Chapter 8
JOSH
By the time we scale the first hill, my pulse is racing like I’ve sprinted up twelve flights of stairs while carrying a fire hose. I’d love to blame the climb, but I’m not sure if it’s the incline or the woman walking beside me that’s making my heart pound.
The mid-morning sun burns off the last traces of coastal fog, revealing a view that stretches all the way to the shimmering Pacific.
But I’m not looking at the ocean. I’m staring at Lily, sunglasses perched on her head and a battered water bottle swinging from her fingers.
The breeze catches strands of her shiny-gold hair, and I crave to test the texture.
How it’d feel slipping through my fingers, tangled in them as I pulled. I’m royally screwed.
Friend-zoned.
That’s my new zip code, and I have only myself to blame.
When she drew that line in the sand, I should’ve smiled, nodded, and kept a safe distance.
Instead, I begged her to take me hiking.
Smart move, Collins. Now I’m stuck in friendship purgatory with a woman who makes my heart do gymnastics routines every time she glances in my direction.
Have I condemned myself to the pelvic equivalent of a held-in sneeze by accepting her friendship? It’s what agreeing to spend time with Lily while being aware nothing can happen feels like.
Lily adjusts her backpack. The movement causes the hem of her faded LAFD T-shirt to rise, revealing a patch of skin that shouldn’t fascinate me but does.
Yep, definitely screwed.
I let her set the pace, falling in step behind her.
Dust kicks up around our ankles as we hike a short section downhill until the trail climbs again.
The preserve is stunning—golden California hills dotted with scrubby green brush and occasional wildflowers that somehow survive the perpetual drought.
But my brain has classified Lily as its favorite natural wonder, and my gaze keeps snapping back to her instead of the scenery.
“Are you hydrating?” she calls over her shoulder without turning around.
“Yes, Nurse Finnigan,” I mumble. “I’m so hydrated I might need to water a tree soon.”
She snorts. “Remember not to stand downwind.”
I catch up to walk beside her. “Sure, Mom.”
“Good boy.” She ruffles my hair, and I shouldn’t enjoy the playful contact this much.
But I can’t help myself. Not when her smile grows easier the farther we get from the parking lot. It’s as if she’s shedding an invisible weight with each step away from civilization.
The trail curves around a massive boulder, revealing a breathtaking view of the canyon below. Lily pauses, taking a quick sip from her water bottle.
When she catches me watching her again, she raises an eyebrow. “Ten bucks says Agatha has set a surveillance drone on us.”
“Ow, you’re just trying to rip me off.” I bark out a laugh. “She’s definitely hacked our phones and is listening to everything we say.”
Lily laughs—a sound I’m becoming addicted to. It’s unguarded, musical, and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that puts me on the hook with no chance of ever reeling in anything.
“HELLO, AGATHA!” she shouts into the canyon, causing a nearby bird to take flight. Her voice echoes off the rock face, bouncing back to us in diminishing waves.
“Way to blow our cover,” I tease. “Now she knows we’re on to her.”
“Please.” Lily rolls her eyes. “I guarantee Agatha’s already texted half the complex. By lunch, people will gossip we’re engaged with a kid on the way and have adopted a golden retriever. No one will believe we’re just friends.”
The casual comment hits me like a sucker punch. I try not to flinch, but something must show on my face because Lily’s smile falters.
“Sorry,” she blurts. “That came out wrong.”
“No problem.” I force a grin that hopefully doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “How about Agatha Junior if it’s a girl?”
That earns me another laugh, and the awkward moment passes.
We continue climbing, the path narrowing as it winds higher up the hillside.
We’re walking close now, our shoulders and arms brushing from time to time.
Each contact sends a jolt through my system.
I’m hyperaware of every movement she makes—how her ponytail bobs, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the contractions of her quadriceps.
“What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever carried up a mountain?” I ask, desperate for distraction.
She doesn’t even have to think. “A portable blender.”
“Were you throwing a rager in the hills?”
“No.” She shakes her head, that smile playing at her lips again. “I lost a bet. My punishment was making mountain-top guacamole.”
I picture a young Lily lugging a kitchen appliance up a trail, sweating and cursing. “That’s dedication. What was the bet?”
“I said I could drink more shots than my roommate without getting sick.” She grimaces at the memory. “I was wrong. Very, very wrong.”
“You know you don’t need a blender for guacamole, right?”
“Tell that to four twenty-year-olds with a group chat named ‘Bet Regret.’ And it gets worse.” Her eyes shine at the distant memory, to a time when she probably only had joy in her life.
“I also had to carry the ingredients—avocados, tomatoes, onions, limes. And I wasn’t allowed to use a backpack or even a bag. Everything had to be in my arms.”
“No way.”
“Way.” She nods.
The mental image is so absurd I can’t help but laugh. “Please tell me someone took pictures.”
“Sadly, yes. My roommate documented the whole humiliating experience.”
“I would pay good money to see those.”
She elbows me lightly. “Not happening, Lieutenant.”
We reach a small plateau with a fallen tree that makes a perfect bench.
By unspoken agreement, we pause to rest. Lily offers me her water bottle, and I take it, hyper-conscious that my lips are touching the same spot hers just did.
It’s a middle-school level of crush awareness that would be so embarrassing if anyone could read my thoughts.
“Your turn,” she says, taking the bottle back. “Most ridiculous hiking cargo?”
“A giant ceramic pineapple lamp, shade and all. Had to carry it three miles up a ravine because the woman I was rescuing swore it was her ‘lucky charm.’ I spent the whole hike terrified I’d break it and get cursed.”
She eyes me like she’s weighing my sanity. “Did you?”
I shake my head, feeling the phantom weight of that stupid lamp. “No, but pineapples still weird me out.”
Lily squints, skeptical. “The whole fruit, or also if you see them on pizza?”
I lean back, palms pressed to the rough wood, legs kicked out and ankles crossed. “Both. But pineapple on pizza was already a war crime before the lamp incident.”
She cracks up, head thrown back, hair catching the sunlight. “So pineapples are your sworn enemy?”
I kick at the dusty trail. “We have an understanding and keep our distance.”
Lily snorts, shaking her head, making me laugh in turn. The only sound in the valley is our laughter echoing off the rocks and drifting out over the canyon.
As we resume the hike and the slope evens out, we fall into an easy rhythm of conversation.
We trade opinions on the best donut flavors (she’s mistaken—maple bacon beats chocolate old-fashioned any day), argue about whether you can trust anyone who doesn’t like French fries (you cannot), and confess our most embarrassing autocorrect fails—me when I texted my squad mate I was going for a nun instead of going for a run, and her when she messaged another mom “you’re so sweat” instead of “sweet.” I get caught up in our easy exchanges and forget the rules she set.
Forget we’re supposed to be just friends.
It feels natural, this back-and-forth, like we’ve known each other much longer than just a few days.
When we come to a fork in the trail, I pause, studying the markers. The right path leads higher up the mountain, while the left curves around toward a viewpoint. I pull out my phone to check the map I downloaded.
“Which way?” I ask, zooming in on our location.
Lily watches me with an amused expression. “Relax. Both paths meet up again.”
I hesitate, checking the markers again.
“Are you prepping for a search and rescue? Just pick one.”
“Occupational hazard,” I reply, tapping the map. “When you’ve had to find lost hikers in the woods, you develop a healthy respect for knowing where you are.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and the atmosphere shifts. Her smile dims a fraction, and I mentally kick myself. Way to go, Collins. Remind her of the job that took her husband and is the main reason nothing can happen between us.
“Left it is,” I fire off to recover. “The view looks promising.”
She nods and starts walking, but something has changed. The easy chitchatting fades, replaced by a subtle tension. The dull twisting in my chest surprises me—I’m not even sure if it is for me, for her, or her past.
We walk in silence for a few minutes, our footsteps muffled on the dirt trail, the rhythmic sound broken only by the occasional call of a bird overhead. I rack my brain for something to say that won’t come across as too flirtatious or too impersonal.
Thankfully, the path opens up to a scenic overlook that steals the need for words.
The view is spectacular—rolling hills stretching toward the ocean, the city sprawling below us, tiny and distant.
The morning haze has burned off completely, leaving everything sharp and vivid under the California sun.
“Wow,” I breathe, awestruck.
Lily stands beside me, her face tilted up to catch the breeze. “Worth the climb?”
“Definitely.”
She gestures toward my pocket. “First hike in LA. You have to take a picture. Give me your phone.”
Instead of pulling out my phone, I drop my backpack and unzip the main compartment. “I’ve got something better.”
Her eyes widen as I pull out a Polaroid camera. “You brought that on a hike?”
I shrug. “It’s a hobby.”
“What else do you have in there?” She peeks into my backpack. “A portable espresso machine? Emergency fondue kit?”
“Just the essentials,” I say, adjusting the settings on the camera. “Water, first aid kit, snacks, and this.” I hold up the camera. “Phone photos die inside the screen, never to be looked at again.”
“You’re such an overpacker,” she teases, but her voice is warm again.
I deadpan, “If The Stains don’t work out, I can join The Overpackers. We’d be huge in Portland.”
She snorts. “You’re scarily great at making up dreadful band names.”
I shrug. “Someone has to save the world from hipster bands with perfect hygge names.”
I hand her the camera, explaining how to frame the shot and press the shutter.
She nods gravely as she takes the Polaroid from me. “Thank you for the mansplanation.” She flashes me a merciless grin. “Did you say I have to push the giant button on top, the big red one here?” She taps it.
I flip her the bird, and her smile widens. The ways this woman messes with me. I’d sign up for a hundred more rounds and happily lose every single one.
“Go stand over there,” she directs, pointing at the overlook.
I trudge over, turning to face her with my back to the view.
“Say cheese!” she calls.
The sun is warm on my shoulders as I grin, not for the camera, but for her. “No one says that anymore!”
“Fine. Say… ‘Agatha is watching us!’”
I laugh as she clicks the shutter, and the Polaroid whirs and spits out a small square of film. Lily watches with fascination as the image develops, revealing me mid-chuckle with the canyon spreading out behind me.
“We have to take one together,” I say, reaching for the camera.
She hesitates, uncertainty flashing in her eyes.
“I’m asking for a selfie,” I tease, “not matching hiking tattoos.”
That breaks her indecision. She comes to stand beside me at the edge of the cliff. I feel her warmth next to me, smell her shampoo, and try not to picture how perfectly she would fit tucked under my arm.
“Ready?” I ask, holding the camera out in front of us.
She nods.
“Okay, make your best ‘escaped cult member’ face.”
I click, capturing her reaction. The Polaroid slides out, and I catch it, waving it to help it develop.
The image solidifies into the two of us, framed against the endless blue sky.
I’m looking down at her instead of the camera mouth still open, caught making her laugh.
She’s half doubled over, her face scrunched up, losing it.
The angle isn’t flattering; we don’t look good. But we look happy.
It’s not the kind of photo you post, but the kind you keep.