Chapter 20 Brad
The trail turned vicious as we climbed, each step a negotiation between my knee and gravity.
Serena walked ahead, her breathing labored in the thin mountain air, auburn hair escaping from her ponytail to stick to her neck.
Even gasping in the thin air, even dusty and demolished by the climb, she made my chest tight for reasons that had nothing to do with elevation.
"How much—" she paused, gulping air like water, "—further before I die?"
"Next bend." I caught up, my traitorous hand already reaching to tuck that escaped strand behind her ear, fingertips grazing the salt on her skin.
"My grandfather brought me here when I was eight.
Told me this was where he proposed to Gran, where Dad proposed to Mom.
Where Wilder men come to ruin themselves with promises. "
The word 'proposed' hung between us, and I watched pink bloom across her cheeks.
"I just meant—it's a special place. Sarah and I came here when we got engaged." I waited for the familiar stab of guilt, but it didn't come. "I haven't been back since."
Understanding softened her eyes. "Brad, we don't have to—"
"I want to. I want to share this with you."
We rounded the bend, and Hidden Lake spread before us—a perfect mirror of crystal blue reflecting the surrounding peaks. Serena's soft gasp made every step of the painful hike worth it.
"Oh, Brad. It's incredible."
I spread the blanket on the same flat rock where three generations of Wilder men had made promises to the women they loved. Not that I was proposing.
Serena settled on the blanket like she was solving a geometry problem—calculating the exact distance that said "I'm here with you" but also "don't get any ideas about that family tradition you just mentioned." The six inches between us might as well have been the Atlantic.
I unpacked my backpack, trying to look casual about the fact that I'd basically packed for a romantic siege.
Her favorite wine (the Sancerre she'd mentioned exactly once).
Strawberries from the farmer's market that I'd driven forty minutes out of my way to get because she'd said the grocery store ones tasted like disappointment.
Gruyere that cost more than my first hockey stick.
And then, because I had the emotional intelligence of a golden retriever, a stack of books.
"You bought me teaching books?" She cradled them like newborns, eyes going supernova with something between shock and recognition.
"You've been losing sleep over Timothy's sensory processing issues." I scratched my neck, suddenly feeling like I'd stripped naked at center ice. "Thought these might—is this weird? This is weird. I bought you textbooks on a hike."
"It's perfect." Her voice did that thing where it went whisper-soft and destroyed me. "You pay attention to my random teacher rants at midnight."
"To you? Always."
She scooted closer, erasing that careful distance until her knee pressed against mine, the contact electric enough to power California. "Do you remember what else I mentioned once? Around 2 AM when we both couldn't sleep and were chatting on the sofa?"
"What?"
"That my ex never remembered anything about my work.
Three years of living together and he'd zone out the second I mentioned school.
" She traced the spine of the first book like it was scripture.
"Called it 'teacher stuff' like I was discussing paint drying instead of shaping actual human beings.
Never once asked about my kids, their struggles, their victories.
Made me feel like I was boring him with my little hobby job. "
"He's a catastrophic moron."
"Yeah." She looked up at me, and her eyes were doing something lethal—soft and sharp simultaneously. "And you're..."
"Also a moron, but a different breed?"
"The kind who apparently takes notes during my exhausted teaching rants.
" She opened the book, but her hand found mine, fingers threading through like they belonged there.
"The kind who drives forty minutes at dawn for perfect strawberries, who reads academic texts about sensory processing disorders for fun, who remembers not just my favorite wine but that I only like it properly chilled.
" Her voice caught. "The kind who makes me feel like my work matters. Like I matter."
The words hung between us, heavy as a confession, light as admission, dangerous as stepping onto ice without checking its thickness first.
The wine loosened our tongues and our careful boundaries. Serena finally voiced what I'd seen building in her eyes for weeks.
"I'm terrified," she admitted, fingers twisting in her lap. "Finn told me he loves me, and I love him back, but what if I'm not enough? What if I can't handle his medical needs when it really matters? What if I'm trying to fill a space that isn't mine to fill?"
I moved closer, covered her restless hands with mine. "You handled his attack perfectly while I was gone."
"That was one time—"
"You've handled dozens of moments. Small ones, big ones. You know when he's getting sick before he does. You spot triggers I miss. You've researched techniques I never thought to try." I squeezed her hands. "You're not filling Sarah's space. You're creating your own."
"But Sarah—"
"Would have liked you." The truth of it settled over me. "She would have loved how you challenge me, make me laugh, call me out when I'm being overprotective. She would have adored how patient you are with Finn, how you see him as more than his limitations."
"You talk about her with such love."
"I loved her. Part of me always will." I released her hands, leaned back on my elbows. "But that doesn't mean our lives stopped. Finn needs people who care about him. I need..." I paused, searching for words that wouldn't cross the line we'd drawn. "I need friends who get it. Who get us."
"Is that what we are? Friends?"
The question hung in the mountain air. I could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing between us.
"We're whatever keeps Finn safe and happy," I said finally. "We're two people trying to figure out an impossible situation without a roadmap."
She pulled her knees to her chest. "Sometimes I watch you both and think—this is it. This is the life I didn't know I wanted. Then I remember it's temporary, that I'm the neighbor who got caught in a storm."
"You're not—"
"I know what I am, Brad. And what I'm not." Her voice stayed steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped her knees. "I'm the woman who loves your son and cares about you both, but doesn't know where the boundaries are anymore."
"Maybe there don't have to be rigid boundaries. Maybe we just... navigate day by day."
"That's not fair to Finn. He needs stability."
"He needs people who love him," I corrected. "Everything else, we figure out as we go."
We sat in silence, watching the sun paint the lake in shades of gold and amber. Finally, she spoke again.
"Sarah was lucky to have you."
"I was lucky to have her. And Finn's lucky to have you." I stood, offered her my hand.