Chapter 42
Alec
Two weeks to Wild Trails, and somehow Clementine has me on a schedule I don’t want to break.
This morning, she pushed my pace on the trail until my lungs burned, grinning back at me like it was nothing. Now I’m upstairs, brush in hand, the tang of wood stain clinging to the air.
Mozart follows at my heels, nails clicking on the floorboards. He always waits for me, by the door, at the bottom of the stairs, outside the bathroom, like if he keeps watch long enough, I’ll let him in on the secret of where I’m going.
When I pause to shift the ladder, he sits back on his haunches, staring at me with those heavy-lidded eyes. I drag my hand over his head, scratching behind his ears.
“Alright, beast,” I say. “Let’s go find your mom.”
The word slips out too easily. Mom. Fucking hell. I shake my head, muttering under my breath, “Pathetic, Hastings.” But the dog thumps his tail like he agrees with me.
Down the hall, Clem’s singing cuts through the music she’s blasting in whatever room she’s working on. It gets under my skin in a way I don’t mind.
I’ve built base camps, bivouacs, whole damn shelters on the side of ice walls. None of them ever felt like this. These walls, with the sound of her joy bouncing off them, feel closer to a home than anything I’ve managed on my own.
The gear room downstairs is still empty.
Every time I walk past, I see it in my head: a dance studio for her.
Mirrors on one wall, a barre under the window where she can watch the deer in the morning.
She shouldn’t have to trek to the community center in winter to teach her new classes when there’s a perfectly good space here she can walk to.
Haven’t told her I think about it. Not yet.
Nights fall into their own rhythm. I pick her up from work, and she pulls me straight into her world.
She grins like she’s pulling one over on me when she cues up Barbie in the Nutcracker.
I lasted two whole princess films before threatening to call Brooklyn and have her body-double me through the rest. Clem laughed so hard she cried, and I sat through another one just to hear it again.
Other nights, we head the opposite way, out into the trees. Pitch a tent by the lake. Wake up with dew in our hair and the water so still it looks like the sky dropped down to meet us.
“Hey, Clem,” I call out, searching for her upstairs, Mozart on my heels. “Room next to the bathroom’s ready for paint. That yellow you showed me would look good.”
I push open the door to one of the corner rooms.
And stop.
The room isn’t empty anymore. It’s furnished.
My stomach drops. I just stand there, hand still on the doorknob, every part of me telling me this is wrong. This room should be bare, dust and boxes, maybe a new coat of paint. Nothing more.
“What is all this?”
Clem turns, caught mid-movement, like I’d just walked in on her stealing cookies.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling guiltily.
“You keep spending the night at my place. I figured maybe you could have a space here too.” She gestures at the window.
“Picked this room because it faces mine. ”
I can’t answer. My eyes move over every detail.
Slate-blue walls, the same shade as glacial ice.
An oatmeal rug under a bed frame I thought I was building for a guest room.
A plaid blanket that matches the inside of my sleeping bag.
Photos of me with Finn. Photos of me with her.
On the sill, a smooth river stone, a compass, and a neat row of carabiners.
Maps of the peaks Finn and I climbed, pulled straight from my binders.
It’s me. My life, pinned down inside four walls.
It rattles me. Hard. My chest goes tight. It’s the same pressure I feel at the base of a climb, staring up at a wall of ice. That split second before I move, when the only choice is up or back.
She’s still watching, reading too much in my silence.
“You hate it, don’t you?” She frowns. “Oh no, I’m sorry. I know you said you’ve never really had a room, but this one just seemed right.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“I just thought we could use the walkie-talkies again. Wave to each other across the hill.” Her smile turns tentative. “And maybe you wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor anymore.”
“It’s a mat and a sleeping bag,” I remind her.
“Now it’s—well, a bed. A slightly more comfortable bed.” She tilts her head. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”
“No.” I force a smile and walk over to her. “No, it’s not too much.”
“Even when you’re gone…on climbs…you’d have somewhere to come back to.” She says it lightly, but her eyes flick away, then back again, and I catch the truth under her words.
She’s been building me a tether. Something to hold me when she can’t.
Anxiety knots low in my chest, tangled with something else. Want, maybe, or just the ache of knowing I don’t want to let this go. This room means I’ve already stayed longer than I ever meant to.
For once, I don’t move.
I stay.