We reached the top of the hill, and I pulled into the lookout area. Below us were sprawling fields in a vibrant green, rolling hills, and trees scattered in clusters. The horizon was foggy and grayed out with rain, but, as I’d hoped, it was lighting up every few seconds with sheet lightning. The center of the storm was too far away to make out the thunder, but the lightning entwined with the twilight to produce purple, pink, and yellow flashes across the vast expanse of sky. From here, we could see all of it through the rhythmic back-and-forth sweep of my windshield wipers.

Next to me, Brougham had calmed down somewhat, though his hand was still gripping the glove box like it’d somehow save him in the event of the car tipping over the edge of the hill. At least the color was returning to his cheeks.

“We all used to come here,” I said. “Back when my parents were together. Anytime there was a storm.”

Another flash of lightning lit the sky up in a pale peach, before dimming back down to deep gray. Brougham’s hand relaxed its grip and he drew it back into his chest to massage the tension from his long fingers. Then he looked sideways at me. “Let’s go.”

“What, already?”

But apparently he didn’t mean home, because he’d unbuckled himself before I’d gotten the question out. Then he opened the door, letting in an icy gust of air and rain, before launching himself outside and slamming the door shut. “Brougham!” I called, but there was no way he could’ve heard me.

There wasn’t much to the lookout. Just space for a few cars, a low barrier made of interlocked logs, and a couple of trees. Beyond that was just the sharp drop-off.

I wasn’t going out there. There was nothing out there except a hell of a lot of water, and freezing cold wind, and regrets.

Through the rain-soaked passenger window I watched Brougham, now drenched, make his way over to the nearest tree and inspect it.

Why?

Why anything with Brougham, truly?

Against my better judgment, I yanked out the car keys and stumbled outside to join him.

The rain hit me with gale force, no buildings or valleys to protect us from the worst of it. My hair whipped around my face in wet tendrils, and my denim jacket was waterlogged and heavy within seconds, making my shoulders feel as though they weighed a hundred extra pounds.

Brougham, for reasons known only to him, had started climbing the goddamn tree. With the grace of someone naturally athletically talented, he pulled himself up branch by branch.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I hadn’t meant my voice to be filled with quite so much despair, but there it was.

“I’ve never been on a mountain in a rainstorm before,” he called back.