Wildfire: A Novel (The Maple Hills Series)

I woke up this morning and told myself to forget Russ Callaghan. That he was just another man whose attention I’d become fixated on and he wasn’t the guy I was turning him into in my head. Emilia says I get attached too easily, or not at all, and that I don’t do the happy medium like most people.

I have to really question if someone is worth it when their actions make me call my mom just to hear her tell me how much she misses me.

I’d made my choice and I was sticking to it, which worked until he strolled back into camp and stopped in front of me. It’s hard to be mad at someone when they look like total shit. It’s hard to know that, if he’d walked in smiling and looking his usual, beautiful self, I would’ve had the same reaction.

I was heading to grab some stuff for my hike when I overshared all my feelings with the man I constantly force my bullshit onto. I don’t know what it is, the softness of his face or the way his eyes make me melt when he’s giving me his full attention, or those freaking dimples, that makes me want to word vomit my insecurities all over him.

He must be totally exhausted being stuck around me.

Not exhausted enough to make me carry my backpack though.

Now freshly showered, Russ is matching each of my steps up the steepening trail path and making it look easy. “I can carry my own backpack,” I repeat for the millionth time through strained breath. I really need to start exercising more. “I feel like you’re one of those little donkeys in Greece.”

“I like helping,” he says, not even a hint of panting, “and I’m used to carrying shit around. Not used to being called a donkey though, thanks for that one.”

“How are you not even breaking a sweat? You can carry me if you want, my legs hurt.”

I don’t even have time to say I’m kidding before my ass is in the air and my nose gets buried in my backpack. Russ’s hand grips the back of my thigh, keeping me in place over his shoulder as he continues, not even breaking his stride.

This was not what I was asking for.

“Aurora, every time you wriggle, you rub your ass against my face,” he says casually.

Give me strength. “I didn’t really mean carry me. I was being dramatic for sympathy!”

His fingers dig into my thigh and a part of me that has been severely neglected starts to throb. How thick my thigh is versus how much of his hand can cover it is not something I should be obsessing over right now.

“This is my version of being sympathetic,” he teases. “We’re nearly at the top anyway. Definitely feel like a donkey now though.”

“I take it back. You’re Shrek and I’m Princess Fiona.”

He laughs and I jiggle as his shoulders shake. “Well, green is my favorite color.”

“What type of green? Ogre green?”

“Whatever shade your eyes are.” He starts to lower me to the ground again, but my legs are jelly. “Holy shit, this is nice.”

I’m too busy reeling from what he said about my eyes to realize we’ve reached my favorite spot. I’m not sure what the official name for the type of water source this is, but the water is crystal clear and warm and we’re far enough from anyone else to ever be disturbed. The rocks lining the edge were my favorite when I came here as a kid, but now I appreciate how quiet it is. Russ helps me spread the picnic blanket out on the grass next to the water and I unpack our water bottles and energy bars.

“This is the first time we’ve been totally alone since we got here. Not one person to disturb us,” I say, kicking off my sneakers. He watches me, eyes dancing across my skin as I start to pull down my shorts.

He copies me, undressing slowly, watching me pull my t-shirt over my head as he does the same. I’m giddy with anticipation, my heart rate speeds up and I can’t keep the smile from my face.

He throws his socks onto the growing pile of our clothes. “So, we’re doing this?”

I nod, counting down from three. The nervous energy rattles through me and when I say go, my body takes on a mind of its own as I sprint away from Russ toward the rocks.

Sprinting in a bikini is possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had—and I’ve had so many terrible ideas. If I get concussion from being hit in the face by my own breasts, I’ll never recover from the embarrassment.

The rocks are hot under my feet as I climb to the top. It’s not hard or high, but I’m very aware of the man behind me, the one I suspect slowed down to let me win and who definitely has my ass in his face for the second time today.

Our race was for the first person into the water, but now I’m up here it feels higher than it did when I was younger. Russ doesn’t give me the chance to spiral as he reaches the top, as scoops me up into his arms and throws us both into the water.

The cool water is relief against the hot sun, but it does nothing to make Russ look less hot. He pushes back his wet hair, his biceps peaking above the water, and floats backwards soaking up the sun. He looks brighter than he did earlier somehow; I’m glad I brought him here. This is the most peaceful place I know and I feel like he needs it.

Maybe I should have sent him alone with directions because the silence is making me itch, but I’m doing my best to not fill it like I normally do.

“How did you discover this place?” Russ asks, eyes closed, still floating on his back and, my God, the relief to be able to talk again.

I float closer to him, like somehow if I’m too loud it’ll ruin things. “One year we had a counselor who wasn’t really into team sports, so he would organize walks all over the land that Orla and her family own. This was my favorite one.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is.”

“Chance of sharks?”

“Slim.”

His eyes open and he smiles right at me, making my heart thud like the drama queen she is. “What a relief.”

“You look better already,” I say cautiously. I want him to tell me why he had to suddenly leave, but I’m trying to not bulldoze into his life and make him uncomfortable after he told me he didn’t want to talk about it.

God, it’s exhausting trying to think about what you do before you do it.

“I feel better. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“If you . . . Do you, uhm.” Great start, Rory. “If you change your mind and do want to talk about anything to do with where you’ve been, that would be okay with me. We could try and find that middle ground.”

“I don’t want to burden you with my baggage.”

“I don’t mind. It isn’t a burden. You just carried my actual baggage and me up a hill. I can take whatever you throw at me, Callaghan.”

“It is. You have enough of your own, you don’t need other people’s.”

I hate me and my big mouth. I said that weeks ago, right when we first started working here, when someone asked me why I don’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t know how to say, “little to no trust in men, especially when I’m a trainwreck,” in a nice way to the people I’d just met, so I said the first thing that came to mind. Unfortunately, that happened to be about not wanting other people’s baggage.

“I want your baggage.”

“Aurora,” he says, harder this time, “I promise you, you don’t.”

He isn’t listening to me and I’m growing frustrated, but I know I’m just dealing with the result of my own words. I can feel myself becoming flustered as I struggle to verbalize my thoughts. “I do. I want it all. Pretend I’m the airport. Give me everything.”

I should be gagged, truly.

Russ’s eyebrows pinch together, showing he’s as confused as I am. “What are you talking about?”

“Airports? Baggage? I have no idea. I have no idea what I’m doing or saying most of the time, but I meant what I said earlier, Russ. I can take it.”

I’m in such unfamiliar territory and I hate it. He reaches out and tucks my wet hair behind my ear, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary and my entire body hums happily. “We should probably get out before we start to prune.”

I scream internally.

He doesn’t say anything as he helps me climb out of the water and we walk back toward the blanket. I throw myself onto the soft fabric, feeling a little defeated, and lie back to dry off.

I block out the sun with my hand, watching Russ awkwardly shuffle around, trying to get comfortable. “Put your head on my stomach.”

“I’ll be okay, I just need to fi—”

“You’ll be comfortable, I promise.”

Reluctantly, he maneuvers himself, leaning back and gently settling on my stomach. “If it becomes uncomf—”

“Emilia uses me as a pillow all the time. You’re gentler than she is. I’m good, I swear.”

I’m not sure at what point I finally become comfortable with the silence between us. But without the noise of my babbling, I get to listen to the sound of his breathing. Fifteen minutes of quiet passes before he starts talking.

“My dad was hit by a drunk driver.” I freeze as the relief that he’s finally sharing and panic that he’s finally sharing hit me both at once. “I don’t see or speak to my family very often because,” he pauses and I wait, stroking the top of his head gently so he knows I’m listening, “well, because my dad doesn’t make me feel very good about myself. He was my hero when I was really young. Never missed a hockey game, school fair, parent-teacher conference. By the time I graduated high school we barely talked.”

“What changed?” I ask softly.

“He did. It wasn’t an overnight change. It was little things, gradually getting more and more frequent over time, making him harder and harder to talk to. He got meaner and meaner and now I can’t stand to talk to him.”

“That really sucks. And I’m sorry about the crash, too, that’s a lot to process on its own. Was your dad okay when you got there?”

“He’ll make a full recovery. I’ve had to visit him in hospital a few times and it’s always been his fault. This one wasn’t technically his fault, but I still feel like he’s to blame, y’know?” My hand is still moving through his hair and I’m scared if I stop, he’ll stop. “Like if he wasn’t doing what he was doing, he wouldn’t have been where he was and then the car wouldn’t have hit him.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“I didn’t want to go, but my brother told me he’d come here and drag me back to Maple Hills if I didn’t go voluntarily. I didn’t want to bring my home drama here; I came here to escape it. Turns out Ethan lied and isn’t even on this side of the country. Smart, really. He knows I’d have ignored his threat if I thought he was far away.”

“You guys aren’t close?”

“Ethan is mad at the world and I don’t understand why. My anger is because I feel like I can’t escape; he escaped years ago, so what does he have to complain about? Makes it hard to bond when I feel like he’s constantly yelling at me about something. He reminds me of dad sometimes. I should tell him that next time he’s shouting at me. We just handle things differently, I suppose. He thinks I’m selfish for stuff and I think he’s selfish for stuff and, well, it isn’t a great foundation for a good relationship.”

“I’m not close with my sister. We handle things in pretty similar ways actually, not exactly a compliment to either of us, but we live very different lives. So I sort of get it.”

“I was honest about how I feel for the first time today. It felt good to finally say what I needed to say. It feels good to tell you this stuff, so thank you for being patient with me.”

“You’re really brave, Russ.”

“I’m the opposite of brave. He’s told me that enough times for it to be imprinted on my brain.”

Word by word, who Russ is gets clearer and clearer to me and I feel honored that the man who shares so little, is sharing with me.

“You are brave. We live in a society that tells us our parents are the greatest thing we will ever have and will ever lose, and you just—I don’t even know. You’re putting yourself first anyway. That’s brave.”

“I learned a long time ago that if I didn’t put myself first, that nobody else was going to. Forgiving people who repeatedly let you down is like sticking your hand in a fire over and over and expecting it to not keep burning you.”

“Sounds like me and my dad. Except I’m singed to a crisp.”

“What’s the deal with you two?”

“Elsa thinks he hates us because we’re both terrible drivers, but I think it’s because I look like my mom and he really hates my mom.”

He moves onto his elbows and looks at me over his shoulder. “Hold up, your sister is called Elsa? Are your parents Disney adults?”

The number of times I’ve been asked something similar. “Shut up. I’m named after the Northern Lights, which disgustingly, is because I was conceived in Norway. Could have gone my whole life thinking I was named after a princess, but my mom decided to traumatize me instead.”

He’s laughing as he lies back against my stomach. “And Elsa?”

“Predates Frozen. It’s a really popular name in parts of Europe. My dad likes to pretend he backpacked around Scandinavia when he was younger, but in reality he stayed in fancy hotels and ate in fancier restaurants every night—not a hostel or backpack in sight.” Mom loves laughing at that one. “He owns a Formula One team called Fenrir, which is from Norse mythology, so there is a theme. Elsa used to tell people we had a brother called Thor.”

“Would it help you to know that I am named after a dog that my mom had when she was a kid?”

“Yes. I feel silly telling you about my dad after your dad has been so cruel to you. My dad isn’t cruel. He doesn’t outright say horrible things to me; he just makes me feel like his life would be easier if I wasn’t around. He’s always put work first, which I get because he’s got a lot of responsibility on his shoulders and because of it, I’ve had opportunities and been to places that people would kill for.”

“Nice things don’t make the bad stuff acceptable though,” Russ says.

“I’d give all that up to feel like he loves me. We’ve been stuck in this cycle where he ignores me, so I do something silly to get his attention. When I was a teen I shoplifted, knowing I’d get caught. I got a fake ID and went to places I was too young for. Pissed off my teachers. Posted a picture of myself on race day wearing the merch of his main rival, Elysium. The F1 pages reposted the shit out of it.”

“Jesus, Rory.”

“And it works, but only for a short time because he’s annoyed; but at least he calls and sees me. Nothing ever happens. I’m not punished, he doesn’t try to understand. My mom justifies it because of course I’m like this, it’s his fault. Then his anger wears off and he goes back to pretending that I don’t exist and every time, I’m like this is going to be the time where he proves he cares—but I just end up hurting my own feelings.” I know I’m rambling. I know I’m oversharing, but every time I think about stopping he reaches up and squeezes the hand I have resting in his hair, urging me to continue.

“I repeat the cycle. He has a girlfriend named Norah and she has a daughter, who’s our age, called Isobel. Norah posts about Dad like they’re the happiest of families. But I’ll never be part of it and it makes me sad and it makes me do things like drink excessive amounts of tequila and ask you to skinny dip with me.”

“That feels like a million years ago.”

“That’s why I loved this place so much growing up. It was a couple of months where I felt wanted and valued. I didn’t have to worry about what was going on at home. I knew coming back here was the only thing that would break the cycle. So that’s my trauma dump. How fun. We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

“A walking advertisement for daddy issues.”

“Do you hate them? I don’t hate my parents, even though they’re definitely the root of all my problems.” He doesn’t say anything, so neither do I. I might have pushed him too far, so I keep twirling the ends of his hair around my fingers and pressing my fingers gently into his scalp. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to go too far.”

“You haven’t. I told my dad I hated him yesterday, but I was hurt. I’m not sure I do though. I think I hate the way he makes me feel. If he stopped doing the things he knows he shouldn’t and started acting like the person he was when I was a kid, then I could have him in my life.”

“What about your mom?”

He hums, long and low. “I love my mom. I’ve just always been mad at her for enabling my dad. After talking to her yesterday, I think she’s realized she doesn’t know everything. So yeah, that’s my trauma dump.”

Knowing the type of difficult relationships he’s dealing with makes me understand him so much better and I’m giddy that he’s trusted me with something clearly so raw. “Thank you for sharing with me.”

“Thank you for comparing yourself to an airport.”

I try to stop the laugh so I don’t give him motion sickness, but I can’t help it. I cover my face with my hands, like that’ll block out the embarrassment. “I swear I’m not this much of a disaster normally. You make me nervous; I think. It comes out and I can’t even stop it. Sometimes I lie in bed awake at night cringing. Emilia has done nothing but bully me about it since we got here.”

“I love it, Aurora.” He rolls onto his stomach, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. I peak at him through my fingers. “You make it easier for me to be myself because you’re so . . . you. I overthink everything I say and do and you just—”

“Don’t think before I speak?”

“–you say what’s in your head.” He brushes my hands away from my face, so I have nowhere to hide. “It’s great. You’re great.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel special, Callaghan.” I might be about to combust. “Remember, you enabled me next time I start rambling.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he lays back down, this time placing his cheek on my bare stomach. “Is this okay?” he asks cautiously.

“Yup.” My hand settles against the nape of his neck, drawing patterns and trailing my fingers up and down the hard muscles of his shoulders. “Is this okay?”

“Yup.”

And I’m not sure exactly which animal I’m doodling against his skin when it happens, but somewhere between a hippo and a penguin, he falls asleep. So I keep doodling, until eventually my hand slows and I fall asleep too.