Chapter 32 Connor
CONNOR
The path down from the overlook curves through trees, shaded and cool compared to the sunburn of the picnic.
I follow a few paces behind her, her steps clipped and fast as if she were walking the city streets, and her shoulders are squared like she’s daring anyone to come after her.
She doesn’t look back once, but I’m confident she knows I’m right behind her for anything she might need.
My chest is still buzzing from the way she snapped at Nicole. Everyone heard it—the whole table went silent, and not even Banks had a quip ready. And then Manuela stood there, spine straight, eyes blazing, calling Nicole out for what she’s been doing to her for who knows how long.
I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Not with Nicole or anyone in this group, instead taking everything that they’re handed with a fake smile on their faces. If passive-aggressive were a picture, it would be the way some of these people interact with each other.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Manuela doesn’t hide who she is.
She doesn’t water herself down for the sake of making other people comfortable.
I’ve watched her stumble into this friend circle that was never built to include someone new, and instead of shrinking to fit, she’s holding her ground and trying to carve some space for herself.
And it made something in me twist hard. Admiration, yes, but also shame. Because she is right. About Nicole and herself, about belonging. And I’ve never had the guts to stand up like that, not to my father, not with anyone.
“Manu,” I call after her when the trail widens. My voice sounds rough, like I’ve been shouting, even though I haven’t said a word until now.
She slows, not enough to stop, but enough that I can catch up. Her jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the path like this is what finally personally insulted her.
“You didn’t have to follow me,” she mutters.
“I wanted to.”
Her laugh is sharp. “To make sure I didn’t set the whole mountain on fire?”
I step in front of her so she has to meet my eyes. “To tell you I’m proud of you.”
That gets her. She blinks, the fight in her shoulder flickering and finally relaxing for a moment. “Proud?”
“You said what no one else would. What everyone thinks, but no one’s willing to risk saying out loud. You’re not wrong, Manu. And you don’t need to keep apologizing for simply existing.”
Her throat works, like the words caught somewhere between belief and disbelief. She looks away, down at her shoes, scuffing gravel with the toe. “I just… I don’t know why I let it get to me. I should’ve ignored her.”
“No,” I say, firmer than I mean to. “You shouldn’t. You are right. You’ve been nothing but yourself, and if that threatens Nicole? That’s her problem.”
Silence stretches. The trees sway overhead, the faint clang of cowbells drifting up from the valley.
She crosses her arms, but it feels less defensive, more like she’s holding herself together. “It’s exhausting. Always feeling like I have to prove myself. Back home, here, even in New York. Like no matter what I do, it’s never enough.”
Her words hit low in my gut. Because I know that feeling. Pretending, performing, being the version everyone else expects. The difference is—she just said it out loud. And I’ve never had the courage to.
I want to tell her that. That watching her fight for herself makes me want to fight for myself too. But the words clog in my throat, heavy with everything I’ve avoided saying for years.
Instead, I reach out, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin is warm, her eyes still lit with the residue of anger, but there’s something vulnerable underneath. Something that makes my chest ache.
“You belong here,” I say quietly. “More than half of them put together.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. Just a breath, shaky and soft.
And before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss her.
It’s not desperate like so many times during this trip, not about hiding in shadows or stealing time. It’s steady, grounding, like I’m telling her with my mouth what I can’t with words: I see you. I want you. You belong here with me.
She kisses me back, arms sliding up around my neck, holding on like maybe she believes me for a second.
But when we pull apart, her eyes are shining in a way that makes my chest tighten. Doubt flickers there for a fraction of a second. And I wonder if it’s related to us—what comes next after this trip is over in a matter of days.
And the truth is, I feel it too.
Because no matter how right this feels, I can already sense the walls closing in—the group’s eyes, my family’s expectations, her fear of never belonging.
And I don’t know if we’re strong enough to carry all of it.
We start walking again, slower this time, gravel crunching underfoot. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. But I keep sneaking glances at her, at the way her shoulders have dropped a little, at how she’s chewing her bottom lip like she’s still replaying every word with Nicole.
I want to tell her again that she was perfect. That she didn’t need to explain herself to anyone. That the way she called Nicole out was the bravest thing I’ve seen in years, from anyone. But if I say it out loud, I’ll have to admit how much I needed to hear it myself.
And that terrifies me.
Because if she can face everything head-on, then what excuse do I have for not doing the same in my own life? What excuse do I have for ignoring calls from my parents, for leaving an email unopened because I’m afraid of the weight it carries?
We round a bend in the path, and the villa comes into view below, white walls glowing in the late afternoon sun. Laughter drifts faintly from the terrace, already back to normal like nothing happened.
Manuela exhales slowly, like she’s bracing herself.
I want to grab her hand. Tell her she doesn’t have to go back in there alone. That if she can stand up to Nicole, maybe I can stand up to my father. That maybe we’re stronger together.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets, keep my eyes fixed on the house, and tell myself the timing isn’t right.
Even though I know it never will be.