“So are you.”
He lets out a small breath of a laugh, then tilts his head back to watch a bird wheel high overhead. His profile is sharp in the sunlight, but his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“I don’t do this,” he says after a while. “The… stopping part.”
“Neither do I,” I admit.
And somehow, that feels like the most honest thing I’ve said all trip.
We sit there until the wind picks up and the smell of bread drifts up from the town below. The kind of smell that means it’s time to move again, even if I don’t want to.
Connor squeezes my hand once before standing, pulling me with him. For the rest of the walk down, he doesn’t let go.
31
MANUELA
TUESDAY
“Ugh, look at it,”Elle says, pushing her large sunglasses up her nose and into her hair as she stares at the view from where we are. “It’s perfect.”
The path climbs gently behind the house, gravel crunching beneath our shoes, the air so clean, it almost stings. Bells clang faintly in the distance, and I can see brown cows scattered across the hillside like someone—the resort, most likely—placed them there just for the ambiance. Banks veers off to take a selfie with one and yelps when the cow noses at his ear, trying to lick at him.
Of course everyone bursts out laughing. My smile comes a second later, like always.
By the time we reach the overlook, the scene looks curated—tables draped in linen, chilled bottles of wine beading in the hot sun, platters of cured meats, cheeses, figs, olives. Umbrellas cast striped shadows, and the lake glimmers far below, framed by mountains jagged enough to look unreal.
After the rain we had last week, the weather has turned, and it feels like an absolute summer day in the mountains.
I take a seat at the edge, grateful for the space, and watch the group splinter into smaller pockets. Elle floats around likea conductor—directing who should pour, who should sit, where the sun is best for photos.
Connor is across the table, sleeves rolled, hair mussed in the casual way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. I drag my gaze to the cheese platter, then the lake.
Anywhere but him.
George sits stiffly near Jack, and I catch a piece of their argument slipping between bites of fresh bread.
“What are our parents going to say?” Jack hisses, barely containing himself.
George leans back in his low chair, smirking like he’s rehearsed this. “They’ll live.”
“Reckless, that’s what it is. You’ve outdone yourself this time, brother.”
George pops an olive in his mouth and doesn’t bother replying. Elle pretends not to notice, but her hand trembles when she lifts her glass. Her expression is a pleasant one, but she’s hiding behind those oversized sunglasses again, and I can’t read her. The silence that follows is the heavy kind, the one that sticks even when someone changes the subject.
I reach for my water as Camila slides into the empty seat beside me, as poised as if she’s walked straight out of a magazine spread. The breeze catches her hair, loose today, softening the sharpness I usually associate with her.
“You knew I was in Switzerland,” I say, keeping my voice low. This whole thing with George is still an enigma to me, and I’m trying to understand what is happening here.
Her mouth curves. “I did.”
I turn, frowning. “A heads-up would have been nice.”
“What are the odds it was the same wedding?” she replies, sipping from her glass. That perma-smile is back on, almost performative, because she knows all eyes are on her. Maybe she’s feeling the same way I do on the regular—observed anda little out of place—and the shock is still running rampant through her system.
“What are the odds it was the same country, Cami?”
She tilts her glass toward the lake, watching as the sunlight breaks into shards against the surface. She says nothing, just lets the silence stretch until Nicole calls for more wine and Camila drifts away with a shrug, moving back towards her husband as if our conversation never happened.
