Chapter 3: Four Thousand Feet Above Shame

Clara almost drove away.

Her foot hovered over the brake, her hand tight on the gearshift, while every practiced instinct screamed that she should not meet him like this. Not with red-carpet photos still multiplying online. Not with her eyes gritty from no sleep. Not with the whole world laughing at the body she had spent years turning into currency.

Elias crossed the bridge before she decided.

He did not hurry.

That was one of the first things she had noticed about him three years ago. In a world where everyone moved as if being seen depended on speed, Elias moved like the mountain had given him permission to take his time.

He stopped beside her window.

Clara lowered it.

Cold air rushed in, sharp with pine and snowmelt.

"Miss Vale," he said.

His voice was lower than she remembered. Or maybe she had replayed it too often in her head and worn the edges off.

"Clara," she said, because Miss Vale belonged to interviews and contracts and Grant's mouth when he wanted to remind her she was expensive. "Please."

Elias nodded once. "Clara."

Her name sounded different there.

Less like a headline.

"I came to see the school," she said.

It was the sentence she had prepared on the plane, in the rental line, at every red light between the airport and Greyhaven. It had seemed reasonable then. Noble, even. Now it sat between them like a coward in a borrowed coat.

Elias looked toward the hill where the blue doors of the school caught the afternoon light.

"The children are in art class."

"I don't want to interrupt."

"They'll interrupt you first."

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

It startled them both.

Elias's eyes softened, not into a smile exactly, but close enough that Clara had to look at the steering wheel.

"You can park by the station," he said. "Road's iced past the school."

"I remember."

He glanced at her tires. "You rented city tires."

"I rented whatever the man at the counter gave me while pretending not to recognize me."

Elias did not ask from where.

That silence was so kind it hurt.

She parked beside the rescue station and followed him up the hill. The altitude made her lungs work harder. She was grateful for it. It gave her an excuse not to talk.

The school smelled like tempera paint, wet wool, and lunch rolls. In the hall, a row of paper mountains hung above hooks crowded with small jackets. Clara stopped before them. Each mountain had a name written underneath in crooked letters.

Hope Peak.

Dragon Tooth.

The One My Dad Fell Off But He Is Fine.

"That last one was an eventful Tuesday," Elias said.

Clara laughed again, softer this time.

In the art room, fifteen children sat cross-legged on a paint-spattered tarp while a woman with copper curls and a green sweater knelt among them, holding up a drawing of a horse with six legs.

"Six legs is not wrong," the woman said firmly. "It is fast."

The children shouted approval.

Elias's mouth changed.

This time it was definitely a smile.

Clara saw it and felt something inside her go very still.

The woman looked up.

"Elias," she said, brightening. Not Captain Roan. Not Mr. Roan. Elias.

She stood and crossed the room with the ease of someone who belonged there. Her hand touched his sleeve for half a second, casual and familiar.

"You found our mystery donor," she said.

Clara froze.

Elias glanced at her.

The woman followed his gaze and stopped. Her eyes widened.

"Oh," she said. "Oh my God. You're Clara Vale."

The room quieted with the speed of small towns and children.

Clara's stomach dropped.

For one absurd second, she thought the woman would mention the dress.

Instead, the teacher smiled so hard it looked almost painful. "I'm Mara Bell. I teach art and whatever else falls apart before noon."

Clara shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

Mara did not let go immediately.

"We know your foundation, even if the paperwork pretends we don't." Her voice warmed. "You saved this building."

Clara heard Elias breathe in beside her.

She wished Mara had not said it in front of him.

She wished, worse, that she was glad he knew.

One of the children tugged Elias's jacket. "Is she famous?"

Mara looked at Clara, then at Elias, mischief rising. "She and Elias are old friends."

The word struck clean through Clara.

Friends.

Elias did not correct it.

He looked at her, waiting.

Clara could have said no. She could have said yes. She could have told the truth, which was that she had built a whole room inside herself for a man who had once carried a child out of a flooded creek and then blushed when Clara called him brave.

Instead, she smiled the way actresses smiled when something broke.

"Just friends," she said.

Mara's shoulders relaxed.

And Elias, quiet Elias, looked away first.