Mirabel

Preoccupation with my achievements prevents me from seeing Hartley Clarke wipe out in the middle of a mud puddle. I'm too busy staring at the view of Kelowna and West Kelowna, and the bridge connecting them, while the wind ruffles my hair. For kilometres, I can see the lake, mountains, blue sky, and city infrastructure. The sun beats down upon me, making me sweat through my dirt-bike gear.

Jocelyn, the camp host, told us this morning that Trail 24 is clear of any debris. It's my favourite black diamond trail, with sheer rock faces and washed out inclines. The terrain makes for good conversation once you reach the lookout. There is an ever-present challenge that evolves every year based on factors like rain, snow, and the treading intensity of tires.

It takes courage, skill, and strength to climb the trail.

All of which I have, considering I made it to the top of Blue Grouse Mountain without wiping out.

Cracking my tequila smash, I take a quick sip, and then turn to face the trail behind me. Hartley is standing in the middle of the puddle, trying to kickstart his dirt-bike. Every time his leg comes down, the engine revs and sputters, bringing the whirring of the cell tower's turbines back to the forefront. On cue, my phone that's tucked in my backpack dings with notifications.

Ellesmere Levesque, one of my best friends, nudges me. "He won't take credit for screwing up. You saw the rock, too, right?"

I tap my drink against hers as if to say You know it.

We each take a long sip, and then I set my drink down on the seat of my dirt-bike. After fishing through my backpack for several seconds, I grab my phone and open the camera app. The rev of his engine fills my ears, but I snap a few photos before he coasts down here.

His kickstand embeds itself in the dirt before he kills the engine and swings his leg over the bike. Elle and I watch, sipping our drinks, as Hartley remove his gloves and helmet. He stuffs the gloves in the helmet, and then hangs it off of the handlebars.

Before turning to us, he runs a hand through his damp hair, squeezing out any excess liquid. His coppery-brown hair shines in the sunlight.

Hartley saunters over to Elle and I, his dirt-bike gear covered in mud. Old specks of oil stain his jersey and his hair drips with water.

He glares at Elle and I, taking the can from her extended hand. Cracking the can, he takes two long gulps. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice is a low growl when he says, "There was a fucking rock."

I cock an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Elle. "One that we avoided?"

He draws his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting a smile. "It's the rock's fault. Not mine."

Elle laughs and loops her arms around Hartley's neck. She presses a kiss to his cheek. Some of her drink sloshes over the edge, dampening the back of his jersey. Not that he can feel it. The fabric looks like it's been run through the washer—a very broken washer. "My poor baby. Defeated by a rock."

Hartley dips his head down and kisses her. Lips still on hers, he says, "Like I said, not my fault."

Although their PDA is adorable, I'm concerned that Brett hasn't made his way up the trail yet. He was having issues with his dirt-bike earlier. It kept stalling and overheating on the steep inclines, which is why we're taking the road back to camp. The last portion of the trail was tight, with a steep cliff on one side and a rocky outcrop on the other. Companies designed our equipment to protect us from severe injuries, but there are always exceptions to the rules. I'm worried he's taken a tumble and hurt himself.

"Relax, Mira."

I look at Hartley, my lips pressed together. People telling me to relax ticks me off. Worrying about my boyfriend is part of the relationship package. Brett is usually the one waiting for us at intersections and lookouts. We should've doubled on the quad instead of taking our dirt-bikes.

"Brett was right behind me," he elaborates. "He made it up the steep incline. I know because I watched him. His bike must've stalled at the top. He'll be here soon."

Just as the words leave Hartley's mouth, I hear the rev of a four-stroke engine. We all glance in the noise's direction, watching as Brett's orange dirt-bike whips around the corner, a cloud of dust behind him. When he comes to the puddle, water sprays up around him, soaking his bike and spattering mud everywhere. His brakes squeal a little as he putters down the small incline and stops in front of us. When he cuts the engine, I can hear the whirring of the turbines and the rustling of leaves from the wind.

My breath catches in my throat as I watch him dismount his bike. He removes his gloves and helmet, setting them on the back of his monstrous bike. It's a KTM 450 SX-F. A bike I long for despite not having the physical strength to endure its power. Not that I'm complaining. My 250 is a gem.

When he turns around, his pine-green eyes meet mine. His supple lips curve into a smile as he winks. Stands of his dirty-blond hair tangle with his lashes. Those lashes that turn me green with envy.

Hartley groans. "Thank god you're here. Mira was about to go feral."

"Was not!" I frown. "Hart is lying."

Brett's gaze flicks down to my hands. Feeling sheepish, I hide my helmet behind my back. Somewhere, amid all my worrying, I grabbed it. Okay, maybe I was about to hop back on my bike and search for him. But I was not about to go feral and lose my mind.

That would've taken a few more minutes.

All I wanted to do was make sure he was okay. When you have a boyfriend who's reckless on his dirt-bike, you worry. Not that he makes stupid decisions. His recklessness is based on calculations. For example, he'll think about climbing a hill of teddy bear sand before deciding to do it. Sometimes, though, his calculations are off. Hence the broken limbs he's racked up over the years.

That's my polite way of saying he can be a little daft.

Shrugging off his backpack, Brett removes his phone and a can of beer. Condensation from the ice dribbles down the side of the can, soaking his hand. He sets the can down on the seat of his dirt-bike and wipes his hand on his mud-splattered pants. The coarse orange fabric rustles beneath his touch.

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth as I watch him. Contrary to popular belief, there is nothing hotter than a man dressed in motocross gear. It one-ups the jeans and flannel, the grey sweatpants and tight-fitted white T-shirt, and even when they're wearing nothing but boxers.

Motocross equipment is unmatched in all it's glory.

Brett swipes the can from the seat and stuffs his phone in the waistband of his pants. He squints against the bright sun and the view behind us, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. It smells like autumn: campfire smoke, musky earth, and dirt-bike exhaust. Walking with his face cast downward, he saunters over to me, stopping when we're shoulder to shoulder.

"Next time," he murmurs, "don't let Hart see the helmet. It won't give him ammunition."

His French accent exaggerates his sarcastic drawl. I smack his chest, my knuckles knocking against his chest protector.

Brett wraps me in his arms and presses a kiss to my neck, where I'm ticklish. I squirm in his arms, using my elbow to push him away. He chuckles and tightens his arms around me. His lips are warm and soft against my sensitive skin. And when he nips, a warm feeling spreads through my core. Goddamn him. He's too familiar with me. My likes and my dislikes. Which is why I give up on the struggling.

Arms still wrapped around me, he pops open his can of beer.

After a long sip of his ice-cold beer, Brett shoots a quizzical look at Hart. "Why are you sopping wet? Did you not see the rock?"

Elle snorts.

I cough to cover a laugh. Then take a sip of my drink.

Hartley pulls his lips to one side. Water still drips from his wavy auburn hair. "It's not my fault."

Brett rolls his eyes. "Of course it's not. I'm assuming the rock jumped out of the bushes? Y'know, sometimes your lack of common sense is why I question you being my sister's boyfrien."

Snorting, Hartley knocks his drink against Brett's. "You love me."

Glancing down, Brett winks at me.

When Brett and Elle moved here during our first year of middle school, Hartley and I welcomed them with open arms... eventually. Not that I had a choice. My dad gave me a serious talking to about welcoming our guests to our annual camping trip. Brett and Elle's dad was my dad's best friend during university. After their mom passed away, their dad brought them out here for a fresh start.

It didn't go well at first, despite my dad's warning.

At eleven, I wasn't welcoming to newcomers. I felt like the camping trip was sacred to our family, that no one else should be allowed to join us unless they were close friends or family—based on my judgement. When Brett and Elle unloaded their dirt-bikes and asked for a tour of the learner's loop that's part of the campsite, I agreed, but continued to ride laps around them. At one point, Brett got lost and rode to the upper portion of the camp. It's an area with lots of teddy bear sand and bad vibes. Turns out, he'd stalled by the old, decapitated cabin. When Dad found him, his tire was ground into the sand, and Brett was pissed. He didn't talk to me until later in the evening, when we were sitting at the campfire with our dads.

Whenever I think back, all I can do is chuckle. I can remember the lingering scent of campfire smoke in my hair. The tear in the elbow of his jean jacket. Our dads were discussing hockey stats while drinking beer, and they were oblivious to the tension between us. Brett kept shooting me daggers. I kept trying to ignore him.

But there's something unique about the atmosphere around a campfire. It's like that saying "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." When you're sitting around a campfire, the world feels small. All you're aware of is the heat and crackling of the fire. The smoke dissipating into the air and creating a thin bluish veil across the starry night sky. Tie that together with the smell of musky earth and fresh air, and you're drunk on nature.

I'll never understand what compelled me to offer him an earbud from my headphones, but I did. My obsession with Bryan Adams was at an all time high, so the song I played was "Summer of '69." That was his favourite song.

We stayed up late with our dads, exchanging stories and getting to know each other.

The next day, the Levesque family was part of my family. And my core group of friends went from Hartley and I to the four of us. Since then, we've been inseparable. Dirt-bike rides, double-dates, first time kisses, fights, trips to Vancouver—the secrets we share define us. We pick each other up when we fall down, and the love is complex, binding us in ways people can't fathom.

Hartley, who I've known since kindergarten, is like my brother.

Elle is the younger sister (by two months) I've never had.

Brett is the man I'm in love with.

With high school graduation behind us, we're all ready for the next chapter. University. Creating a spot for us in this big world. The future is uncertain, but we'll tackle its mysterious allure together.

Amid my thoughts, someone taps me on the nose.

"Where's your head, Mir?" Brett asks.

I blink several times as I regain awareness of my surroundings. They're staring at me with questionable expressions on their faces. "What did I miss?"

Elle and Hartley exchange a glance, but say nothing. Something tells me I will not agree with what they have to say.

Brett clears his throat. "We were discussing which trail to take back. We'll stick to the old logging road to get back to the intersection where trails 24, 1A, and 2 meet, but what if we took trail two back to the Aspen Trailhead? From there, we'll cross the gulley and then down the road to camp."

My gaze meets his, and I draw my bottom lip between my teeth. On the upside, most of the ride will be downhill. Taking Trail 2 would also cut the time in half. However, Brett's dirt-bike worries me. It hasn't been dependable. If we stick to the main logging road, the ride will take longer but at least we'll be on flat ground.

"I don't know..."

Hartley throws an all-dressed chip at my head. It rebounds and lands on the ground, mixing with shattered glass, splinters of wood, and rocky outcrops. "Come on, Mira." He wrinkles his nose. "The logging roads are so boring. We need a challenge."

I cock an eyebrow. "Like the rock that jumped out at you?"

Brett snorts. "Like the rock."

"Fuck you guys," Hartley jokes.

Elle, being the logical one, says, "The main logging road would be okay. Our bikes are insured and we have our licenses with us." She looks at me. "But I agree that it would be more fun to take the trail. My brother's bike has been a little touchy, yes. However, Trail 2 is downhill and there are no cliffs. It's a novice trail, remember? If it were a double-black diamond like the one we just rode, I wouldn't be considering it."

She has a fair point, and the more I think about it, the more I realize I'm overreacting. It's one of my undesirable traits. Sometimes, I wonder how I can handle dirt-biking. It requires snap decisions and high levels of concentration.

Expelling a deep breath, I nod. "Okay. Fine." I shoot a pointed look at Brett. "But you're leading. That way, if your bike stalls, we can help you."

Hand resting on my lower back, Brett dips his head down and kisses me. His lips are soft and warm, and his skin smells of sunscreen and gasoline. "Anything for you, Mir."