before I can even put the words together, I feel the bridge vibrating again under my feet. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, wishing I could make all of this go away, and then I feel a hand wrap over mine.
When I open my eyes, Layla’s standing in front of me. She’s somehow pried my hand from the rail and is holding it in hers.
“Holding hands helped me,” she says, and my heart somehow finds a way to crack open even more. She gives me a firm nod and squeezes my hand, and there’s no way I’m staying rooted here now.
Across the gorge, the other kids are still shouting their encouragement and Layla smiles. “It’s scary for a minute, but then totally worth it, right?” she says, and my chest loosens. I take one step, and then another, and Layla starts telling me about her project again. Using some kind of complex equation they learned to figure out if we have another planet in the solar system, hiding in plain sight. I understand about a third of what she’s saying, but it has me thinking about rogue planets instead of hundred-foot drops, and pretty soon we’re past the halfway point and Noah has started walking backward, keeping his eyes steady on mine.
My legs move more easily, and by the time we get within a few feet of the other side, I have one hand on the side rail and am almost walking fully upright again. The kids’ shouts are louder now, and as soon as Layla leads me off the bridge and onto the platform, they all erupt in cheers.
Sophie pulls me into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I had no idea.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Honestly, neither did I.”
Noah claps his big hand on my shoulder and says, “Knew you could do it, Vic.”
I nod as he squeezes my shoulder, and before I realize what’s happening, I’ve wrapped my arms around him in a bear hug. My cheek’s pressed against his chest, and the thumping of his heart is as soothing rain on a rooftop. His body relaxes as his big arm tightens around me, and what’s left of this wall between us crumbles into dust.