Waiting for Everest

Chapter 1

"You want me to fall back in love with you? How do I do that when I haven’t ever stopped?"

- The Best of Me, coming to theaters October 17

Chapter 1

The doorbell rang three minutes after noon, which was coincidentally about two seconds after I shoved a massive bite of turkey sandwich into my mouth.

“I goh ih,” I slurred through a mouthful of food, letting my sandwich fall back onto my plate with an undignified splat.

“Camille, chew,” mom scolded from across the kitchen, where she was assembling another sandwich—whole wheat, no mayo, extra jalapenos—for my dad. I was already scrambling off my stool, nearly tipping the thing over in my haste.

He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

I all but sprinted across the living room, darting towards the oversized black leather couch that stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of lacey curtains and plush cream-colored carpets and white crown molding. Dad bought the couch so he’d have somewhere comfortable to sit and watch Monday night football on our flat screen. Mom, of course, had loathed the thing at first. It was hideous, impossible to miss, and you couldn’t sit on the thing without slouching. But then we’d caught mom lounging on it to watch an episode of Real Housewives, and the decision was made.

The couch stayed.

I reached over the back of the leather monstrosity to grab my overstuffed hiking bag—a sturdy backpack I’d bought from a camping supply store nearly five years ago. The duct-taped straps dug furiously into my shoulders; the bag probably weighed about as much as I speculated a small elephant would.

I continued towards the front door, hobbling under the weight of my backpack, trying desperately to force the last bits of chewed-up sandwich down my throat. My manners weren’t as refined as my mom would’ve liked, sure, but there was no way I was answering the door with a mouth full of food. Not when I was expecting the love of my life to be standing on the porch.

With one last swallow, I ran my tongue over my teeth to check for any traitorous bits of lettuce wedged between my gums. Then I yanked open the front door, sending a wave of sweltering August heat flooding into the air-conditioned sanctity of my house.

“Hi Matt! I’m—”

I faltered mid-sentence, the grin on my face slipping a little as I blinked up at a face that definitely didn’t belong to Matt Everest.

Not by a long shot.

For starters, the guy on my porch was about half a foot taller. And where Matt’s hair was dark and cropped close to his head, so he looked like some kind of action movie hero, the guy on my porch had hair the color of dried-out dirt that looked like it might fall into his eyes at any given moment. In fact, just as I was sure a piece of his dirt-colored hair was going to go tumbling down his forehead, the guy on my porch lifted a hand and plastered his hair back with his own sweat, so his bangs stuck straight up into the air. He offered me a smile that tilted up further on the right side than it did on the left.

I’d seen that lopsided smile of his almost every day of rock climbing camp for the past five summers. And, as usual, Tucker O’Hara somehow managed to annoy me without saying a single word.

“Tucker?” I frowned, glancing down at the place where his scuffed-up sneakers overlapped the frayed welcome mat my mom had bought at a garage sale a couple years ago. “You’re on my porch.”

He nodded his head, once. His hair bobbed.

“Why are you on my porch?”

“Well, Camille, here in America, we like to use front doors—hey,” Tucker stuck out his foot just in time to stop my attempt at slamming the door in his face. The solid wood panel thudded against the side of his sneaker. “That was rude. You really need to work on your hospitality.”