Chapter 2: The Book, The Bedroll, and Her Breasts
The lake had settled into a rhythm over the past two weeks, a kind of slow, deliberate breathing that Jordan had started to measure his days by. In the mornings, the water was flat as a beaten coin, reflecting the jagged teeth of the pines that ringed the shore. By afternoon, the wind kicked up from the west, chopping the surface into a thousand glittering fragments. And in the evenings, as the sun bled out behind the ridge, the whole thing turned to glass again, still and perfect and holding the last light like it couldn't bear to let it go.
He'd stopped keeping track of the days. The calendar on his phone had run out of battery a week ago, and he hadn't bothered to charge it. What was the point? Time out here wasn't measured in hours and minutes. It was measured in the rise and fall of the fire, the slow creep of the shadows across the clearing, the number of times Anna laughed at something he said.
That laugh. He'd heard it more times than he could count now, and it still got him every time. It started low, almost surprised, like she hadn't expected to find anything funny, and then it climbed, bright and uncontrolled, until she was doubled over, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her face. It was a ridiculous laugh. An ugly laugh, really. And he loved it.
He loved a lot of things about her, if he was being honest.
He was sitting on a flat rock near the water's edge, his water-stained notebook open on his knee, when she emerged from the tent. She was wearing his flannel shirt—the faded red one with the missing button—and nothing else. Her hair was a catastrophe of tangles and waves, and there was a crease on her cheek from where she'd been sleeping on a fold in the sleeping bag.
"You're up early," she said, her voice still rough with sleep.
"It's almost noon."
"Is it?" She looked up at the sky, squinting. "Huh."
She padded over to him, bare feet on the cold ground, and dropped down beside him. Her shoulder pressed against his, and she leaned over to peer at the notebook.
"What are you writing?"
He closed it quickly, a reflex he couldn't quite control. "Nothing."
"That's not nothing. That's a full page of words."
"It's just—notes."
She raised an eyebrow. "Notes about what?"
He hesitated. The notebook had been a private thing, a place where he worked out his thoughts, his observations, the things he couldn't say out loud. He hadn't shown it to anyone. Not ever. But Anna was looking at him with that curious, patient expression she got when she knew he was hiding something, and he found himself wanting to show her.
Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.
"It's a—" He cleared his throat. "It's kind of a memoir. I guess. About this trip."
Her eyebrows climbed higher. "You're writing a memoir?"
"I'm writing something. I don't know what it is yet."
She held out her hand. "Let me see."
He didn't move.
"Come on," she said. "I showed you my sketchbook."
"That's different."
"How is it different?"
"Your sketchbook is—art. This is just me rambling."
"Rambling is art." She wiggled her fingers. "Give it."
He hesitated a moment longer, then handed it over. She took it carefully, almost reverently, and opened to the first page.
She was quiet for a long time. He watched her eyes move across the words, her expression shifting—a smile here, a furrowed brow there, a soft exhale at something he couldn't remember writing. The silence stretched, and he felt his stomach tighten with something that might have been anxiety.
Finally, she looked up.
"You wrote about me," she said.
"I wrote about the trip. You happen to be part of it."
"I'm the first chapter."
"You're—" He shrugged, feeling the heat rise to his face. "You were the first thing that happened. The first interesting thing."
"Interesting." She said the word like she was tasting it. "I'm interesting."
"You're a lot of things."
She looked back down at the notebook, and this time she read out loud.
"The stranger had a tent that looked like it had lost a fight with the wind." Her voice was soft, almost wondering. "Her fire was a sad, sputtering thing, more smoke than flame, and she was kneeling over it like it had personally offended her."
"Okay," he said. "You can stop now."
"She had auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and a smudge of ash on her forehead that she didn't seem to notice." She glanced at him. "Did I really have ash on my forehead?"
"The whole time."
"Jesus."
"You looked cute."
"I told you not to call me cute."
"I'm not calling you cute. I'm saying the ash made you look cute."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. She continued reading.
"There was something about her. A sharpness. Like she was holding a knife, even though her hands were empty. I figured she'd tell me to fuck off if I offered to help. I was right. She did. But she also said thank you."
"I didn't say thank you."
"You said it eventually."
She kept reading, her voice dropping lower, more intimate. She read about their first night, the fire, the whiskey. She read about the way he'd noticed her hands shaking, and how she'd hidden it by shoving them in her pockets. She read about the moment he realized he wanted to know everything about her.
"God," she said softly. "Is this really how you see me?"
"That's how I saw you. Then."
"And now?"
He reached over and closed the notebook, gently, his hand covering hers.
"Now I see you sitting here in my shirt, with your hair looking like a bird's nest and a crease on your face, reading my terrible writing out loud, and I'm thinking about how I never want to leave this place."
She stared at him.
"That's a lot," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not—I'm not good at this. The whole feelings thing."
"I know."
"I have a lot of baggage."
"I have a duffel bag, at least."
She laughed, but it was shaky, and her eyes were bright with something that might have been tears. She blinked them back, quick, like she was embarrassed, and looked down at the notebook still in her lap.
Then she looked up at him, and something in her expression shifted. The vulnerability was still there, but something else was rising up to meet it. Something hungrier.
"You wrote about me," she said again.
"I did."
"It's really good."
"Thanks."
"It made me—" She paused, biting her lip. "It made me feel something."
"What kind of something?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she set the notebook aside, on the ground, and then she was moving, crawling over him, pushing him back onto the rock. He landed on his back with a grunt, the stone hard and cold beneath him, and then she was straddling him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands planted on his chest.
"You wrote about my mouth," she said, her voice low. "About how it looked in the firelight."
"You have a nice mouth."
"You wrote about my hands. About how they moved when I talked."
"Observation."
"You wrote about the way I looked at you." She leaned down, her face inches from his. "Like I wanted to eat you alive."
"Did I?"
"You did." She kissed him, hard, her teeth catching his lower lip. "Was that what you wanted to happen? When you were writing it?"
"I wanted a lot of things to happen."
"Like what?"
He reached up, his hands finding her hips through the flannel shirt. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. He could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric.
"Like this," he said.
"Just this?"
"I want to touch you."
"You're touching me."
"I want to touch you everywhere."
She sat up, straddling him, and looked down with an expression that was equal parts challenge and invitation. Then she unbuttoned the flannel shirt, slowly, one button at a time, watching his face as she did it. When it hung open, her breasts exposed to the cool air, she shrugged it off her shoulders and let it fall to the rock behind her.
"Better?" she asked.
He sat up, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the soft slope of her breast. She gasped when his mouth closed around her nipple, her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Okay. Yeah. That's—"
He pulled back, just enough to look at her.
"You're so beautiful."
"Stop."
"Why?"
"Because—" She shook her head, a laugh escaping her. "Because I'm not used to it."
"I'll get you used to it."
He kissed her again, deeper, but she was already moving, her hips grinding against his lap, her hands working at the waistband of his shorts. She got them open, shoving them down his hips, and then her hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking him with a firm, even rhythm.
"God," he said.
"That's the idea."
He grabbed her ass with both hands, pulling her closer, and she rose up on her knees to position herself over him. She reached between them, guiding him to her entrance, and then she sank down onto him.
He watched her face as she took him in. The way her eyes fluttered closed. The way her mouth fell open. The way her whole body relaxed into it, like she was coming home.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"You said that already."
"Shut up."
She started moving, her hips rocking back and forth, her hands braced on his chest. He grabbed her thighs, helping her find the rhythm, and then just let her ride him, watching the way her body moved in the dappled light filtering through the pines.
The notebook was scattered beneath them now, pages askew, the words he'd written blown around by the wind. He didn't care. Nothing mattered except the way she felt around him, tight and wet and perfect.
"You feel so good," he said.
"I know."
"Getting cocky?"
"Just stating facts." She leaned back a little, changing the angle, and they both groaned. "Oh, fuck, right there."
She picked up the pace, her hips moving faster, harder. The rock was hard beneath him, digging into his spine, but he didn't care. He'd have the bruises for days, and he'd love every single one of them.
"Come on," he said. "Come for me."
"I'm trying—"
"Let go. I've got you."
She let her head fall back, her mouth open, and he watched the flush spread across her chest as she rode him. The sounds she made were small and desperate, little gasps that built into something bigger, and then she was coming, her body clenching around him, her fingers digging into his chest.
He followed right after, his hips bucking up into her as he emptied himself. The world went white for a second, and then it faded, and she was collapsing on top of him, her face buried in his neck, her breath hot and fast.
Neither of them moved for a long time.
Then Anna lifted her head and looked at him. Her face was flushed, her hair wild, her lips swollen. She looked like she'd just been fucked senseless, which she had.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm excellent."
"You're heavy."
"Rude."
"Get off me."
She rolled off him, laughing, landing on the rock beside him. They lay side by side, staring up at the sky, and she reached over and intertwined her fingers with his.
"Your notebook," she said after a moment.
"What about it?"
"It's in the dirt."
He looked. The pages were scattered, some of them face down in the dirt, getting mud on the words. He'd have to copy them over.
"Worth it," he said.
She squeezed his hand.
They lay there for a while longer, until the sun started to sink toward the horizon, and then Anna sat up. She reached for her sketchbook, which was lying near the tent, and pulled it into her lap.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm going to draw it."
"Draw what?"
"The lake." She opened the sketchbook to a fresh page and picked up a pencil. "The way you described it. The way it looked that first morning."
He watched her work, her pencil moving across the paper in quick, confident strokes. She drew the shore, the trees, the reflection of the mountains in the water.
"It's good," he said.
"I know." She glanced at him. "It's mine now. The way you saw it. I'm stealing it."
"You can't steal something I gave you."
"Then I'm keeping it." She looked back down at the sketchbook, and a small smile played on her lips. "For a memoir I'm going to write."
"You're writing a memoir?"
"I'm writing something." She met his eyes. "I don't know what it is yet."
He laughed, and she laughed, and the sound drifted out over the lake, mingling with the wind and the water and the fading light of the day.
The light was bleeding out of the sky by the time they finally stirred from the rock, their limbs tangled and heavy with the particular languor that follows good sex. Anna's sketchbook lay closed on the ground beside them, the drawing of the lake finished and signed with a tiny, almost illegible scrawl in the corner. Jordan watched her as she stretched, her spine arching, her arms reaching toward the first few stars that were beginning to prick through the darkening blue.
"We should do something tomorrow," she said.
"We've been doing something every day."
"Something different." She sat up, pulling the flannel shirt back on and buttoning it halfway. "There's a trail I saw on the map. Goes up past the ridgeline, loops around the back side of the lake."
"That's a ten-mile loop."
"So?"
"So you're going to make me hike ten miles?"
"I'm going to make you hike ten miles and then I'm going to make you carry me back."
He laughed. "Deal."
They woke early the next morning, the air sharp and cold, the kind of cold that made your breath visible and your fingers ache. Jordan made coffee while Anna packed her daypack, and they set off just as the sun was cresting the eastern ridge, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
The trail was narrow and overgrown, barely maintained, the kind of path that required attention. Roots snaked across the dirt, and low branches clawed at their faces. They walked single file, Anna in front, and Jordan watched the way her hips moved beneath her hiking pants, the way her ponytail swung with each step.
"You're staring at my ass," she said without turning around.
"How do you know?"
"I can feel it."
"Maybe I'm just admiring the view."
"The view is in front of you. The lake."
"The lake's nice too."
She laughed and kept walking.
The trail climbed steadily, winding through dense stands of pine and aspen, the ground soft with fallen needles. They stopped twice to drink water—once at a small clearing where a creek cut through the rocks, once at a rocky outcropping that offered a glimpse of the valley below. Anna took photos with her phone, cursing when the battery died halfway through the second stop.
"Should've charged it," she muttered.
"Should've brought a camera."
"I'm an artist. I don't need a camera."
"You just took twenty pictures."
"For reference." She shoved the dead phone into her pocket. "Shut up."
They reached the peak of the loop around noon, a wide, flat plateau that overlooked the entire lake. The water below was impossibly blue, a color that seemed almost artificial, and the trees surrounding it formed a dense, dark green border. Anna stood at the edge of the plateau, her hands on her hips, and just looked for a long moment.
"It's incredible," she said.
"Yeah."
"I mean it. I've seen a lot of beautiful places. This is—" She shook her head. "It's something else."
Jordan came to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. The wind was stronger up here, cold and clean, and it whipped strands of hair across her face. She didn't bother to push them back.
"I used to come to places like this with my dad," he said. "When I was a kid. We'd hike for days, just the two of us."
"Where is he now?"
"Vermont. He remarried a few years ago. We don't talk much."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "No reason. Just life. He got busy, I got busy. The calls got shorter, and then they stopped."
She looked at him. "Do you miss him?"
"Sometimes." He paused. "I miss who he was. Before."
"Before what?"
"Before the divorce. Before he became someone else."
She didn't say anything. Just reached over and took his hand, her fingers cold against his.
They ate lunch on the plateau, sitting on a flat rock that had been warmed by the sun. Anna pulled out a bag of trail mix and a block of cheese, and they passed the food back and forth while the wind howled around them. Jordan told her about his mom, about the small town he grew up in, about the summer he'd spent working at a camp in the Adirondacks and how it had changed the way he thought about the outdoors. She told him about growing up in Toronto, about her parents who were both professors, about the way she'd always felt like the odd one out because she wanted to make art instead of study something "practical."
"They wanted me to be a lawyer," she said. "Or a doctor. Something respectable."
"And instead you draw pictures for children's books."
"Best decision I ever made." She bit into a piece of cheese. "My mom still asks when I'm going to get a real job."
"What do you tell her?"
"I tell her I'm happy. She doesn't believe me."
"Are you?"
She chewed slowly, considering. "I'm getting there."
After lunch, they started the descent, following the trail as it curved back toward the lake. The path was steeper on this side, rocky and uneven, and they had to move carefully. Anna slipped once, catching herself on a tree branch, and laughed it off, but Jordan noticed the way her hands shook afterward.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Fine. Just clumsy."
"You're not clumsy."
"I'm a little clumsy."
"You're the most not-clumsy person I've ever met."
She stopped and turned to look at him. The trail here was narrow, hemmed in by dense undergrowth, and the trees pressed close on either side. The light was filtered and green, casting everything in a soft, undersea glow.
"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked.
"I'm always nice to you."
"I know. That's the problem."
"What's the problem?"
She stepped closer, her face tilted up toward his. "You're too nice. It makes me want to be nice back. And I don't do nice."
"You do nice."
"I don't. I do sarcastic. And difficult. And occasionally pleasant, if you catch me in the right mood."
"You're doing nice right now."
She reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him down toward her. "I'm doing something."
She kissed him, hard, and he kissed her back, and the trail and the trees and the lake below all faded into the background. Her hands were in his hair, and his hands were on her waist, and then she was walking him backward, step by step, until his back hit the trunk of a massive pine.
"Here?" he said against her mouth.
"Here."
She dropped to her knees.
He watched, breathless, as she unbuttoned his shorts and pulled them down, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his underwear and dragging it with them. His cock sprang free, already hard, and she looked up at him with a smirk that made his stomach flip.
"Been thinking about this all day," she said.
"Have you?"
"Every time I looked at you. Every time you stared at my ass." She took him in her hand, stroking slowly. "I was thinking about what I'd do when I finally got you alone."
"And what's that?"
She answered by taking him into her mouth.
He groaned, his head falling back against the tree. Her mouth was hot and wet, her tongue doing things that made his knees buckle. She took him deep, then pulled back, then deep again, setting a rhythm that was slow and deliberate and absolutely fucking torturous.
"Jesus," he said.
She hummed, the vibration traveling up his spine.
He tangled his fingers in her hair, not pushing, just holding on. She looked up at him, her eyes dark, her lips stretched around his cock, and the sight of it nearly undid him. He was close already, embarrassingly close, and she'd only just started.
"Anna," he said. "You need to stop."
She pulled back, a string of spit connecting her lips to the head of his cock. "Why?"
"I'm gonna come."
"I know."
"You want me to?"
She stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Not yet."
She shimmied out of her own pants, kicking them aside, and then she was on him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck. He caught her, his back still against the tree, and she reached between them, positioning him at her entrance.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Always."
She sank down onto him, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. She was so wet, so tight, and she took him all the way to the base, her breath hitching in his ear.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
She started to move, riding him with a frantic energy that matched the pounding of his heart. The tree bark scraped against his back through his shirt, but he didn't care. All he could feel was her, all around him, her heat and her weight and the way she clung to him like she'd fall apart if she let go.
"You feel so good," he said.
"Don't talk. Just—" She kissed him, her teeth catching his lip. "Just fuck me."
He obliged, thrusting up into her with a force that made her gasp. She threw her head back, her hair spilling loose from its ponytail, and he watched the way her throat moved as she swallowed, the way her breasts bounced with every thrust.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The tree creaked behind them, the branches shuddering with the force of their movement. Birds scattered from the canopy above, and somewhere in the distance, a squirrel chattered angrily. Jordan didn't notice any of it. His whole world had narrowed to the woman in his arms, the wet heat of her cunt, the way she moaned his name like a prayer.
"I'm gonna come," she said. "I'm gonna—"
"Come for me. Come on my cock."
She did, her body convulsing, her nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. He felt the sting, felt the warmth, and it pushed him over the edge. He came with a shout, burying himself deep, emptying everything he had into her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. She stayed wrapped around him, her face buried in his neck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. His back was raw, his legs were shaking, and he was pretty sure he'd never felt better in his entire life.
"We should hike more often," he said.
She laughed, a breathless, broken sound. "Shut up."
They disentangled slowly, reluctantly, and Anna pulled her pants back on while Jordan did the same. She looked at him, at the scratches she'd left on his back, and winced.
"Sorry about that," she said.
"I'm not."
"You're going to have scars."
"Good."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She reached up and straightened his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles with her palms.
"We should get back," she said. "It's going to be dark soon."
"Yeah."
They started walking again, slower this time, their bodies tired in a way that felt good. The trail wound down through the trees, and the lake appeared below them, shadowed now, the water dark and still. By the time they reached their campsite, the sun was gone, and the first stars were out.
Jordan built a fire while Anna unpacked her pack. She sat on the bedroll near the flames, her sketchbook open on her lap, and started drawing. He watched her work, the way her pencil moved, the way her brow furrowed in concentration.
"What are you drawing?" he asked.
"The tree."
"Which tree?"
"The one you just fucked me against."
He laughed. "Is it a good likeness?"
"It's a very good likeness. You're in it too."
"Am I naked?"
"Obviously."
He sat down beside her, and she tilted the sketchbook so he could see. The drawing was simple but evocative—the thick trunk of the pine, the dappled light, the outline of two figures tangled together. It was intimate and raw, and it made something tighten in his chest.
"That's really good," he said.
"I know."
"Modest."
"Honest." She closed the sketchbook and set it aside. "I've been thinking."
"About what?"
"About what happens when we leave here."
He didn't answer right away. The fire crackled, sending sparks up into the dark, and the wind whispered through the trees. It was the question they'd both been avoiding, the one that had been lurking beneath every conversation for days.
"What do you want to happen?" he asked.
"I don't know." She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "I have a life in Toronto. An apartment. Clients. A lease."
"And I have school in New York."
"So we're—what? A two-week fling that ends when we pack up our tents?"
He looked at her. Her face was half in shadow, the firelight flickering across her features, and she looked small and vulnerable in a way she rarely let him see.
"Do you want it to end?" he asked.
"No."
"Then it doesn't have to."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "What about your house? In Cold Spring. You said it's small."
"It's a cabin. My grandfather's. He left it to me when he died. I've been fixing it up, bit by bit."
"How big?"
"One bedroom. A kitchen. A porch that's falling apart."
She nodded slowly. "I could work from anywhere. As long as I have internet."
"You'd come to Cold Spring?"
"I'd come to Cold Spring." She looked at him. "For a visit. To see."
"But you'd go back."
"I'd go back. For now." She reached over and took his hand. "But that doesn't mean it's over. It just means we're not done figuring it out."
He squeezed her hand. "And the cabin? In Canada?"
"What about it?"
"You said you wanted to build one. Someday. Out here."
She laughed. "I was talking about a dream. A maybe."
"So was I." He looked at her. "But what if it wasn't?"
"Jordan."
"I'm serious. I've got money saved. Not a lot, but enough for land. Enough to start."
"To start what?"
"Building. Out here. A place we could come back to." He paused. "A place that's ours."
She stared at him. The fire crackled. The wind blew.
"You're insane," she said.
"Maybe."
"We've known each other for two weeks."
"I know."
"We barely know anything about each other."
"I know enough."
"What do you know?"
"I know you're stubborn and difficult and you snore when you sleep on your back." She opened her mouth to protest, and he kept going. "I know you're scared of being alone, but you're more scared of letting someone in. I know you laugh at things that aren't funny, and you cry at commercials, and you'd rather eat cold beans than ask for help. I know you're talented and smart and the best thing that's happened to me in a long time."
She was quiet.
"I know all that," he said. "And I still want you. So yeah. Maybe I'm insane."
She didn't say anything for a long time. Then she leaned over and kissed him, soft and slow, her hand cupping his jaw.
"You're definitely insane," she said against his mouth.
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a maybe."
"I'll take it."
She pulled back, looking at him, and there was something different in her expression. Something softer. Something that looked almost like hope.
"Okay," she said. "Let's do it."
The next morning, they packed up camp. Jordan rolled his sleeping bag and deflated his pad, and Anna folded her tent and stuffed it into its sack. They worked in silence, but it was a good silence, full of the comfortable intimacy of two people who had shared something profound.
Jordan checked the trail map one last time while Anna did a final sweep of the campsite, looking for anything they'd left behind. The fire ring was cold, the ashes gray and dead, and the clearing looked smaller somehow, less significant than it had two weeks ago.
"Everything's packed," she said, coming to stand beside him.
"Ready to go?"
"Ready."
They started down the trail, the one that led back to the trailhead, back to the car, back to the real world. The trees were dense around them, and the morning light was soft and green. It was a different forest than the one they'd arrived in—the same trees, the same rocks, the same winding path, but it felt different. Changed.
"You know what I'm going to do first when we get back?" Anna asked.
"What?"
"Take a shower. A real shower. With soap and everything."
"That's the dream."
"What about you?"
"Sleep in a bed. A real bed. With sheets."
"Did you just make an innuendo?"
"I did not."
"You did."
"Okay, maybe I did."
She laughed—that ridiculous, ugly laugh he'd grown to love. It echoed through the trees, bright and wild, and for a moment, the forest felt alive in a way it hadn't before.
They hiked in companionable silence, stopping twice to rest, and by early afternoon, they could see the parking lot through the trees. Anna's car was still there, dusty and forgotten, and Jordan's truck was parked beside it.
"This is it," she said, standing at the edge of the lot.
"For now."
"For now." She looked at him. "So. Cold Spring."
"Cold Spring. I'll text you the address."
"I don't have service."
"You will when we get back to civilization."
She nodded. Then she stepped forward and kissed him, right there in the parking lot, with the sun beating down and the sound of cars in the distance.
"See you soon," she said.
"Soon."
She got in her car and drove away, and Jordan stood there for a long moment, watching her taillights disappear around the bend. Then he got in his truck and started the engine, and he drove south, toward the border, toward home, toward whatever came next.
He didn't know what it would look like. He didn't know if it would work.
But for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to finding out.