They left before sunrise, Celine's SUV tucked in behind Sadie and Toby's car as the two couples caravanned toward the mountains. The highway was still blue with dawn, the world quiet except for the soft hum of tires and Celine's playlist, low and warm.
Celine had packed like a pro—snacks in tidy containers, chilled drinks nested in ice, sunscreen and lip balm within reach. Nathan glanced over and smiled. "You think of everything."
"Someone has to make sure you don't subsist on black coffee and stubbornness," she teased, passing him a strawberry and nudging his elbow back to the wheel when he tried to feed her in return.
He loved her like this—bright, attentive, effortless. She kept him talking when she heard his voice dip with fatigue, counted off highway mile-markers, snapped photos at overlook stops with Sadie, then laughed at herself for nearly falling asleep mid-sentence, chin tilting toward her shoulder before she startled awake and picked up the story right where she left it. He could have driven like that forever.
By the time they turned off onto a winding forest road, the sky had lifted into a clear gold. The glamping site spread across a slope of pines: modern A-frame cabins with wall-sized windows, a clubhouse strung with bistro lights, a small spa, a lake glittering through the trees, and a ribbon of creek that cut silver through the brush. The group had booked the place out; staff waved as they rolled in, carts already waiting for luggage.
"Cabins next to each other," Sadie announced, all business. "Unpack, quick shower, meet at the clubhouse in an hour."
Inside their cabin, sunlight spilled across pale timber floors. Two bedrooms opened off a cozy living room; beyond the glass, the back deck held a fire pit circled with worn wooden chairs facing the creek. Nathan's eyes skimmed the structure—clean lines, good joinery, a smart angle to catch cross-breezes. Celine moved like she'd lived there for years, setting water to chill, stacking fruit in a bowl, tucking her travel kit into the bathroom, then pausing to hand Nathan a bottle as he fielded a call.
"Drink," she mouthed, and left him to it.
When his call ended, he found her outside, both hands on the deck rail, breathing in the hush of pines and birdsong. He came up behind her and set his palms lightly on her shoulders. "Told you you'd like it," he murmured. She covered one of his hands with her own and nodded, smile soft, eyes on the water.
They split to freshen up. The shower heat unwound the drive from Celine's muscles; steam pearled her skin, slid off her collarbones. Wrapped in a towel, she padded to her suitcase—then frowned. One of her cases—the one with… all her lingerie—was missing.
Oh no.
A quick mental inventory, a mortified groan, and she gathered what nerve she had. She knocked on Nathan's door. No answer; his shower was running. In, out, he'll never know, she told herself, easing the door open and scanning for the case.
Found it. She had just bent to lift it when the bathroom door swung open.
Nathan froze. Water dripped off his hair, a towel slung low on his hips, a clean line of muscle catching the light. "Is everything—"
She squeaked, jolted, and landed square on her backside. Nathan moved on instinct, hands out, then stopped dead when he registered she, too, was in a towel. His ears went pink; he pivoted, eyes firmly away. "I'm—uh—sorry. Let me—" He reached for the duvet, swung it off the bed, and draped it around her with delicate care, gaze still averted. "I didn't see anything."
Celine's face burned. "I—sorry—my suitcase—wrong room," she babbled, the words tripping over each other as she clutched the duvet tight.
"I've got it." He scooped up the case and carried it into the hall while she trailed behind, a bundle of linen and mortification, both of them moving with the stiff politeness of people trying not to think about the thing they were absolutely thinking about.
Her door shut; his did too. Silence. Then, through the wood, the faintest sound of two people exhaling and laughing at themselves.
When they emerged a little later—Celine with a neat braid over one shoulder, Nathan crisp in an open-collar shirt—they met in the hall at the same time. He held up the towel she'd dropped; she held up the duvet he'd lent. They both grinned. Awkwardness: gone.
They crossed the path to Sadie's cabin, then followed her to the clubhouse where staff offered welcome drinks and canvas totes of snacks and maps. Familiar faces dotted the terrace—the Brandts, a few couples from the gala and tennis match. Dean and Denise stood near the railing. Denise sparkled, talking too loudly; Dean's eyes, uninvited, kept drifting toward Celine.
The camp host reviewed the itinerary: sunrise yoga, wine-and-cheese tasting, hiking out to the falls, a creekside barbecue, a campfire under the stars. The Brandts, insatiable social architects, announced games: a scavenger hunt, a couples relay, prizes for ridiculous victories.
If anyone in the group had expected dramatics, they were disappointed. Celine and Dean didn't so much avoid each other as occupy different weather systems. She kept her focus on Nathan—his hand at the small of her back, the way he adjusted his stance to keep her in the shade, the small, quiet checks: Water? Jacket? Are your shoes okay? Each touch steadied her like a breath.
Still, it stung to see Denise's ring catching sunlight, to remember the trip she and Dean had once planned. Celine held her chin high and chose the new map, not the old one.
By nightfall, the air had cooled. The group circled the bonfire, the fire cracking sweetly, chocolate and marshmallow turning molten in careful hands. Blankets passed from lap to lap. Nathan drew one over his knees and Celine's, tucking her close until her head found the curve beneath his jaw. He breathed in her hair—lavender and something like honey—and felt, absurdly, like the world had narrowed to flames and breath and the steady weight of her against him.
Conversation wandered—work disasters told as comedies, travel mishaps, half-serious debates about the best hiking snacks. Then someone, emboldened by wine, asked about "the high-school sweethearts." The circle went quiet.
Nathan's arm tightened around Celine's shoulders—not possessive, just present. He looked into the firelight, then spoke mildly, voice carrying just enough to be heard.
"Some memories are meant to be sweet," he said. "But they're still memories. We're all here now. New weekend, new stories." He tipped his head down, brushing a thumb through a curl at Celine's temple, and lifted his cup. "To building new ones."
Glasses rose. Around the ring, people relaxed. Laughter restarted.
Dean didn't drink. He stared into the flames, jaw tight, jealousy like a bruise he couldn't stop pressing. He'd told himself she would crumble without him. Instead, here she was—warm and bright, leaning into someone else. Every time Nathan tucked the blanket higher or whispered a small nothing that made her smile, something ugly and complicated twisted in his chest.
On Celine's side of the fire, all of that felt very far away. She drew her knees up beneath the blanket and nestled closer, the smoky night curling around them both. The pop of the fire. The murmur of friends. Nathan's steady breath against her hair.
For the first time in a long time, she let herself be exactly where she was—no ghosts, no scripts. Just the heat of the fire, the weight of his arm, and the bright, simple promise of new memories.