Page 45 of My Star-Crossed Summer

But then he steps to the side and my chest tightens with panic. My heart falls straight down to my toes and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that my brain is playing tricks on me.

But it’s not.

Because just beyond Noah and the platform is a narrow bridge that looks like it’s made from fishing line and two-by-fours. Beneath it is a gorge that looks ten miles deep.

Noah’s going over the rules—no jumping on the bridge, no horseplay—and I’m considering scribbling my last will and testament on a napkin in my backpack.

“Is this an in-and-out trail?” I ask Sophie.

She smiles. “Nah, it’s a loop. We only get to cross once, so take all your photos now.”

I swallow hard. There goes my idea of waiting here for them to circle back.

“This used to be a swinging bridge,” Sophie tells the kids, stepping off the platform. “But now it’s updated with reinforced cables and wood beams.”

That sparks a dozen questions from them because they’re fascinated. A tiny bridge strung from one mountaintop to another? They’re here for it. Sophie and Noah are tag-teaming this moment, their excitement contagious as they go on and on about how we’re a hundred and twenty feet from the ground, on a bridge first built eighty years ago that took two years to complete. The kids are soaking this knowledge up like little sponges, but I don’t want to hear any more about engineering today. Yes, this is a construction marvel, but my brain keeps picturing that bridge inRomancing the Stone, the one madefrom vines and scrap boards so narrow that Kathleen Turner couldn’t even get her whole tiny foot on them, and my heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

Sophie leads the way, and the kids start crossing with her, and how on earth does this bridge not snap like a pencil under their weight? I’m shuffled closer to Noah by all the eager moving bodies, and pretty soon, there are just five kids standing between me and Noah, and my untimely exit from this mortal plane.

Priya looks over to her right, where I can see straight down to the river below. Next to her, Derrick yanks his lucky hat from his head and shoves it into his back pocket. Priya’s eyes widen and Noah tells her, “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe.”

I have serious doubts about that, but I can see from this angle that the bridge is not made of vines and scrap board. It’s built from cables as thick as my forearm and massive wooden beams with steel bolts big enough to hold a ship together.

Layla grins at Priya as she takes her hand and says, “It’s okay. We’ll help each other.”

Noah smiles at them and says, “Y’all got this,” and something inside me melts at the way he so easily offers this gentle encouragement.

The girls peek over the chest-high rail, and then Priya’s shoulders relax and they take a few more steps.

“You good?” Noah asks me.

I nod, but my feet have rooted to the earth. My heart is at a full gallop now and I want to curl into a ball.

He arches a brow like he can see right through me, straight to my shivering heart, but he doesn’t push. I want to do this on my own, without his help. Because I’m a grown woman, and I should be able to cross a bridge, even if it’s a mile above the safe, solid ground. It’s just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other—a fact that my brain logically knows, but my body refuses to believe.

Probably, this is an apt metaphor for several parts of my life.

I swallow hard, because I don’t want the kids to see me standing here terrified, freezing like a rabbit. Fear is contagious, and I don’t want to ruin this moment for them when they’re being so brave and full of wonder.

“Go ahead,” I tell Noah. “I’ll come over last.” This is our protocol, after all. One adult comes after all the kids, making sure no one feels rushed or left behind. On the other side of the gorge, the first kids over wave and shout. A few are still crossing, some lingering to peek down and soak in the view.

Was I ever that fearless? When did I stop believing that I could do anything I could dream?

Taking another deep breath, I feel my chest expand the slightest bit. The last two kids start across, and now I’m alone on this side of the gorge.

Noah’s standing near the middle of the bridge, no doubt waiting there just in case any of the kids get nervous. So far, none of them are. It’s just me whose knees have turned to Jell-O. When all the kids have crossed to the other side, I realize that he’s hanging back because of me. So I take one step onto the bridge, and then one more. He looks at me and smiles—a real one, like the one that tugged at my heart on the night we met—and it feels like this will be okay.

Still gripping the rail, I focus on Noah’s warm gaze, the relaxed line of his shoulders, his lips as he mouths the words,You’ve got this.

And then I make the horrible mistake of looking down. Below us, a river winds through the trees like a thread. My heart hammers against my ribs and I sink down, stopping before I’m on my knees.

“Whoa,” Noah says. His voice is gentle, quiet. “You’re okay.”

My hands grip the rail so tightly that my knuckles are white. When I look back at Noah, he’s taking slow steps toward me. Hislips are moving, but my ears are ringing so loud that I can’t hear his words. Each time he takes a step, I feel the vibrations ripple through the bridge, into my hands and feet.

This is a fear I didn’t know I had. It doesn’t make sense, because I’ve stopped at scenic overlooks. I’ve stared off the side of a mountain, and I’ve driven across bridges over inlets that stretch to the horizon. This shouldn’t be that big of a deal.

But my pounding heart tells me that it is.

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