Chapter 24

Raegan

I snap my family out of our stunned silence and point toward the door Micah just exited. "Uh, I should probably..."

"Yes, go!" Mama says with a swishing hand motion. "Go."

"Did we just break Micah?" I hear Hattie ask as I rush to dig through my overnight bag for my checkered Vans—the only closed-toe shoes I brought suitable for a trek through the woods. As soon as they're double-knotted, I'm out the door and jogging down the fishing path Micah pointed out earlier. Adrenaline spikes my blood as I call out to him. He's walking at a brisk pace while carrying a fly rod, net, and some kind of woven purse bag in the other hand. Even if I hadn't witnessed him coming unraveled at the seams inside that yurt, I'd know by his cadence alone that he's not okay. I just don't know if he'll even accept my help.

When there's no indication he's heard me, I quicken my pace, dodging rocks and roots and trying not to think about what else could be lurking in the bushes along this trail. "Micah—wait!"

He stops this time, but he doesn't turn around. And it's this, more than the distance we've kept from each other since Kansas, that hurts the most.

Fear churns into a muddy mixture inside my core as I near him. Unlike the last man I pursued for nearly two decades, this man is worth the chase, even if I've only known him less than two weeks. I have to fix this.

I'm a couple of strides away from him when I stop completely, my lungs desperate for air. He barely twists his neck, as if he's trying to keep me out of his peripheral vision altogether. "You should go back, Raegan. I'm not in the best place right now."

"So maybe you shouldn't be alone," I push. "Maybe you should talk to someone."

On an exasperated sigh, he tips his gaze to the sky, and I watch the muscles in his back expand and contract. "What is it you think we should talk about?"

I take a breath and prepare my heart to initiate a conversation that requires a hundred percent vulnerability. "I made a phone call today. To Tav."

He places his gear on the ground, turns, and pins me with such a devastating stare my knees nearly give out. "And?"

"Whatever you thought you knew about my past relationship—you don't. Tav doesn't want me now. And the truth is he never has. I chased him, I pursued him, I wanted him, and I was totally fine with whatever crumbs he threw my way for years because I thought it would be enough. I thought I could love him enough for the both of us." Micah winces as my words break from my throat. "He didn't even have the decency to break off our engagement. He made me do it for him, so he could do what he wanted without a guilty conscience. Which was to choose between me and his keyboardist." Tears threaten to spill onto my cheeks at the humiliating admission. "I'm convinced the only reason he asked me to marry him was because my name and industry connections look better for him on paper, but I've never been the one he loved. I never should have said yes to his proposal. The reason I don't talk about it is not because I'm trying to hide it, but because I'm ashamed." A sob escapes me. "It's been complicated trying to deal with the fallout without hurting either of our families in the process or triggering the media. And you were right; I didn't want to have that conversation with him again. It sucked the first time, and it sucked again today. But I did it." I swipe at my cheeks. "There's no possibility of confusion now. It's over."

So many emotions cross his features at once, and I'm certain I've never felt more naked or exposed than I do right now.

"He's the one who should be ashamed, Raegan." His voice is gravelly when he speaks, and I feel every letter scrape against my unprotected heart. "Not you."

As I meet his gaze again, I press my lips closed, barely able to trap my feelings for him inside.

"I need to apologize to you," he says. "I've been too pushy when it comes to the tell-all."

"No, you haven't," I whisper. "I know I've been a coward, and I'm trying to change that."

"I can see that." The conviction in his tone draws my eyes back to him. "I'm sorry."

I don't quite succeed at biting the tremble from my bottom lip. "I'm sorry, too."

I focus on him again, at the crease in his forehead, at the hint of sleeplessness under his eyes, at the aching disappointment etched in every line of his face. "I'm sorry your mother hid this part of her story—your story—from you."

The cords in his throat constrict, and it's his turn to look away. "Raegan—"

"And I'm sorry it wasn't Dorian. Not because I wanted it to be him, but because at least you would have had an answer. And you deserve an answer." I take a step closer to him, and then another. "And I'm sorry I didn't deal with Tav a long time ago, because I know you really needed someone these last few days."

"Not just someone, Raegan." His throat works again as he looks down at me with an intensity that sends fire sparking through each of my limbs. "I needed you. I need you."

"I need you, too."

When he moves in close and brings his hands up to my face, I'm as overwhelmed by the rightness of his touch as I am by a familiarity I can't explain. Logic says I hardly know him, and yet I've had a knowing sense about him since the moment we met. As his thumbs graze my jaw and his fingers push into my hair, I lean in to his caress.

"You're so, so beautiful," he breathes. "Every part of you."

And then his lips are on mine, soft and coaxing, confident and secure. We couldn't possibly be more exposed to our environment, locked in an intimate embrace in the middle of a high desert. As birds caw overhead and bushes rustle with unseen life, the two of us are the only thing that exists in the world. He cradles my face to take our kiss deeper, and I follow his lead willingly. His chest is solid beneath my fingertips, sending a flush of heat throughout my body along with the realization that this, this is what a kiss should feel like.

When we break apart, Micah tips his forehead down to mine, and for a moment, neither of us moves nor speaks. My lips feel as blissfully swollen as my heart, and then Micah slides his fingers down my arm and captures my hand in his. "I think I'm in deep trouble with you, Raegan Farrow."

I don't even try to fight the smile that overtakes my face as he threads our fingers together and looks at the trail before us and then back at the gear he abandoned on the ground.

"What can I carry for you?" I break away to move toward the gear.

He collects his fly rod and the basket thing from the ground. "You want to come fishing with me?"

"That depends."

He spins around. "Oh? On what?"

"If you're planning to kiss me like that again before the day's over."

And then everything he's collected is back in the dirt, and his arms are around me, and his lips are on mine, and I'm smiling and laughing and wishing I had the ability to stretch this moment into forever.

"See?" he says, when he finally pulls back. "You're trouble. We're nowhere near the water yet, and I promised trout for dinner."

"Alright, so no more kissing until after we catch some fish. Deal?"

I reach for the net, but Micah doesn't move. When I glance over my shoulder, he simply says, "I'm trying to decide if that deal is worth it or not."

"Come on," I laugh, bumping his arm playfully. "Rewards are meant to be motivating. Let's go."

For the first time on the trail, I take in the mountains hemming us in. Though most of the foliage is lower to the ground, there are groves of pine and juniper trees dotting the edge of the trail leading us to the lake. The air is dry, and the sun is high and hot, but surprisingly, Micah hasn't complained about it once. "So tell me what it is you enjoy most about this high-desert mountain paradise."

He strokes his thumb across the back of my hand. "Right now? You. Definitely you." He winks. "But the fishing and hiking are pretty phenomenal, too. The only thing that compares are the trails near Camp Selkirk close to where I live." He looks down at my Vans. "I'm glad to see you changed out of your sandals first, but those are a sad excuse for hiking boots."

"How much of a deal-breaker will it be if I admit I've never owned a pair of hiking boots?"

He makes a sound like I've just knocked the wind out of him. "That hurts, Raegan. But compared to other issues we're facing, that's a fairly easy problem to solve." He squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, noting his contentedness. "So you're a big nature guy."

"Guilty as charged." His laugh is weak when he says, "My mom used to say my dad passed his love on to me. Guess she was speaking figuratively."

"The truth is out there somewhere, Micah. We'll find it."

When he falls quiet, I decide not to push him anymore on that topic for now. It's far too nuanced of a conversation for flippant sentimentalities or false promises. Instead, I begin to think about another conversation he put off last week.

"Watch yourself. These stickers are a beast if they get into your skin." He moves to stamp down a gnarly piece of brush on the trail with the bottom of his boot. "Also, the trail is going to get a bit steeper in the next half mile or so. Kent cut in some steps down to the brook, but I have no idea what shape they'll be in now."

"Got it. Thanks."

I press my lips together and hum as I allow my mind to wander into a territory I've yet to explore with him until now. "So were you the guy who left an egg-salad sandwich in the breakroom fridge to spoil? Or maybe you got caught making too many inspirational quote printouts at the copy machine? Or maybe you used the school bus for your personal recreation and that was an automatic pink slip."

"What are you doing?" He gives me his classic side-eye. "If this is what heatstroke looks like on you, I am not medically trained for it."

"Brainstorming possibilities of why you're unemployed."

"Ah, then please continue. Your storytelling is better than mine."

I jab him in the ribs. "You owe me."

"Brace yourself: it's short and depressing."

"Well, I happen to love writing happy endings, so maybe you should brace yourself."

His chuckle fades into a sigh. "I was hired by the school district shortly after I graduated. I was all blind ambition and ego—certain I could make a difference in a job that has one of the highest turnover rates in education. But after five years, the red tape of dos and don'ts became a noose around my neck, and I saw more paperwork within the four cement walls I sat in every day than people. And I was miserable."

"I can't imagine you trapped inside an office every day." Micah is a goer, a doer.

"That's pretty close to what my mom said to me, too."

This turns my head. "What did she say?"

"‘Life's too short to be questioning what you're doing with your time every day.'"

Once again, Lynn's words carve a mark on my heart. "Wow."

"Exactly. That kind of life advice hits differently coming from a person who is literally signing papers for their hospice care."

I wait for the sting in my throat to subside before I ask, "What did you do?"

"I stayed up most of that night—I prayed hard, took a walk, read through Philippians, and then prayed some more. And in the morning, I submitted my leave of absence."

When I say nothing, Micah peers down at me. "Garrett thought I was impulsive and acting out of grief. He was sure I'd regret it."

"Do you?"

He doesn't answer me for several strides until we're standing under the shade of a pine tree. "I regret not knowing if I made an actual difference during the time I had there. But I don't regret the time I spent with my mom in her final days—even knowing what I know now. Maybe even especially so. And I don't regret forcing myself to take a long, hard look at my own mental health the way I was paid to do for others nearly sixty hours a week."

His words push my thoughts back to those difficult months after my dad died. How I sold my little condo outside the bustle of the city to move in with my heartbroken mama. How Adele became an instant CEO, managing everything and everyone in sight, and how Hattie crawled inside herself and rarely left her home. I was so desperate back then for our fractured family to feel whole again. No cost felt too high, no sacrifice too much. Until one day it did. Until the cost felt like it was suffocating me from the inside out. I don't even know how to relate to the freedom he so freely lives in.

"I think you're incredibly brave," I say after a minute.

"How much do I need to pay you to say that in front of my brother when you meet him?"

"I'm serious." I tug his hand to a stop. "And I'm also absolutely certain you made a difference in your five years at the school. Look at what you've done in the short time you've been with us." My eyes mist again. "You have a gift, Micah. And wherever you go, I have no doubt God will use it to help people. It's who you are."

His expression softens on me. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I pull him forward again. "So tell me what you would do if you could do anything."

"Anything?" He cranes his neck from left to right, staring up at the hills above us. "This. I've always known there's something healing about being outside in God's creation. Something that challenges and rewards us in ways sitting inside a therapist's office can't compete with. The most life-changing moments I've experienced didn't happen in a classroom or in a counselor's office. They were usually out on a lake with my dad or driving through the Cascades on a road trip or hiking a new trail with my brother. There's a divine intimacy in nature that can't be duplicated. I want to help people find that."

Despite not having a whole lot of personal experience with outdoor life myself, I trust his conviction and ponder it for the next few minutes.

By the time we reach the brook, we've fallen into a companionable quiet, as if this world is one we've navigated together forever. But maybe I only feel that way because Micah is at my side and he seems at home in a way I'm not sure I've ever experienced myself. He instructs me to tread lightly as we make our way down to a fishing spot that looks like an illustration straight out of a children's fairy-tale book. It's maybe ten feet wide with boulders on either side and wildflowers intermixed throughout the bank. I half expect a clan of friendly gnomes to peek out from the forest beyond and invite us to a potluck.

He keeps his voice to a low murmur to keep from scaring the trout that are visible even from several paces away. He told me that his dad's best fishing advice is to take the time to observe everything you can about your spot before you set up your rod. Apparently, the best fishermen are also the best students of nature. By the looks of it, Micah is near the top of his class.

As Micah studies his surroundings on shore, I study him. I've never fished a day in my life, but he's selling me on it pretty hard, and he hasn't spoken a single word since he last cast his line. The sky above us is blue, the weather ideal, and I'm suddenly overcome with the kind of peace that stirs my heart to pray.

I'm attuned to the expert way Micah positions his rod. Both his right and left hands have a job to do, and there's an intricate dance between keeping slack and holding tension. Fishing, I suppose, is a lot like life. No wonder Micah is so skilled at it.

When a trout bumps the fly without biting, Micah eyes me. "You're probably bored out of your mind. I should have turned back to grab a rod for you, too."

"I'm happy to observe. It's fascinating. One day, when I'm back to writing fiction, I might have to draft you into a story." Heat crawls up my neck as my words replay themselves to my ears. "Not you, per se, but this." I gesture to his line in the stream. "The fishing stuff."

"Ah, yes, it's the fishing stuff that has you all fascinated and flustered for certain." His grin is so cocky and absurd it's laughable, but before I have time to come up with a reply, he says, "I think it's time for the quiet observer to have a private lesson. You know, for the sake of inspiration."

He tells me to anchor my feet on the shore as he positions himself behind me and places the fly rod in my hands.

"I couldn't write this scene in a book, ya know."

"Why not?"

"The whole man-tutoring-a-woman thing is too cliché," I say with exactly none of the nonchalance I'm trying for as my body hums to life at the feel of his embrace. His arms lock mine in place as his hands fold over my fingers to hug the rod.

"I have faith your imagination could do it justice." His breath sweeps the sensitive spot directly below my right ear, and all I can think about is how close his lips are to my skin.

"Relax your shoulders," he instructs gently. "There you go. Now hold the rod steady. Your eyes should sweep the water from left to right. Good, now find your own rhythm." We remain this way for several minutes as he works the slack in the line, instructing me on how to do the same while I actively work to keep the fire in my core contained.

I tangle the line several times, and it's an effort to right my mistakes, but Micah is never impatient with me. He simply tells me to try again, and I do.

And then, we get a bite. A big one.

All at once, the slow rhythm of casting and waiting is turned up to maximum speed. I start to duck away and allow him to take the lead, not wanting to forfeit our catch because of my clumsy handling, but Micah won't have it. He talks me through every step, and though there's a struggle going on between fish and fisherwoman, Micah is a calm, focused, and steady teacher.

When the fight is over and the victory is ours, Micah turns to me with a wink and says, "Cliché or not, you just caught us our first trout for dinner, Raegan Lynn."

I squirm a bit when he makes me hold the twelve-inch trout for a picture because "All fishermen need proof of their catches."

And then Micah squishes his cheek to mine, holds the fish up between us, and tells me to take the selfie on the count of three. The picture is absolutely ridiculous, and yet I adore everything about it. I'm pretty sure, in time, I could easily adore everything about Micah, too.

"Perfect," he says right before he pockets the phone and begins to prep the fish near the water. "We'll need a few more fish to feed our crew. That is, if there's anybody left at camp when we return."

"Honestly"—I shrug—"your guess on that is as good as mine."

For the next hour, I watch from a boulder in the shade on the water's edge as Micah manages to catch us another three trout, and once again I have that feeling like I wish I could freeze time and come back here again. I reflect on his mother's wise words and ask myself some hard questions regarding the time I've been given. Not just on this road trip or even in regard to the book I'm currently writing, but with the people I've been given, too.

Once he's finished cleaning the catches, Micah places the flayed trout inside the basket thing he calls a creel, then squats near the water to scrub at his hands in the moving stream until his fingertips blanch white from the cold. When he rises and stalks toward me, sunlight threads through his cinnamon-brown hair and glistens off his tanned skin. Every muscle in his arms and legs is flexed, and it feels every bit like a fictional scene coming to life.

Only this is not fiction.

When he's close enough to reach for my hand, he pulls me up from the boulder and steadies me at my waist. His eyes are focused on my mouth. "Is it okay with you if I collect my reward now?"

With the nature soundtrack of a babbling brook behind us and the beauty of this hidden valley on our every side, our lips find each other as if this exact spot was mapped out for us long ago.

We kiss until our lips feel tender with the kind of idyllic delirium only achieved by true connection. We kiss like it's the beginning of a story we've barely begun to write and have no intention to rush. We kiss like two people who were destined to meet despite the generation of regret that kept them apart.

The temperature has already begun to drop as we make our way back to the campsite just after six. Micah's grip on my hand remains firm as we approach the cutoff at the path, and I feel his gaze skim my profile. I wonder if he, like me, is already counting down until our next private moment. If Adele has managed to convince our entire crew to join her on the bus overnight, then perhaps the wait won't be as long as I fear.

I nudge him gently. "You can't keep looking at me like that, Micah."

"Like what?" He feigns innocence.

"Like you're two seconds away from kissing me senseless behind Yurt Two."

"Huh," he chuckles. "And here I thought my poker face was among the best in the world."

"Let me assure you, it's not." My laugh is cut short by the change in the wind. Smoke. "Do you smell that?"

"Kent probably has a campfire going up at his place."

But the closer we get to the yurts, the more intense the scent becomes. And then we hear the voices—all female and all familiar.

"Shhh ... I think they're coming," an unidentifiable relative announces.

We both eye each other questioningly.

As soon as he drops his gear off at his yurt and we've rounded the other side of it, the crackle and glow of an impressive campfire beckons us close. I can hardly believe what I'm seeing: each and every woman in my family standing next to a circle of camping chairs.

"We're sorry, Micah," Hattie blurts out, which seems to prompt others in the group.

"We made some sides for dinner." My niece points to a tree stump outside the circle with a hodgepodge of interesting food selections. "We did our best with what we could find at Kent's mini-mart. It's mostly Pop-Tarts, pork rinds, sunflower seeds, and baked beans from a can. Oh, and Mama bartered with Kent for some fresh s'mores stuff for dessert."

Adele is slow to meet our gaze, but when she does, she steadies it on Micah. "I may have overreacted earlier."

Mama hikes an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest, saying nothing but everything all at the same time.

"I'm sorry," Adele says. "I ... didn't realize how sentimental this place was to you. And I can see now why you love it so much."

The look on Micah's face is one of befuddlement. "I appreciate that. Thank you."

Mama rounds the fire. "Kent came down when he heard all the fussin' and carrying on down here. He told us how you and your brother would come for trips with Frank in the summers. Sounds like Kent's boys followed you around everywhere you went when they were younger."

Micah chuckles at whatever memory flashes through his mind. "They were good kids, although neither lacked for energy."

"Kent still marvels at the level of patience you had for them, taking them on excursions and fishing trips so he could get things done around the busy months," she says. "He said you're a huge part of why they're both working with him now."

"Are they really?" Micah asks with awe in his voice, and I can't help but think that even as a teenager Micah had a gift for nature and people. The thought fuels me with pride.

"The three of them did a full critter check of the yurt for us," Hattie explains. "They told us to holler if there was anything else we needed tonight. Nice people."

"They are," Micah agrees.

"What do you have in the cooler, son?" Mama asks. "We're hoping it's something that will go with cherry Pop-Tarts and charred beans." Her laugh is light, but I can see the way her term of endearment touches Micah.

He clears his throat, then slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to his side. "Our Raegan caught us a trout."

There's a chorus of surprised cheers and claps, but the delight I feel in this moment has little to do with my part of the catch and everything to do with the people I'm about to share it with.