Page 22 of Ripe & Ready
“I think I just want to remember it,” I finally say. “Like, actually be in it. Not counting down the minutes until it’s over or worrying about what could go wrong.”
Derek slows a little, falling in step beside me. “That’s new.”
“Yeah,” I say, quietly. “It is.”
We keep walking. The trees shift around us, same trail, same jungle, but I’m really seeing it. The way the light filters through the leaves, the calls of birds overhead, the way Derek’s hand brushes mine every few steps even when he’s not trying.
“I used to think trying new things was dangerous,” I murmur. “Like… if I stepped outside my routine or let myself want too much, the world would take it away. Or it’d blow up in my face.”
Derek doesn’t say anything. It’s one of his many superpowers. He knows when to let the silence hold things.
“But then I got here and everything was weird and hard and buggy and kind of horrible,” I chuckle. “I don’t know. Somehow… it was still worth it. Because I was with you.”
Derek’s hand finds mine, this time on purpose.
A few paces ahead, our group comes to a stop.
Obed turns back to us, gesturing toward a downed tree stretched over a narrow, muddy creek. It’s slick, damp, and definitely not OSHA-approved. A few people glance at each other, visibly uneasy.
“We cross here,” Obed says casually.
It’s not dangerous exactly, but the drop into the creek is a good five feet. Manageable, but not ideal. We could climb down, trudge through what looks like shin-deep water, and haul ourselves up the other side. There’s adventure in both options.
The tree is faster.
I open my mouth to make a joke. Something sarcastic and deflect-y and very me, but then a woman near me shifts nervously. She’s older, maybe in her sixties, and her hand’s already tightening around the strap of her pack like it might anchor her in place.
Before I can think better of it, I speak. “I’ll go first.”
Derek turns to me, one brow raised.
Obed nods, stepping back to give me room.
I step onto the log.
It wobbles. My foot slips a little, and my heartbeat lurches into my throat, but I keep going. One step, then another. Careful. Steady.
This isn’t some monumental act of heroics. I’m not Indiana Jones. This isn’t a movie. Hell, you’re probably thinking, “He didn’t even do anything.” You’re right. I didn’t. Not really.
Each step still feels like a win anyway.
Because for once, I’m not doing this despite who I am. I’m doing it because I’ve started to believe what Derek sees in me.
Courage isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something you build one wobbly-ass step at a time and maybe it gets a little easier when someone keeps showing up to remind you that version of yourself exists.
I think my courage is a lot like my love for Derek.
It didn’t happen all at once. It came in quiet waves. Through choices, small moments, and the slow realization that it wasn’t going anywhere. That one day I’d wake up and know I couldn’t live without it. I needed it to move through the world, to feel stronger, to feel like me.
Loving Derek has always been the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
Even when it didn’t make sense. Even when it hurt. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t.
It didn’t start with a grand gesture. It started in the quiet. In glances, inside jokes, in the way he made space for me without ever asking for anything in return.
Maybe I wasn’t always brave enough to say it, not to him, not even to myself, but the love was never hard. It was always there. Waiting for me to catch up.
Because loving him feels like breathing. Like blinking. Like something my body’s always known how to do.
