Chapter 79
Elena
We arrived at the campsite just as the sun was setting, the mountains rising around us in shades of amber and rose. The location was stunning—a gentle slope sheltered by towering spruce trees, with a view across the valley that seemed to stretch into infinity. Remote enough to feel like an escape, but with a small wooden cabin at the edge of the clearing for storage and shelter if needed.
"This is perfect!" Chloé announced, already pulling camping gear from the trunk. "Antoine, you and Max get the tents. Elena and I will handle food."
While the guys struggled with tent poles and stakes—their good-natured cursing and laughter carrying across the clearing—Chloé and I unpacked supplies at a weathered picnic table. She chattered away about her plans for the weekend, and I found myself genuinely engaged, making suggestions about hiking trails I'd read about.
"So things seem better with you and Max," Chloé observed, lowering her voice slightly.
"Yeah. He apologized in the car. Actually apologized, not just the 'I'm sorry you feel that way' kind."
"Good. Because he really does like you, you know." She paused, arranging packages of pasta. "Though I have to say, I still think Maxime's pretty great, but some people just... they have this way of taking care of others. Like it's built into them."
I thought about Étienne's hands adjusting my coat collar, his voice asking if I'd eaten, but I pushed the image away. This weekend was about being present with Maxime, about giving this relationship a real chance.
"Yeah," I said, watching Maxime and Antoine finally get one tent upright, celebrating like they'd conquered Everest. "Some people are like that."
---
By the time the tents were up and the campfire was crackling, full dark had fallen and the temperature had dropped sharply. But the cold felt crisp and clean rather than uncomfortable, and there was something magical about the way the firelight danced across everyone's faces.
"Okay, who's ready for my famous camping cuisine?" Maxime announced, pulling out hot dogs and marshmallows with a theatrical flourish.
"Oh god, no," Chloé groaned. "Elena, please save us. Show these boys how it's done."
I laughed and took over, pulling out the ingredients I'd noticed in the supplies. "How about French toast? I can make it work on the camp stove."
"You can make French toast over a campfire?" Antoine looked genuinely impressed.
"She can make anything," Maxime said, and there was pride in his voice that made me feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire. "She's amazing in the kitchen."
I fell into the familiar rhythm of cooking—whisking eggs with a splash of milk, soaking thick slices of bread, the satisfying sizzle as they hit the hot pan. Maxime came up behind me, not grabbing or demanding, just standing close enough that I could feel his warmth.
"This is nice," he said quietly. "Being here with you. Away from everything."
And for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel that automatic tension at his proximity. Instead, I leaned back slightly into him and said, "Yeah. It is."
We ate around the fire, the French toast coming out perfectly despite the improvised cooking setup. Everyone was laughing, telling stories, and I found myself genuinely relaxed in a way I hadn't been in a long time. Maybe this was what normal felt like. Maybe this was what I'd been missing.
After dinner, Antoine pulled out a bottle of red wine from his backpack, grinning triumphantly.
"Can't have a proper camping trip without wine by the fire," he announced, producing plastic cups.
Chloé cheered, and Maxime held out his cup eagerly. When Antoine turned to me, I hesitated.
"I don't really drink—"
"Come on," Maxime said, but his tone was playful rather than pushy. "Just one glass. We're celebrating—fresh starts and mountain air and being young and stupid."
I looked at the cup Antoine was holding out. One glass wouldn't hurt, would it? And I wanted to be part of this, wanted to share in the easy camaraderie instead of being the careful one, the controlled one, always holding back.
"Okay," I said, taking the cup. "Just one."
The wine was sharp and acidic on my tongue, and I only took a small sip before setting it down. But everyone was drinking now, passing the bottle around, and the atmosphere grew even more relaxed, more festive. Antoine pulled out his portable speaker and played music at a reasonable volume, and we all sang along badly to French pop songs, laughing at our own off-key renditions.
"This is perfect," Chloé sighed, leaning against Antoine. "This is exactly what we all needed."
And for a while, I agreed. For a while, everything really was perfect.
---
Later, as the fire burned lower and the wine bottle made its rounds, Antoine pulled out a guitar and started strumming the opening chords of La Vie en Rose. Everyone gathered closer to the fire to sing, our voices blending together in the mountain night.
I sang along softly, feeling the wine's warmth in my chest, feeling Maxime's arm around my shoulders in a way that felt comfortable rather than constraining. The stars were impossibly bright above us, and the air smelled of pine and woodsmoke, and I thought maybe Chloé was right—maybe this was exactly what we all needed.
Then I felt it. A small flutter in my stomach, like a warning.
I ignored it at first, kept singing, kept smiling. But the flutter intensified into a burning sensation just below my ribs, and I felt my body tense automatically in recognition. No. Not now. Not here.
"You okay?" Maxime had noticed my sudden stillness.
"Yeah, just—" I pressed my hand against my stomach. "I think I need some water."
"I'll get it," he said, starting to stand, but the burning was spreading now, intensifying into something sharper, more insistent.
"Actually, I think I need to lie down for a minute." I tried to keep my voice light, casual, not wanting to alarm anyone. "Just feeling a bit off."