Chapter 30 Manuela
MANUELA
“Alright, party people,” Hannah says from her seat in the living area. She’s wearing a flowy sundress that reaches the floor, and a floppy hat rests on her lap. “What do we think about exploring independently today?
“Our hosts are off brunching with Elle’s family, and we’re unsupervised children. Thoughts on a village trip?”
“Define trip,” Banks says from his lounge on the opposite couch. He’s slouched low, ankles crossed, looking like hasn’t moved in hours. Late-morning light pools across the living room, glinting off Banks’s sunglasses where they sit crooked on his head.
“Casual,” Hannah replies. “Maybe some coffee, window shopping. Just into the little town downhill.”
“Cash and I are going to sit by the lake all day if anyone wants to join,” Amelia says.
Her voice is a little hoarse, like the trip is finally catching up to her.
I feel the same way—somewhat exhausted from everything we’ve done in the past week but also relaxed and loose from the change of pace.
Cash perks up from the floor where he’s sprawled with a sudoku book, lifting one hand in a lazy wave of solidarity.
“I’m in for going down into town,” Nicole says, appearing from the hallway. Her hair is damp, braided over one shoulder, and she’s wearing the kind of crisp linen set that somehow never wrinkles. “Could use actual caffeine. Not… whatever Banks got me this morning.”
“It was artisanal,” Banks mutters.
“It was sludge, babe.” She sinks into the empty seat beside him, tucking her sunglasses on top of her head.
“Town it is,” Hannah declares, standing and smoothing her dress. “Let’s aim for ten minutes?”
The group scatters with varying levels of enthusiasm.
Connor passes me on his way upstairs, fingers brushing the small of my back like it’s a reflex, like he doesn’t even mean to.
My heart leaps into my throat before I can stop it.
I make a quick change into something a little bit more appropriate than my lounge pants and then head out.
Outside, the air is cool enough that I pull on a cardigan over my dress. We fall into pairs and loose clusters as we start downhill, the path curling through tall pines. The lake glints silver behind us, and at the bifurcation in the road, Amelia and Cash drift off.
Nicole drifts a few steps ahead, talking to Hannah about some new gallery opening in New York. Banks lags behind, complaining halfheartedly about his shoes to Sterling, who is half listening as he scrolls on his phone.
Connor ends up beside me. He doesn’t touch me this time, just lets our arms swing close enough that they almost brush.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I glance at him. “Yeah.”
He nods once, accepting it without pressing, and for some reason that makes my chest ache more than if he’d pried. The conversation we had outside of the house just this morning makes me feel raw.
Because I meant it—what I told him about not knowing where I belong—but I also hated how small it sounded once it was out in the air.
Like I was still waiting for someone else to tell me where my life should happen.
I hate that I sound like a broken record, but it’s definitely the heaviest weight on me right now.
I think that’s what unsettles me now: that quiet, steady kind of trust. It makes me realize how much of my life I’ve spent bracing for pushback, defending my choices before I’ve even made them.
But here, with him, I don’t feel like I have to defend anything.
The roofs of the village peek through the trees as we round a bend—timbered and steep-gabled, standing firm there for centuries and rooted at the heart of this little section of the world. The air shifts, carrying the smell of bread and something sweet.
“Coffee first,” Hannah calls over her shoulder, already picking up her pace. “Then shops.”
Connor glances at me as the cobblestones come into view. “Coffee first,” he echoes, like it’s a promise.
We spill into the narrow main street like marbles scattering from a jar. Flower boxes spill color from window ledges, hand-painted signs swinging gently overhead.
Ten minutes later, coffee in hand from a tiny yellow side-window café, our group has scattered, and the cup’s warmth hums through me.
Connor glances at me over the rim of his mug. “Want to walk?”
I do. Maybe too much. “Sure.”
We drift through the winding streets in an unhurried silence. Cobbled alleys curve off in every direction, each one lined with shuttered windows and overflowing flower boxes. Somewhere nearby, a church bell tolls the hour.
It’s peaceful in a way that makes me want to breathe deeper, slower. Like the world isn’t rushing anywhere.
Connor stops at a rack of postcards outside a stationery shop, thumbing through them lazily. “These look fake,” he says. “Like stock photos.”
“They’re real,” I counter, picking one with a watercolor of the lake and holding it up to the actual view behind us. “See? Perfect match.”
He huffs a laugh. “Fine. Real. Still feels like a movie.”
At the edge of the square, a narrow path cuts up a gentle hill, wildflowers stippling the slope. Edelweiss cluster low to the ground, pale against the green. A little ahead, Camila and George slip up the trail, their heads tipped close together.
“Want to?” he asks, nodding after them, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Obviously.”
He laughs lowly, like he expected me to say no. The path is barely wide enough for two, so we fall into step side by side, arms brushing now and then. The air smells like grass warmed by sun, and for once, nothing feels sharp or heavy.
“What’s the deal with those two?” he asks after a stretch of quiet, nodding toward Camila and George a little way ahead.
She shoves him off the path, laughing so hard she nearly folds in half, and he catches her by the waist, spinning her in a circle.
Their laughter carries down the valley, loud and wild.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “She mentioned something about her immigration stuff, but I don’t really know how they even met. Or why. The real why.” I pause, watching them. “She’ll tell me when she’s ready.”
“You didn’t know she was seeing someone?”
“Not a clue.”
“How do you know her?”
“She’s my roommate.”
He stops midstep, blinking at me like in surprise. “Get the fuck out of here. That seems… statistically improbable.”
“Agreed.” The smile slips out before I can stop it.
He grins back, shaking his head like he’s still trying to make the math work, and we keep climbing. The slope steepens, and our shoulders knock once, then again.
Halfway up, he pulls his phone from his pocket. “We should prove we were here,” he says.
He angles the camera, and I lean in. The screen catches us framed by wildflowers, wind pushing my hair into his face. We both laugh, breathless from the climb.
Connor doesn’t move for a moment after taking the photo. Just looks at me like he’s still memorizing this—like he wants to keep it.
I swallow, suddenly aware of how quiet it is. How far the others feel from here.
Then he tucks the phone away, brushing his thumb across my knuckles as our hands find each other like it’s nothing.
We don’t say anything for a while.
The path flattens near the top, spilling out into a small grassy overlook. The village shrinks below us—red roofs clustered like puzzle pieces, the lake glittering just beyond. Bells echo faintly from somewhere on the far side of town, thin and distant, like they’re meant for someone else.
Connor lowers onto a smooth boulder and pulls me down beside him. Our knees brush. I let it happen.
A breeze tugs at my hair, and I push it behind my ears, suddenly aware of how still he is. Usually, he’s always in motion—tapping a finger, shifting his weight, checking the time like he’s bracing for the next thing. But now… nothing. Just quiet, like he’s not waiting to be anywhere else.
“Feels like we’re a million miles from them,” I say, nodding vaguely toward the square far below.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Kind of nice.”
The sun warms my shoulders. I curl my fingers more firmly around his, and he lets me.
It’s not big or dramatic. Simply… steady. Like he’s here, really here, and not halfway in his head the way I’ve seen him sometimes. And it does something to me. Makes my chest feel both heavy and light at once, like I don’t quite know what to do with it.
He glances sideways, the corner of his mouth tilting. “You’re quiet.”
“So are you.”
He lets out a small breath of a laugh, then tilts his head back to watch a bird wheel high overhead. His profile is sharp in the sunlight, but his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“I don’t do this,” he says after a while. “The… stopping part.”
“Neither do I,” I admit.
And somehow, that feels like the most honest thing I’ve said all trip.
We sit there until the wind picks up and the smell of bread drifts up from the town below. The kind of smell that means it’s time to move again, even if I don’t want to.
Connor squeezes my hand once before standing, pulling me with him. For the rest of the walk down, he doesn’t let go.