Chapter 4 #3
Cole had a fire going by the time they returned, dry clothes set out like an unspoken gift. Harper and Riley disappeared into their tents to change. Jack sprawled by the fire, sullen from his encounter with the fish guts, but pleased enough with himself to not sulk for long.
Ethan dressed behind a tree, then lingered at the edge of camp. He tried to remember the last time he’d felt this alive—so much raw, immediate sensation, every nerve open.
He nearly missed Harper’s approach. She padded over in bare feet, hair a tangled flame, smile lazy.
“Hey,” she said. “Mind if I ask you something?”
Ethan shrugged. “Go ahead.”
She sat beside him, close but not touching. “I’ve seen how you look at him. Cole, I mean.”
Ethan felt the blood rush to his face, every inch of skin gone hot. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Harper said, gentle but relentless. “And it’s fine. Trust me, it’s way more interesting than Jack trying to seduce me.”
Ethan laughed, but it was a thin sound. “I’m not—I mean, it’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” Harper nudged him, shoulder to shoulder.
He didn’t answer, but Harper didn’t seem to expect it.
Riley joined them, dropping down with a theatrical sigh. He looked at Ethan, “You good?”
Ethan shrugged.
“Life’s too short not to go after what you want.” Said Riley, the sincerity in his voice was clear as day.
Harper smiled, eyes crinkling. “Exactly.”
The three of them sat there, quiet for a while. The falls never stopped—always moving, always loud, impossible to ignore.
Ethan wondered if he’d ever be able to go back to his old life, or if it even existed anymore.
Dinner that night was trout and rice with a chunk of bread and butter for each of them along with some freeze-dried huckleberries. Jack insisted on a toast for “the best damn camp cooks in the Bitterroots,” and even Cole raised a mug, though he didn’t say a word.
The group settled in around the fire, huddling against the cold, mugs of hot cocoa passed hand to hand, stories looping back on themselves, everyone a little closer, a little warmer than before.
Jack slid closer to Harper “You know, if it gets any colder, we could always, uh, double up for body heat,” he said, nudging her with his knee.
Harper smiled, but it was all teeth. “Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not any night, Jack.”
Riley cackled, nearly spilling his cocoa. “God, I love you, Harper.”
Jack shrugged it off, but everyone saw the flush on his neck.
The conversation eventually grew more loose and laid back.
Harper told stories about her time in Alaska—midnight sun, chainsaw carpentry, random flings, a woman who could drink a bottle of Everclear and still recite Shakespeare.
Riley talked about an ex-boyfriend who moved to Miami and started selling pyramid-scheme protein powder.
Ethan barely contributed. He sat and watched the group, soaking in the heat, the laughter, the shape of the people around him. Every so often, his gaze drifted to Cole, who seemed more relaxed now—firelight softening the lines of his face, making him look younger, or maybe just less defended.
When the wind shifted and the smoke blew across the ring, Cole stood. “Going to check the lines,” he announced, heading into the dark with only a headlamp for company.
The group lingered a few minutes more before breaking apart. Harper cleaned the bowls, Riley went to brush his teeth with water from the stream, Jack burrowed into his tent muttering about Wi-Fi withdrawal.
Ethan stayed at the fire, feeding the coals with small sticks, letting the smoke curl around him. The sound of the falls was louder at night, a constant static that blanketed everything else.
Riley returned and plopped down beside him, hands jammed in his jacket pockets. “You want to talk about it?” Riley asked, no preamble.
“About what?”
Riley made a face. “Dude. You’ve been on a different planet since we left the ranch.”
Ethan considered denial, then gave up. “It’s… I don’t know what it is.”
Riley leaned back, boots stretched toward the embers. “It doesn’t have to make sense. You think I planned on being a twink in the Montana backcountry? Life happens.”
Ethan let the silence fill up, only the rush of water and the snap of wood for company.
“You ever want something and not know if it’s even allowed?” Ethan said, low and shaky.
Riley nodded, serious for once. “All the time. When I was nineteen, I tried to straight-date a girl just because everyone said I should. Worst three weeks of her life.”
Ethan smiled, the image vivid and sad. “I was married. To a woman. For ten years.”
Riley whistled. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“You regret it?” Riley’s tone was light, but the question hit heavy.
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t regret her. I just… I think I regret never asking if I was allowed to want more.”
Riley’s hand found Ethan’s, a brief but deliberate touch, fingers curling around his knuckles like a secret handshake.
“You get to want what you want,” Riley murmured, and at first it struck Ethan as simple, maybe even trite, but the words burrowed deep anyway, louder than the falls, more persistent than the ache behind his ribs.
Ethan opened his mouth to reply—thanks, or maybe something sarcastic—but what came out instead was a single, shaky exhale.
His eyes stung, as if the smoke had finally caught up with him, but he didn’t look away.
Riley’s gaze stayed steady, no judgment, no pity, just an unspoken acknowledgment that people like them didn’t have to keep apologizing for what they wanted, or who.
Riley squeezed Ethan’s hand once more, then let go, as if passing a torch. “Seriously. If you need a pep talk, or a distraction, I’m your guy. Or, I don’t know, just someone to sit here and talk shit about Jack with. Whatever you need.”
The offer loosened something in Ethan’s chest. He gave a choked little laugh, surprised at how much lighter it felt. “You’ll have to work hard to top Jack’s own shit-talking,” Ethan said, voice scratchy but alive in a way it hadn’t been in months.
“Oh, challenge accepted,” Riley returned, grinning, then reached for a stick to poke at the fire. “Tomorrow I’m roasting him so hard he’ll have to sleep in the creek.”
Ethan nodded, and let his gaze drift up to the wavering constellations above. The air between them was easy, companionable, like they’d skipped a year’s worth of small talk and just landed here, beneath the dark slap of the universe.
After a minute, Riley stood, brushing the soot from his jeans. “I should crash. If I don’t, Harper’s going to steal the only dry sleeping bag.” He hesitated, then, softer: “You okay?”
Ethan thought about lying, but it seemed pointless. “I will be.”
“Good.” Riley smiled, genuine this time, then padded off into the shadows.
Ethan stayed put, letting the warmth of the fire work its way deeper. He listened as the camp settled: tent zippers, low murmurs, a distant laugh from Harper as she probably dragged Riley into a prank. The solitude wasn’t lonely tonight; it was more like space for a new shape of thought to form.
He traced the words over and over in his mind: You get to want what you want.
It felt dangerous, and also true.
A flashlight swept the perimeter; Cole returning, breath visible, boots thudding across the hard-packed dirt.
“Everything’s set,” Cole announced. “Weather’s holding. We leave at sunrise, so get some sleep if you can.”
The group nodded, none eager to move just yet. Cole lingered at the edge of the firelight, then added, “You did good today. All of you.”
When the fire burned down to coals, Riley and Cole peeled off, leaving Ethan alone at the embers. He let the cold settle in his bones before crawling to his tent, where the synthetic warmth of his bag felt both alien and comforting.
He lay there, listening to the waterfall and the hiss of wind in the pines, mind replaying every moment of the day.
He wanted. He allowed himself to want.
Outside, the world was wild and vast and endless. But inside, for the first time in years, Ethan felt like he might finally know what he was after.
He closed his eyes and listened to the falls, letting the noise drown out everything but the hope of tomorrow.