Page 21 of Camp Help Falling

“A hike. That you take to watch the sunrise.” I swear, this man has no idea about anything that happens beyond a national forest sign. Some people might find that annoying—turn up their nose and call him a city slicker—but I love being the one who gets to introduce him to all of it. “We can go tomorrow morning.”

I quickly purchase my watch and grab Oliver’s elbow again. “It will be fun. Trust me.”

“I trust you,” he says with a smile.

Oh, my sweet summer child. Maybe you shouldn’t.

Chapter Twelve

Oliver

“It’s an easy hike,” she said.

“It’s mostly flat in the beginning,” she said.

I’m about to die and it’s not even six in the morning.

“How much longer is this hike?” I’m barely able to puff out. Sadie looks like she’s taking a casual stroll, barely a change in her breathing pattern and not a drop of sweat on her face. She’s wearing her ubiquitous denim cut-offs and hiking boots, but she’s covered her t-shirt of the day with a faded black CU sweatshirt to fight off the pre-sun chill.

My feet ache, and I don’t know whether to chalk it up to my new hiking boots or the fact that I never walk this much. Ever. I swim and do other things when I feel like I need to do cardio, which is not incredibly often. I’m more of a lift-heavy-things kind of a guy.

Not a death-by-hiking one.

Sadie stops near a large rock at the side of the trail and turns, waiting for me to catch up.

“Maybe twenty minutes,” she says, a wry smile pulling at her lips. “Why? Are you out of breath already?”

I was out of breath five minutes into this hike, but the way Sadie is grinning, I know she already knows that. She’s been listening to me huff and puff for two miles now.

I flop down onto the rock, stretching my legs and feeling the tightness in my muscles that will be chasing me the rest of the day.

“I’m not out of breath. This air is out of oxygen.”

Her face softens as she looks at me before moving her gaze toward the sky lightening in the east. “You get used to it.”

“Like I’ll get used to waking up at unholy hours and singing songs that don’t make a lick of sense?” I bump Sadie’s foot with mine, and she smiles down at me.

“Come on,” she says, extending a hand to help me up. “If we make good time, we can relax at the top before the sun comes up.” And even though my lungs are on fire from exertion and lack of oxygen at this altitude, I reach up and take it.

Because I crave that small touch from her. Not because I’m eager for anymore climbing.

My hand rotates in hers as I stand to tower above her, and for a second, she lingers there, brushing a thumb across the back of my hand, but then she drops it, taking large—or as large as she can—steps away from me.

“Alright, let’s get going!” she says over her shoulder, a little more chipper than before, if that’s even possible.

We’ve been dancing around it all week. That push and pull between us. But it’s one step forward and two steps back with her, thanks to the camp’s No Purple rule. What’s a guy supposed to do? Make eyes at her all summer and hope she gets the message? Hope that she won’t dismiss me because I can’t make a move?

I follow Sadie’s bouncy steps for another twenty-five minutes, pleasantly surprised when she informs me that “the lookout is just past this final bend.” She said twenty, but I know the extra time is because of me and my dragging feet.

The trail makes one final turn, widening into a relatively flat plateau, similar to the area around Cell Phone Rock, but with fewer trees. The mountain continues to rise at our backs, but on three sides, it drops away, giving us a clear view down to camp and out toward Bear Lake.

The sky is brighter, and I can clearly see Sadie as she strolls to the middle of the clearing and sits rather unceremoniously, dumping her backpack on the packed dirt beside her. But the sun is still hiding behind the low mountains east of Bear Lake. She flips her wrist to check the time on the watch she bought yesterday, then pats the ground next to her.

“See? That wasn’t so bad.”

In the growing light, her teasing smile becomes an invitation to come closer to that line we haven’t dared cross at camp. That invisible line separating pink and blue.

“Oh, sure,” I say, carefully lowering myself to the ground beside her. My knee presses into hers, and she doesn’t pull away. “Going up wasn’t bad, but we still have to go down.”

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