Page 42

Chapter

Twenty-Six

“Do you know any campfire songs, bard?” I ask.

The campsite Noah chose is perfect for a first timer like me.

It’s only an hour outside of Heller, and it’s private enough that we don’t hear yelling from the truck full of frat boys I saw pulling in after us, but modern enough that Noah’s got an electric hookup for his van and I’ve got showers and restrooms in case I’m not ready to shit in the woods.

Not to mention, it’s gorgeous. Situated up in the hills surrounding the river, we’ve got an incredible view of the water below.

It’s late afternoon, but I can still spot a few boats lingering on the lake, soaking up the last hours of sunshine.

“Do I know any campfire songs?” Noah’s tone is teasingly mocking. “What do you take me for, Sadie, an amateur?”

He starts to sing as he unpacks the back of the van.

His voice is charmingly off-tune, but he makes up for it with a good helping of enthusiasm and a fantastic memory for every line of an old Decemberists song.

I make myself unhelpful, sitting in the bed of the van with an open bottle of mead cradled between my thighs, my legs dangling above the ground and my heels keeping the beat against the bumper.

“I’m surprised you were able to get the weekend off,” I say, watching as he kneels to coax a fire to life on the kindling. Half the reason we tend to play D&D on Sunday mornings is because of Noah’s busy weekend evening work schedule. “I’m sure Dan’s missing you.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. I’ve put in more than enough hours this week anyway.” Noah exhales gently onto the budding fire. Sparks fly up and around his face. He reminds me of Loren, casting magic.

“What’s the sudden rush?”

“We’re a bit of a hot spot around town lately, Sadie,” Noah says, not a small amount of pride in his tone. “Dan’s got tons of ideas for events to bring people in, and they seem to be working. He’s got me in charge of at least half of them.”

“Like what?”

“Game nights, live music, art markets, private events. The game nights are a hit so far. He’s looking for someone to DM a D&D campaign, actually. Do you think Liam might be up for it?”

“It would be hard for him during the school year, but we could ask.” I tilt my head back against the wall of the van. “Honestly, Noah, I think you should DM.”

Noah lets out a low laugh. When I don’t echo it, he looks up and considers me with surprise. “You really think so?”

“You’re a natural storyteller.”

“Liam does so much prep, though. So much research and planning, I…”

“Make it all up. Improvise. Your style doesn’t have to match his.”

He seems to consider this as he watches the kindling finally start to spark. “I’ll think about it,” he muses. His knees pop when he stands, and he wanders over to pluck the bottle of mead from my lap. “But yeah, Alchemist is doing great.”

Of course I can’t help but wonder whether Alchemist’s buzzing success is doing more to attach Noah to Heller or to convince him of how successful another location in Colorado would be.

As if he can sense the direction of my wandering thoughts, Noah ducks into the van and distracts me with a quick kiss to my cheek—just as he gathers my hands and tugs me from my lounging space. “Come on, show’s over. I need your help.”

I want to press him with questions, but as soon as he pulls out the folded-up tent, I’m distracted. “We’re not sleeping in the van?” I’d really been looking forward to testing that mattress out.

“Hell no. You asked for an adventurer-style camping trip. You’re getting one.”

He begins to flap a tarp out over a little square of space where I realize a tent is meant to go. It looks awfully small. Awfully cozy, if I’m being optimistic.

Noah scoffs playfully at me. “Do you think Jaylie would sleep in the van?”

“Given the choice? Of course.”

“Well, this is how Loren would do it. And there are no vans in D&D.”

I won’t admit it, but I’m grateful to have a task as involved as setting up the tent to occupy my mind.

I follow each of his directions as best I can, but there are still half a dozen times where I nearly poke his eye out with a tent pole, the fabric almost rips, or the whole thing deflates entirely.

After we manage to set it up, we start prepping for dinner as the sun begins to dive down toward the lake.

I drop a blanket and a couple of pillows in front of the fire while Noah breaks out a surprisingly fancy-looking Dutch oven.

He proceeds to fill it with tortilla chips, beans, salsa, avocado, and an absurd amount of cheese.

“Nothing beats campfire nachos,” he assures me. “Nothing.”

I purse my lips. “There are no nachos in D&D,” I point out.

But Noah audibly guffaws. “You’re telling me D&D has fireballs, beholders, and magic beyond our comprehension—but no wizard ever thought to make nachos? What else is arcane knowledge for ?”

I consider that but then shake my head. “I thought we were supposed to be imitating our characters and what it’s like to adventure through the forest. I doubt either of our characters are a high enough level for nacho-sorcery.”

Noah ponders this. “I could probably catch a fish,” he says eventually, eyeing the lake down below. “But it would take me a few more hours than nachos would.”

It’s a concession I’m willing to make. “Nachos it is.”

Although the nachos may not be canon food in Liam’s fantasy world, the rest of the evening feels positively magical.

After we take turns disentangling chips and stuffing our faces, I lean against Noah’s side as he strums ineffectually at his ukulele.

From our perch on the ledge, we watch the dying light to the west paint the water a dozen shades of orange and purple.

As we pass the bottle of mead back and forth—“This one is a special wildflower recipe,” he boasts—everything begins to blend together.

The shadows cast by the trees stretch longer, the darkness deepens, the temperature finally lets up, and I’m hyperaware of all skin contact: Noah’s shoulder against mine, his hand tucked between my thighs where I have them curled against his hip.

Annoyingly, my mind wanders to the furthest thing from peace. “I made it to the final round of interviews,” I say eventually, as if set on ruining the mood. Earlier this week, Addison sent through my tickets for the last interview on Tuesday.

“Are you excited?”

This time I don’t deflect. “No.”

“Then why are you going?”

It’s a question I’ve asked myself a hundred times this week alone.

“I think…there are parts of the job I would like. Aspects I could grow to love, even. My manager is very sweet, and I’d have more control over my own schedule.

I’d be able to set better boundaries.” I prop my chin in my hand.

“I just feel like I’ve got to see it again.

Like I’ve got to stand in the middle of Manhattan and look up at all the skyscrapers and ask myself if I’m really ready toleave all of it behind. ”

Noah’s expression is understanding as he looks at me. Firelight ripples across his chin and flickers in his eyes. “Then I think you should go.”

I frown. “That’s not the advice I thought you would give.”

“Why not?”

Maybe it’s the mead. Maybe it’s the fact that he never dodges any of my questions that makes me brave. “Maybe I want you to tell me that you don’t want me to go. That I should stay.”

Gently, he cups my hand in his and leans forward to kiss the inside of my wrist. “If you decide to stay, Sadie,” he says quietly, “it should be because you explored every option and found the one that’s best for you.

I would never hold you back from that. If you decide to stay in Heller, wouldn’t it mean so much more if you made that choice after seeing everything this job has to offer?

It’ll make the decision harder, sure, but at least you’ll make it knowing you left no stone unturned. ”

“But what if it’s the wrong decision?” My throat feels thick. “What if I love the job, but I lose you guys?” What if I lose you? “Or what if I stay, and the art doesn’t work out? Or, worse, I start to resent it? What if I stay, and you…don’t?”

Noah squeezes my hand. “Then we just make the next right decision,” he murmurs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

For a few heartbeats, all I can hear are the crickets and the crackling of the fire and, very far off, the hush of water lapping at the stones below.

It’s the type of advice that rings with obvious truth, despite how difficult it is to actually follow.

I stand up suddenly, dig through our supplies, and bring back the s’mores ingredients.

This time, it’s my choice to change the subject.

“Have you been to New York before?”

“There are some places in the Adirondacks I want to visit…but no, I haven’t been to the city itself yet,” he says with a laugh. “Believe it or not, though, I used to live in downtown Chicago. For a few years, actually. That’s New York–ish, isn’t it?”

“Really?” I turn to him, curious. “I figured you were incapable of living anywhere more than half a mile from a trail.”

“You’d think, right?” He pokes a stick into the fire. “I mean, obviously I bounced off pretty hard from it. It was after that when I bought the van and really started traveling.”

“What were you doing in Chicago?”

“I’m from Illinois, actually. But I moved into the city when…” He pauses and looks at me seriously. “Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t laugh.”

“I was an accountant.”

It’s too much. At the thought of him with his shirt buttoned to his chin, a tie wrung around his neck, beard neatly trimmed and hair slicked back into a professional bun—well, I don’t laugh, but my grin is impossible to hide. “It’s hard to imagine you as a fancy businessman, Noah.”