Page 76 of Fool Me

Atlas, Vivi, and my dad took turns talking me off the ledge all week. Atlas, a near-constant presence of support, always listening and never pressuring. Vivi, more loudly, threatening to fly to Timberline Peak and hold my hand while she dragged me to the interview with her newborn strapped to her chest. And my dad, reminding me who I was and why I was doing this.

I’ve done everything I can and all I can do now is wait for the decision. The interview process and testing are over and all that’s standing in the way of me and my best friend’s wedding is one red-eye flight.

By the time I’ve left Town Hall and walked over to Powderline Donuts, I’m stripping off my blazer and carrying it over my arm. After an afternoon trapped inside stuffy offices, the sun on my skin is a welcome warmth.

Before I can order, Marcy is pushing a donut across the counter at me. “I need you to try this and give it your seal ofapproval. It’s my Backcountry Bourbon Maple. And don’t hold back on me. This one needs to be a bestseller. All the proceeds from it are going to The Green Signal Project during Founders’ days. This batch was just to fine-tune things and make sure it’s ready.”

The bite goes down thick, my throat tightening as I’m overcome with emotion.

“For real?” I’m stunned. The Green Signal Project focuses on the mental health of first responders. It’s not hard to believe that someone with a heart as big as Marcy’s would want to help, more that she chose that cause. It’s . . . a lot.

She ignores my obvious shock.

“Did you know that I’m terrified of mountain lions? Like utterly petrified. It stopped me from running on the trails for months when I first moved here. One morning, I’d finally worked up the courage and made it a third of a mile before I found myself doubled over, leaning against a tree hyperventilating because I’d heard the snap of a branch and was convinced it was a cat sneaking up on me. Your dad was out running too and he stopped and helped me through it before a full-blown panic attack took hold. Once he calmed me down, he told me we could do one of two things: he would walk me back to the car, or we could run together.”

“What did you choose?” I ask, hanging on every word.

“You’re not going to want to hear this, but your dad was shirtless, and it helped me push through the fear and finish the run. I figured if I was going to get attacked by a mountain lion and die, at least I’d go happy.”

“Marcy,” I groan, but it’s exactly what I need after my interview with Evans.

“Commotion for the donut?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

“They’re delicious enough that I can almost overlook the fact that they were inspired by my dad’s bare chest.”

“No, sweetheart, these were inspired by you. Your dad is . . . really something,” she hedges. “But you’re, well, honestly, a little intimidating. You’re brave and humble. And I think it’s safe to say that whether you get the Incident Commander job or not, we’re all proud of you. Your dad might have gotten me back on the trail, but you’ve kept me there. You’re the heart of the search and rescue team and we all know it could easily be our asses you’re saving one day. I’m just a middle-aged woman who tries to balance her sweets by getting out in nature. There’s not much I can do when tragedy strikes, but I can help raise money for causes like The Green Signal Project, so your team gets the support they need after something terrible happens.”

“You didn’t have to go so hard.” I sniffle. “I could have forgiven you for ogling my dad, but that is beyond anything—thank you, Marcy, truly.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just gives my hand a squeeze as I take another bite. And somehow, this ridiculous, gooey, bourbon-soaked donut tastes like hope.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

ATLAS

Serra Brilhante Winery looks exactly like Harlowe described on the plane ride here. Sun-drenched hills roll out in every direction. The vineyards are lush and green under the July sun, and the stone buildings that dot the property look like they’ve been there forever. It’s different from Wyoming, but beautiful in its own way.

Wedding prep is clearly underway, but nothing feels finished. Folding chairs sit stacked near the edge of the lawn. A man is halfway through stringing lights between two olive trees, and pieces of what appear to be a stage are spread out in the grass. A delivery van is parked near the tasting room that has its doors open, music drifting from the inside as another man carries boxes inside.

Harlowe squeals next to me when a woman with long, dark hair steps out onto the porch. I know from the lock screen on her phone that it’s her best friend and the bride, Vivienne, or, Vivi, as Harlowe often calls her.

I park the rental, fearing she might leap from the moving vehicle to get to the hug waiting for her at the bottom step of the main house. Then, I hold up one finger and unbuckle, roundingthe car to open her door. With a nod toward the house, I say, “Go say hello. I’ll grab the bags.”

Her lips spread into the first genuine smile I’ve seen since the night she got the call from my couch. Any doubts I had about taking time away from the clinic to join her at this wedding when we first hatched this plan are long gone—they have been since I heard the worst-case scenario over the police scanner and showed up only for Harlowe to crumble before my eyes.

From that moment, making sure my girl has everything she needs to find her strength and joy again in her own time became my top priority. But watching her sprint to Vivienne and practically take her to the ground has me thinking being here might start to stitch those wounds closed.

I lean against the car, watching for a second, when someone else steps out of the house. Like me, he hangs back and watches the two women with a matching grin on his face to the one I’m wearing. He spots me and lifts his chin to me in acknowledgement.

And holy shit, I feel like I’ve just been inducted into a club with a secret handshake.

A club featuring the best catcher of the last decade.

Retired or not, the man is still a legend. I told Harlowe I’d only be a little weird about this, but the ten-year-old in me is absolutely losing it.

Using the luggage as a weak excuse to compose myself, I pop the trunk and grab our bags. But when I close it, I find Xavier-fucking-Kingsley, future Hall-of-Famer, Gold Glove winner, World Series champ—thatguy—standing right there, hand extended.

---