Hazel’s lips curve in a smile, and she points to the top of the tower. “Wait till you see it from up there.”
The wooden stairs are rickety beneath our feet, creaking and groaning with every step, but Hazel looks unconcerned, taking them two at a time. Her excitement is palpable, radiating off her in waves. She is always confident, taking on life with the force of a summer storm, but here in her hometown, she’s unstoppable, a force of nature.
We’re out of breath by the time we reach the top, chests heaving, and the sun has officially crested over the mountains, the purple and blue hues of dawn bleeding into vibrant orange.
Hazel was right. The view from below pales in comparison to this one, like holding an art print up against the original. I can see for miles in every direction, a panoramic view. On one side is the town, tiny buildings nestled in the valley. On the other is miles and miles of uninterrupted mountains shrouded in hazy mist, broken only by the cerulean river flowing into the lake.
Hazel’s hand wraps around my bicep, pulling me toward one of the windows. She shoves a palm into the window frame, and it pops out, rotating on its hinges. When she bends down under the windowpane, the breeze whips at the fine hairs around her face.
“Come on,” she says, shooting me a glance and patting the spot against the window frame next to her. I match her position, propping my elbows on the ledge and looking out the open space.
The air is cooler up here, drying the sheen of sweat to my skin. My tongue darts across my parched lips, and they taste of salt. With each gust of wind, I can smell crisp pine and cedar, with just a hint of smokiness.
Hazel bumps my shoulder with hers, her hair blowing across my face. “Pretty, huh?”
I make an affirmative noise in the back of my throat, too entranced for words.
“You know what this tower is used for?” she asks, and the windowpane creaks as it gets caught in a gust of wind, knocking against our backs.
“Watching for fires?”
“Nah, it hasn’t been used for that in years.” Her voice is tinged with something I can’t quite read.
I cut my eyes to her, arching a brow.
A grin splits her mouth. “Teenagers use it for sex.”
“And how wouldyouknow that?” I ask. Her eyes twinkle like stars in the night sky, and a strawberry hue lights her cheeks. I shake my head, looking back at the mountains. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
Hazel’s shoulder nudges mine once more. “I’m just messing with you.”
My gaze snags on her again. She’s so achingly beautiful I can feel it in my bones. “So no one has sex here?”
“Oh, they definitely do. Be careful where you put your hands,” she says with a nod to where my fingers are gripped around the windowsill.
I release the metal immediately, running my palms down my thighs. Hazel’s laugh is bubbly and infectious, and I find my lips curving into a grin of my own.
“You’re trouble,” I tell her.
“You’re not the first man to say that to me in this very spot,” she says. When my mouth falls open, a high-pitched chuckle shoots out of her, and I roll my eyes, holding back a smile.
“You should have seen your face.” Her shoulder bumps into mine again, but this time she doesn’t back away.
“It doesn’t take much to rile you up,” she says, her voice still tinged with laughter as we stand with our sides pressed together, facing the misty mountains.
“You’re not the first person to tellmethat in this spot.”
When I look down at her, her smile is bracketed by the faintest of dimples, little indentations that you could feel better than you can see. I want to memorize those divots with my fingertips, but I can’t, so I’ll just have to make a little space in my heart for this moment, a memory I can pull back out later when I need a little sunshine.
“Ready for breakfast?”
We set up a picnic on the floor of the fire tower, sitting atop a worn flannel blanket that Hazel pulled from the hope chest in her bedroom this morning and stuffed into the backpack. It smells of cedar and lavender from the bag of herbs she kept tucked between layers of linens. Hazel retrieves the thermos of strong Folgers coffee and apple donuts that she told me her aunt makes from the apple harvest on the farm.
Crossing her legs at the ankles, Hazel leans back on one arm, taking a bite of her donut. Cinnamon sugar coats her lips and sprinkles across her hands like pixie dust shimmering in the dewy sunshine.
“I could eat these every day,” she says around a bite.
I munch into my own donut, the buttery apple flavor sweet on my tongue. “This is probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I tell her.