Chapter 24 Jeremy
JEREMY
A retired music teacher plays “Take Me Home, Country Roads” on a beat-up Martin guitar, and even though I’d be the last one to admit it, I can’t be the only person in the crowd who has chills.
The man introduced himself as Glenn from Nebraska over dinner and told me his wife died five years ago from lung cancer.
I nodded and said I was sorry. He replied that NorthStar got him through the worst of it and she’d be happy that he was here in the mountains playing her favorite songs for strangers.
The caregiver camp is crawling with amazing people like Glenn, and they make me so fucking nervous.
For the first half hour of the welcome reception, I deployed my wealth like a shield, pretending that all those zeroes set me apart from everyone else in attendance. I know they don’t. And it quickly became clear that the people at this retreat could give a rip about my net worth.
A college-age girl—majoring in biomedical engineering, she told me proudly—whose mom is battling stage 3 ovarian cancer, said my fresh-off-the-store-shelf flannel is giving her “lumberjack dad energy.” I still can’t decide if that’s a compliment.
A retired firefighter who’s been caring for his adult son with esophageal cancer shook my hand and said he’s glad I’m here like he meant it.
In a way that I’ve never quite believed when it’s directed at me.
I knew what I was signing up for, but meeting survivors who now volunteer through NorthStar’s community platform and hearing caregivers talk about the particular exhaustion of loving someone through illness makes my goal of partnering with the Johnsons seem even more important.
My own cancer journey is something I try not to think about, let alone discuss openly.
And I went into Sloane’s diagnosis believing I could throw money at it until a successful outcome was guaranteed.
I flew her across the country on my jet for treatment at Vanderbilt like it was nothing.
Funded every experimental protocol her oncologist suggested. Writing checks became my love language.
But I never spent time in the hospital waiting rooms talking to other families.
Hell, I didn’t even bother to learn the nurses’ names or ask how they were holding up.
I sure as shit never let anyone see that I was terrified my sister was going to die.
I wrote checks and peaced out before anyone could see me as human.
What a fucking coward.
The realization isn’t new, but surrounded by fifty people who’ve done the unglamorous work of showing up with their hearts and a willingness to sit in discomfort, the truth crystallizes.
I want to be part of NorthStar because these people built the kind of community I was too proud and too afraid to seek when I needed it most.
Glenn transitions into “Rocky Mountain High,” and about twenty-five voices around the campfire join in. A few are really good, and most are decently on key. Avah is neither.
She sits next to me on one of the log benches they’ve arranged in a wide circle, wearing the fleece and jeans she changed into before dinner because the temperature near Rabbit Ears Pass drops about twenty degrees once the sun disappears behind the craggy peaks.
Her shoulder presses against my arm as she sings along with a commitment that has zero relationship to pitch.
As if she can feel the weight of my gaze, she tips her head and smiles up at me with a warmth that makes my chest feel too small for what I’m trying to hold inside it.
“You’re having a good time?” I keep my voice low enough that it stays between us.
“I’m not the one freaked out by low thread count sheets and small talk.”
“Mostly small talk,” I admit.
Her grin widens and she tucks herself against my side like she belongs there. I drape an arm around her shoulder, and the relief that moves through me when she doesn’t resist is overwhelming. At this point, I’ve stopped pretending I have any control over what this woman does to my nervous system.
“It’s powerful to hear the different stories,” she says after a minute, her eyes glowing from the flames in front of us.
“These people have been through things I can’t even imagine, and they’re sitting around a campfire singing John Denver like it’s the best night of their lives.
” She pauses as the fire pops, sending a spiral of sparks into the dark.
“I haven’t been through a thing in comparison, and my pity party over the past few weeks is absolute bullshit. ”
“You’ve been through plenty.” I tighten my grip. “Life isn’t a competition.”
She laughs. “Says the guy who wins at everything.”
“Not everything.” I haven’t figured out how to keep her at my side in a way that doesn’t appear transactional on the surface.
She glances toward the lodge, where Mariel and Joel are standing on the porch talking to a group of volunteers, and I realize she thinks I’m talking about the NorthStar partnership.
That’s fine. She doesn’t need to know yet.
On our walk this afternoon, she talked about joy like it’s a foreign language she’s teaching herself to speak.
What does joy mean to you, she asked me, and I fumbled for an answer.
Until recently, I would have rolled my eyes at the idea of joy being something worth pursuing.
I measure satisfaction through deals closed and influence asserted.
I don’t think joy is something you pursue.
It’s more a feeling to recognize and appreciate, like the contentment of sitting on a dock with someone and not having to say a word.
I built my adult life around the certainty that if I never let anyone close enough to disappoint me, I’d never get hurt.
Stockpiling money and power the way I used to collect Lego sets seemed like a foolproof strategy.
It worked for years. Then I carried this woman into my villa, and she took me apart, brick by brick.
I’ve realized there are things in the world that matter more than being in control.
And she could wreck me as easily as a toddler topples a block tower.
Across the fire, Glenn finishes the song to muted applause, no one willing to break the spell he’s woven with his voice. Avah yawns, and I pull her to her feet.
“Come on. You’re falling asleep.”
“I am not, and he hasn’t even gotten to “Sweet Caroline”.”
“We’ll add it to the playlist on the way home.”
I take her hand as we leave the circle like it’s totally normal, and no one gives us a second glance.
The path back to our cabin is lit by solar lanterns staked into the ground every few feet.
The sky above us shines with an absurd amount of stars, similar to that tropical night that changed everything.
But it’s different now. I’m different. Because of her.
“So tomorrow should be fun,” she says, swinging our hands between us.
“Or torturous, depending on your purview.”
“No need to flex with the fifty-cent words, Stanford. We’ve got this. I’m a huge asset in a team competition.”
She’s an asset, full stop, and I’m for sure going to be a disappointment.
I hate doing things I don’t excel at in front of people I want to impress, but Avah makes me want to do it anyway.
She’s not about to blow sunshine up my ass and tell me I’ll be great, but with her, failing feels survivable.
Like the worst that could happen is we capsize a canoe and she’ll laugh and call me useless, then look at me like I’m the only useless person in the world she cares about.
I shut the cabin door behind us as she moves into the room ahead of me, reaching for the hem of her fleece.
But I catch her hand. “Let me.”
The shades have been drawn, and when I turn off the overhead light, the room goes dark other than a sliver of pale moonlight filtering through the curtain and the dim glow from the porch lamp outside. But it’s enough to see the way her eyes darken when I step closer.
I pull the fleece over her head—slowly, so that she knows every layer I remove is a choice—then set it on the chair by the bed. Underneath, she’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, and my fingers graze the warm skin of her stomach as I lift it, causing her breath to stutter.
The simple cotton bra falls from her shoulders as I unclasp it and step back.
I watch her chest rise and fall as she stands in front of me, bare from the waist up, eyes blazing like we’re playing a game and she isn’t going to be the one to tap out first. That’s okay.
She’s already won everything that matters.
I lean in and trail my lips across her collarbone, so fucking grateful when she tips back her head to give me better access.
I take one nipple and then the other into my mouth as I unbutton her jeans and ease them down her hips along with her underwear.
I’m suddenly desperate to be worthy of the fact that she’s willing to be exposed in this way while I stand here fully dressed.
It’s a level of trust that I’m damn sure not going to make her regret.
I also can’t stand not to feel her skin against skin, so shrug out of the flannel and pull my T-shirt over my head.
The moment the fabric is absent, her hands are on my chest, my muscles tightening at the contact.
Fingers trembling, I undo my jeans and shove them down along with my boxer briefs, the self-control I pride myself on dangling by a single thread.
She pushes me back onto the bed and straddles me, her knees on either side of my hips.
The heat of her body against mine is enough to make my thoughts blank out.
Her hand wraps around me, positioning me at her entrance.
And when she sinks down, the sound I make is raw and embarrassing and I don’t care.
She starts to move, and I realize I’m not alone in wanting to savor this.
Her hips roll in an agonizingly slow rhythm.
I grip her waist, not to control the movement, but because I need to touch her.
Her head falls back and I raise up enough to kiss the hollow of her throat, tasting salt and the campfire smoke that clings to her skin.
“Look at me,” I command gently.
Her eyes are heavy-lidded, those rosebud lips parted, and the unguarded expression on her face guts me.
I understand the walls she’s built to make sure no one gets close enough to leave a mark deeper than skin.
But she’s letting me inside her fortress and I’m going to treat it like the precious fucking sanctuary it is.
Her breathing goes ragged as she picks up the pace, fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave tiny crescents in my skin.
I match her speed, a hand splayed across her back while the other slides between us.
When one finger finds her clit, she jerks and bites back a moan.
I keep the pressure steady, letting her grind against my hand while she rides me.
I know she’s close when her thighs start to tremble, and her body tightens around me.
I press harder against that swollen nub and her body arches, and then she’s coming.
It’s hard and pulsing and pushes me toward my own release.
Her nails score my shoulders, and then suddenly, before the wave has finished cresting, she leans down and fuses her mouth to mine.
My brain stops functioning.
She tastes like marshmallow and something infinitely sweeter. For a full second, I don’t move. Because this is the thing she said no to. The line she drew that night in Bora Bora when she needed to keep a piece of herself safely locked away. The rule that kept the last wall standing.
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, the breath mingling between us so that I’m not sure where I end and she begins.
“Kiss me, Jeremy.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I trust you.”
Three words that crack open a fault line in my chest that runs deeper than I knew I had in me.
She let down her walls even though every other man in her life showed her that trust was a trap.
She survived and flourished by dismantling the belief that she deserved to be cherished. And now she’s choosing to trust me.
I flip her onto her back and she lets out a breathless laugh that turns into a gasp when I push back inside her.
I brace myself on one arm, cup her face with the other hand, and I kiss her the way I’ve wanted to since the first night, feasting on her while I move inside her.
She wraps her legs around me and fists her hands in my hair.
Our kiss becomes the center of everything.
Every thrust, every breath, and those beautiful, needy sounds she makes against my lips.
I drag my tongue over her jaw and kiss the corner of her mouth. Then I come back to her lips. Because I can’t stop. I’m already an addict.
She arches into me and I adjust the angle and rhythm of my thrusts. And when she moans into my mouth, I feel it in every nerve ending.
“Please.” She gasps out the plea, and then her tongue is sliding against mine, and I’m lost.
The orgasm builds at the base of my spine, and I try to hold it back because I don’t want this to end. Can I even exist in a world where her mouth isn’t on mine, her body not wrapped around me?
She comes again, a shudder that rolls through her whole body, and I follow her over the edge with my mouth still pressed to hers, swallowing the sounds we make together, my hand still cradling her face.
We lie there afterward, with me still half hard inside her.
Her fingers trace patterns on my shoulder blade, and neither of us speaks because some moments don’t need words.
I press my lips to her temple and then the bridge of her nose before I return to her mouth, giving her every opportunity to revoke my privileges.
It would fucking kill me at this point, but I’d never take that choice from her.
“The no kissing rule was there for a reason,” she murmurs.
“Yes, it was.”
Her eyes in the half-dark shine with an emotion that makes my heart scramble for purchase. Then she offers me a smile that rivals every sunrise that ever was. “Fuck the rules,” she whispers.
I grin right back and then kiss her again. Because I can. Knowing like I know my own name that I’ll never want to stop.