“That’s not nice,” I complain, though I can’t help but smile a little.

“But,” he insists, “you and I will not be following in any daredevil footsteps.”

“Um, I would hope not?”

“It’s fine. Thousands of people with basic common sense hike these stairs every year and live to tell the tale. It’s one of the park’s most popular features. You are going to love it, I promise. There’s a huge treat at the top.”

“A hot tub and a pizza?”

He chuckles. “Not quite, but you’re going to like it. We’ll break for lunch halfway up. Let’s do this, Everhart!” he says enthusiastically, an infectious smile splitting his face.

And so we begin the ascent.

We have to climb a normal uphill path for about a half hour before we hit the stairs. They’re rough and wide, and pretty wildflowers and lacy grasses grow alongside them. They casually snake up the mountainside, and the top steps are hidden from view, around the back of the peak. The steps are steep in parts, and a little wonky, but apart from the strain on my calves, I can’t really understand why they’d be dangerous. I hear water that gets louder as we ascend, so I assume there’s a nearby river, just out of sight.

Climbing, I realize that I’m feeling better physically. Not exactly 100 percent, but Lennon says it takes time for the body to get used to hiking. It’s a slow and steady endurance, not a race. And the pristine scenery definitely helps to motivate me.

The problem with hiking is that it strips away everything. There’s no distraction of checking your online feeds. No TV. No schedule to keep. It’s just you and your thoughts and the steady pace of your feet moving over rocky ground. And even when I try to keep my head clear, it’s busy working in the background, quietly trying to solve things that I don’t want solved.

Like Lennon.

And me.

Us.

We haven’t talked about last night. Not about sleeping in the same tent, and definitely not about his dad dying. I have questions upon questions, but I’m waiting for him to give me some sort of indication that he’s ready to answer them.

Or maybe I’m not ready to hear those answers.

I hate quandaries.

After we’ve been hiking up the steps for twenty minutes or so, both my head and legs feel close to exploding. No amount of internal reflection or pretty scenery can distract me from the pain. “I can’t go any farther,” I tell him, breathless. “Worst StairMaster workout ever. I hate these dumb steps. I hate them, I hate them, I—”

“Take it easy. We’re almost to the halfway point. Right up there,” he tells me, and I spot a place where the steps break. There have been a few rest areas along the way up the mountain, but this one is a smooth granite plateau with several carved-rock benches. One is occupied by a family of tourists with day packs—two kids and a mom and dad. They’re also loud, shouting to each other over the ever-present roar of that unseen river. This is startling after not hearing or seeing another soul all day yesterday.

Lennon dumps his backpack on a shady bench over near the mountainside of the plateau, and I collapse next to him, sitting for a moment perched on the edge of the bench before I unhook the straps on my pack. We’re in a semiprivate, protected area, so the noise of the river isn’t as bad here.

“I’m sweating,” I tell him. “I don’t remember the last time I sweated before this trip.”

He opens up his bear canister and retrieves the same lunch we ate yesterday. “It’s good for you.”

“Is hiking how you went from skinny to jacked?”

Squinting eyes fix on mine. “I didn’t realize I was.”

“Oh, you are,” I say as my neck warms. Smooth, Everhart. I’m veering too close to the subject of me spying on him in his room with my telescope and decide to quit while I’m ahead and drop it.

“You never got to look at the stars last night,” he says after a moment.

Ugh. He was thinking about me spying too. Terrific.

“It’s fine,” I tell him.

“I promise that you’ll get some quality stargazing time tonight,” he says, and after some reflection, clears his throat. “I haven’t asked today if you want to keep going all the way to Condor Peak. The ranger station I told you about is on the other side of the mountain. We should get there this afternoon. I mean, I know I just assumed you’d be here tonight to stargaze, but if you want to call a car at the ranger station . . .”

Oh. I actually hadn’t been thinking of that.

“You don’t have to make a decision right now,” he says. “Just think about it and let me know. So I can make contingency plans.”

I nod, and the subject is dropped. We eat in silence, mostly because I’m too tired to do two things at once. Chewing is all I can handle. But by the time we’re packing back up, the tourist family has left, and we’re alone on the cliff. That’s when I start to notice Lennon’s leg bouncing like a jackhammer. He does that when he’s concentrating too hard—when he takes tests—and also when he’s antsy about something.

When he catches me staring at his leg, he immediately stops bouncing it and sighs. “This is stupid. We should just talk about it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Last fall. Look, I told you about my dad. Now I want to know about yours.”

“My dad?”

His eyes narrow and flick to mine. “I’d like to know what he told you about me after homecoming. I assume he told you something. I just want to know how much of it was true.”

“Not following,” I say, shaking my head.

“After homecoming. What he told you.”

I stare at him. “Um, he just had a talk with me and told me I’d be better off staying away from you. That it would be best to make a clean break and move on, because it was causing me . . . stress.”

“That’s it?”

I don’t know what he wants me to say. “Pretty much. I didn’t tell him about . . . you know. The experiment.”

Lennon squints at me. “And he didn’t bring it up?”

“Why would he?”

He starts to answer, but then changes his mind. Twice. After biting his lower lip and another rapid leg bounce, he finally says, “I’m trying to figure out why you cut me out of your life and started seeing Andre.”

“You ditched me at homecoming!”

“I texted you.”

“Once. ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s it. That’s all you said. I texted you back a million times and you didn’t answer.”

“Well, excuse me if I was busy with my father attempting suicide.”

My body stills. “That was . . . on homecoming?”

“It was one of many shitty things that happened that day.”

“Umm . . . Do you want to share these things with the class?”

He stares at the mountains in the distance as if they might grow legs and walk away. “That’s why I was asking about your dad. He didn’t say anything about what happened that day? At the hotel?”

“What hotel?”

He closes his eyes and mumbles something to himself, slumping low on the park bench. “Never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” I say, getting irritated. “Absolutely not. You brought this up. You finish it. What hotel?”