Chapter 29
In the car, tears stream down my face, dripping onto my thighs. Thanks to the adrenaline surge, it feels like my bones are vibrating inside my body. I know I’m supposed to let these horrible emotions run their course, but it’s too much.
Nate texted me an address where I’m supposed to meet him—I guess he took an Uber?—but my hands are shaking on the steering wheel. I pull into a convenience store parking lot to gather myself.
While we were driving into North Carolina this morning, on a highway cut through thick swaths of trees, I asked how he was feeling about his pitch.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Weirdly calm. Part of me has known since Tahoe that Logan’s answer was going to be a no, but I guess I was in denial. It was easier to convince myself we just needed to talk than it was to make the leap to going after the camp on my own. To feeling like I deserve it.”
“You do deserve it,” I said.
“I know that now. And I don’t know what’s going to happen in the end, but I want to try.”
I set my hand on the back of his neck, rubbing his nape with my thumb. “I’m proud of you.”
“It’s good to try, right? Because the alternative…” He glanced at me. “The alternative can’t possibly be the right thing to do.”
I froze. It sounded like he was talking about us , but that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
He looked back at the road. “I think the exit’s coming up.”
My mind raced, and it felt like the trees were closing in on me. How could we be in a real relationship? Long-distance would be awful. He’s not moving back to L.A. So, what, I’m supposed to quit my once-in-a-lifetime job and move to Seapoint to be with him?
True, it would be the most obvious way to free myself from everything about work that’s giving me heartburn. And I’d get to live near Bailey, and see Michelle and her baby sometimes, and maybe teach classes in person somewhere but—no. It’s not an option.
My heart is still firing away in my chest. I grab a Diet Coke inside the convenience store and check Instagram.
Breanne posted a photo of us at the club, and I gained another forty-six hundred followers.
I also check my bank account, because my paycheck will hit tomorrow, and I like to see that dollar amount pending.
The fun thing about debt is that over the course of the last twenty-four hours, while Nate and I partied with Logan and had sex and drove, and while I yelled at Mom, approximately seven dollars in interest accrued on top of the principal.
That interest compounds daily, which means if I don’t pay it off, in thirty years, today’s seven dollars will balloon into almost twelve hundred dollars.
And so will yesterday’s seven dollars, and tomorrow’s, and every other day’s, stretching on and on forever, until I drown in it.
I don’t let that happen, of course. Right now, I pay off all the interest every month, plus a little bit of principal. But that would be harder to do if I, say, quit my well-paying job and moved across the country to spite my mother and follow a guy.
Nate has more sense than to ask that of me. He knows me too well. In fact, knowing him, he’s probably got an activity planned for us. Maybe a nature walk or an early dinner somewhere before we head north.
Whatever he’s planned will be a statement about what he thinks I need, and he’s good at knowing what I need. Right now, fresh air and physical activity. And him, making me laugh.
My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I punch the address into the GPS, but cell service is spotty, so it takes a minute for the map to appear.
It guides me farther outside Asheville, to a road full of sweeping curves and views of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
It’s dotted with breweries and barbecue joints.
I hang a left at the third tree service business I pass, and then I’m in a residential area, with a mix of sprawling, grassy yards and dense woods.
This doesn’t seem like the way to a restaurant or trail.
Maybe Nate found an obscure scenic overlook.
A hidden gem, a statement that what he thinks I need most is a moment of tranquility.
I turn onto a gravel road that leads into the trees and up a hill.
The car moves along with a lot of juddering and the occasional jolt.
“Your destination is on the left,” says the phone, but I nearly miss the turn. The driveway— driveway? —is surrounded by trees and brush and set at a weird angle that requires me to do a U-turn to ascend it.
At the top is a compact cabin with a stone path leading to a tiny porch.
I hop out and take in the view, only now realizing how high I’ve climbed.
One side is all forest, nestled against the property; on the other side, the ground falls away in a steep slope covered in wild, gnarled foliage, and a wide expanse of sky and mountains stretches in front of it.
Near and far, there’s endless rolling greenery.
This really is a statement. “Wow,” I say, my mouth dry.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. “It’s what this trip was supposed to be for you,” Nate explains. The gold in his hair glints in the autumn sunlight. My stomach swoops at the tenderness in his gaze. “I wanted to give you that.”
“This is for us?”
“No, it’s for you. I’m checking into a DoubleTree with a business center, and I’ll pick you up here in three days.” I stare at him until he laughs and sets his hands on my waist. “It’s for us. I thought we could stay here for a few days before heading home. Take a breather together.”
Not home, I correct him in my head. I thought being close to him would feel comforting after everything that just happened. But something about how special and beautiful this place is makes me uneasy.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “How did it go?”
There are metal bearproof trash containers next to the driveway and a boulder of emotion in my throat. “Can we go inside?”
He shifts from foot to foot. “Let’s wait a minute. I was hoping first we could…”
I make for the front door, drawing in short, shallow gulps of earthy air. Maybe this will be good once I settle down. A couple days here to squeeze out every drop from our fleeting time together and delay our return to the real world.
Nate keys in the code to open the door and cracks it open. “Quinn,” he says, reluctant, with his palm on the handle.
I push past him. The cabin has an open floor plan and was probably renovated within the last few years, with wood floors and a cream-and-oak kitchen that faces a living room with an airy high ceiling and a fireplace. The massive windows give the impression of being cocooned in the woods.
I toe off my sneakers and pad over to the shaggy rug in front of the fireplace, gazing at the trees through the glass.
This entire trip was supposed to take place in spots like this one.
If you’re going to get your head on straight, it would be easiest to do it somewhere like this, right?
There’s room to breathe here. Maybe if everything had gone according to plan, I wouldn’t still be feeling overwhelmed about my situation, barely keeping myself together.
But Nate is here, looking at me in a way that feels like a statement , and it feels like everything is about to shatter.
He stops a few feet away from me and softly clears his throat. “What happened with your mom?”
“Bad,” I rasp. “In all the usual ways. But also some new ones. I’m afraid I’m like her.”
“What?” He steps closer. “You’re not like her at all.”
“Really? Is that why you make a face every time you catch me retaking a photo five times or writing something cheesy back to a stranger who messages me?”
He shakes his head. “That’s different. I just don’t think something you dislike should be such a big part of your job.”
He’s giving me too much credit. My brittle patience cracks. “What are we doing here?” I ask.
“I thought we could talk and hang out here tonight. Maybe do an easy hike near Black Mountain tomorrow. It’s supposed to have a great downtown we can check out afterward.”
That, right there, is a romantic getaway for a real couple. Nate knows this isn’t going anywhere. He’s just enjoying pretending otherwise, and I can’t blame him. But I don’t know how much more pretending I can do. That’s why this place is making me itch.
He shifts on his feet and glances over to a sliding glass door I didn’t notice until now. I follow his gaze. “Wait,” he says, but I don’t.
The door leads out to a deck, high above where the property drops off and the valley stretches on.
What looks like a homemade dinner sits on a square table.
Roasted spaghetti squash stuffed with turkey Bolognese, I think.
The kitchen does smell like simmering tomatoes, now that I think about it.
Wine and water. A stack of battered boxes piled on a side table: board games.
Yahtzee, Operation, Scrabble. And a bunch of glowing white candles. Unscented.
My stomach sinks down to my toes.
It’s getting dark, and in the distance, one house sits on its own high up in the mountains, lights twinkling at us.
I dimly wonder who’s there, and if they’re looking back at us, wondering the same thing.
We’re not doing anything. We’re standing out here, suspended in the air, trying not to move until we have to.
Or at least that’s what we’re supposed to be doing. But this—the candles, the view, the carefully planned evening—is too much. It’s a step in a direction we can’t go.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“I’m realizing that it’s probably not the best time, so let’s just—”
“I thought you were working on your pitch.”
He gives me a pleading look. I stare him down. The events of the day have rubbed me so raw I’m incapable of letting it go. A breeze sweeps through the trees, rustling the leaves. Eventually, he gives up, opening his arms and throwing up his hands. “This is a pitch too, Quinn.”
My lungs contract. “For me?”
He nods.
I force a swallow. “Okay. Make the pitch.”