"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.”

“What do you want?” I growled, pulling the door open again.

My backpack suddenly felt about ten times heavier and I would’ve killed for a big glass of water to wash down the sandwich I’d been so desperate to wolf down.

“We’re here to pick you up,” Tucker said, like somehow he thought that the words would have some significance for me.

I blinked at him.

“Who’s we?”

“Me—obviously—Lindsey, and Matt.”

“Matt’s here?” I asked, shoving my thumbs underneath the straps of my backpack as I rose onto my toes, trying to see over Tucker’s abnormally high shoulder. I caught the faintest glimpse of Matt Everest’s adorably quirky van—and old, orange Volkswagen bus he’d found at the junkyard and saved from a terrible fate as scrap metal. I also caught a glimpse of a girl sitting shotgun. That had to be Lindsey, the older sister Tucker was always bragging about.

“Yeah, he’s in the van,” Tucker nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Jeans, in this heat. “You ready to go?”

A terrible, sinking fear settled in the pit of my stomach.

Tucker was acting like he and his sister were coming along for our three-day climbing extravaganza. But that couldn’t be the case, because Matt had made it clear that this was our trip. Our last big climb before he started community college in San Mateo and I hopped on a plane to travel three thousand long miles to NYU. This was supposed to be Matt Everest and me, together, in his van, for the next seventy-two hours.

“Why are you…” I began, my throat dry.

“Honey, who’s at the—Tucker!”

The funny thing about my mom is that she’s never been all that fond of Matt Everest, but for some bizarre reason, she’s obsessed with Tucker O’Hara. It makes no sense. Especially since mom usually has pretty great taste in men. The shirtless picture of Ryan Gosling on her phone’s lock screen is a testament to this.

“Hi Mrs. Settlemeyer,” Tucker beamed.

Mom wiped her hands against the front of her capri jeans and fidgeted with the messy bun at the back of her head, trying to flatten down her wild hair. I just barely resisted the urge to point out that it was Tucker at our door, not Ryan Gosling.

“Camille didn’t tell me you were coming over!” she chirped.

“He just showed up,” I mumbled.

“I would’ve made you a sandwich!” mom plowed on, “You look hungry, Tucker. Do you want something to eat? I just bought some of this delicious turkey breast from—”

“Mom!” I hissed, my cheeks flaming.

Could you be less of a cougar, please?

Tucker shot me that stupid lopsided grin again.

“No thanks, Mrs. Settlemeyer,” he said pleasantly, “I already had lunch. Besides, Matt and I were thinking we should get on the road pretty soon so we don’t hit rush hour traffic.”

Mom’s smile became wider, a feat I hadn’t thought possible.

“You’re going, too?” she asked, bright-eyed. “I didn’t know! Camille said it was just going to be her and Matthew on this trip.”

Tucker shot me a glance.

I probably looked like I’d just been slapped.

“Matt called me up two days ago,” Tucker explained, his eyes shifting between my mom and me. “He told me he and Camille were heading out to Arizona to do some climbing this weekend. He asked me to come along. I offered to bring my sister, too, so Camille would have a climbing partner. It’s easier to belay someone who’s your weight. And it’s always safer to climb in bigger groups, too. Just in case.”

Two months ago, when I’d introduced the idea of a three-day climbing tour to my mom, she’d flat out forbid me from going. It’d taken weeks of pleading and bargaining for me to finally get a reluctant fine out of her—and even then, I’d had to wash the dishes every night since to keep her from changing her mind. Leave it to Tucker O’Hara to show up on my porch and get the woman excited about the same “dangerous” and “irresponsible” trip in thirty seconds flat.

Unbelievable.

“That is so thoughtful of you, Tucker,” mom said, nodding at him as if he’d just shown her the solution to the world’s most complex algebraic equation.

Tucker nodded, then addressed me again.

“Shall we?”

His face really was lopsided, when you looked at it dead-on. His left eyebrow was noticeably bushier than the right, and his nose and jaw seemed to tilt to the right. I wondered, vaguely, if a good punch to the side of his face might be enough to straighten everything out.

As if he could sense the direction of my thoughts, Tucker turned on his heels and started down the porch steps. I opened my mouth to protest, to say that I was not getting in the van unless Tucker and his sister took a hike, but Mom latched onto my arm, squealing like a pre-teen at her favorite boy band’s concert.

“This is great!” she gushed.

Her voice was loud enough to carry across the front lawn.

“Mom, please,” I croaked.

“I’m so glad he’s going with you. He’s such a smart kid,” mom continued, “And his sister’s one of the climbing instructors at your camp, right? She’ll know all sort of emergency protocol.”

“Matt and I would’ve been fine on our own,” I snapped.

I was too devastated to tell her the truth, which was that I’d been hoping seventy-two hours alone with me in his van would convince Matt Everest of what I already knew—we were perfect for each other. We were both only children. We both hated peanut butter. We were both Capricorns, too, if that even really meant anything.

And most importantly, we both loved climbing.

“Go, Camille,” mom said, her voice suddenly softer. She offered me one of her little smiles, the one she seemed to save just for me when she knew I needed a pat on the back. “You woke up at six this morning. Don’t tell me you’re not excited about this trip anymore.”

She had a point.

Mom always had a point, unfortunately.

There was a folded-up sheet of lined paper in the back pocket of my jean shorts. It was a good luck on your crazy climbing expedition note from my best friend, Mariam, who absolutely detested all things outdoors. At the bottom of the page, scrawled in her favorite purple gel pen, Mariam had written the following:

Camille’s Bucket List

1. Climb Mount Everest

2. Climb Matt Everest

And then she’d added a creepy, winking smiley face.

The note felt like it weighed a million pounds in my back pocket as I gave my mom a tight hug, hollered goodbye to my dad, and started to trudge after Tucker O’Hara. The plastic soles of my flip-flops smacked loudly against the pavement, like the rhythmic thumping of war drums. I was going to cross off both items on that bucket list. The first one would take me a while—mom was still researching hospitals and emergency helicopter services in Nepal—but the second one… well, I had seventy-two hours to work my magic.

And Tucker O’Hara wasn’t going to stop me.