"My heart does not have a fallback,
no plan b or failsafe,
it's you or no one else."
_{Beau Taplin}

The bell cut him off mid-sentence. A cacophony of voices quickly filled the room. Books hastily stacked at odd angles; stuffed mindlessly into already jam-packed satchels. Kids scrambling, jostling, their excitement spilling out the door and into the weekend. It was the same scene every Friday; children lured by the idea of freedom and endless possibility, but today it had peaked.

Sam rocked back in his chair as the chatter faded down the hallway. In no rush to leave, he allowed his thoughts to drift. He should be happy that the school year was over. Three months of summer lay ahead, but the reality filled him with dread. The only thing waiting for him at the apartment was a spare room filled with packing boxes. He had convinced himself that life was easier with less stuff; and fewer reminders, so he had only unpacked the essentials. Falling in love had been so easy; it was the art of falling back out again, that he had never mastered.

He twirled the long service award in one hand while resting pensively on the other. Twenty-five years... he mused. Where had the time gone? He wondered what his eighth graders had got up to that afternoon. What new desk graffiti, spawned through teenage angst, might he find wantonly inked on the table surfaces of his classroom? Expressions of artistic creativity and love, he understood that - it was how he first met Isabella.

"Mr Roberts?... Sir?" Sam started, surprised to see one of his students had lingered behind. A few more were milling around outside the classroom. "You coming, Danny?" one of the kids called out, peering through the doorway. "I'll catch you up!" Danny signaled for them to go ahead, then turned his gaze back to Sam. "I just wanted to thank you for helping me this year, Sir. I would have failed English Lit. if not for you." Sam relaxed back into his chair, the soft creases around his eyes accentuating his widening smile. "You're very welcome, Daniel. I hope you have a great summer!"

The boy nodded but made no move to leave. Instead, he scuffed at the floor with the soles of his shoes. "C'mon, Danny, let's go!" Impatience was growing outside the classroom. Sam leaned forward, ignoring the distractions. "Was there something else you wanted to share?" He asked.

Danny shifted uneasily. "Sir, I don't mean to pry... but... are you ok?" The words left him before Daniel could stop himself. They cut straight through Sam, who stared wide-eyed at the kid in front of him. Perceptive little bugger, he thought. "Alright, that's enough, young man," he said, feigning surprise, "You don't want to spend the first afternoon of your holidays keeping your English teacher company." With that, he waved Daniel away and watched him disappear down the hallway with his friends.

His gaze shifted to the photograph adorning the small space between his neatly arranged pen collection and his laptop: faded smiles steeped in sepia tones; frozen in time - Glacier National Park, 1988; the perfect backdrop for a summer vacation. Young love... expressive, unrestrained, wild; seventeen-year-old bliss. The emotional connection was beyond anything he had ever experienced or believed he would again.

He paused, fumbling the perspex accolade in his grasp... the moment's weight unsettling him. Steadying his hands, he shook himself from wistful reverie. Then, looking up, he caught a glimpse - an odd offset visage in the quiet reflection of a half-open window; a face etched with a history no veneer could hide. He scrunched his eyes, biting his lower lip. Not today, Sam, not today.

Placing two heavy palms flat on his desk, he rose, kicking his chair back, and strode purposefully toward the back of the class. At the end of each lesson, he always checked. No exceptions. He already knew one-half of the letter-writing duo. In time, he would catch them both... and then there would be consequences!

Reaching the back row, he bent over the corner desk, whipped out his phone, and took another snapshot. Evidence. Time-stamped. He slid his phone into his back pocket. He would play Spot the Difference during the holidays. If he cross-referenced the photographs with his class seating charts, it shouldn't take long to determine which markings had appeared during each lesson and to pinpoint the culprits. He dusted his hands off with a quiet sense of accomplishment.

Five am. The sun shone boldly through the gaps in the undrawn curtains. He rolled over in bed, shying away from the light, and pulled the covers over his head. He tossed and turned for half an hour but it was no use. The natural world was already wide awake. He might as well surrender too. Besides, the mountains were calling and he had a long drive ahead. A short while later he was on the road, the local radio station his only company, as the hours disappeared and the tarmac turned to dust clouds beneath his wheels.

The v8 engine, throaty, guttural, and loud, announced his arrival at Camp Wildfire with more of a groan than a purr. He had swapped out the engine when rebuilding his rig from the ground up, and it was a workhorse of note, handling the choking air of the mountain roads with ease.

Stepping down from the dark metallic-blue steel running board, he retrieved his grey hold-all from the newly laid oak cargo bed and, slinging it over his shoulder, paused to take in his new surroundings. It had been a long drive from the city through the open plains and into the Glaciers. As the snow melted out, the lower-lying light pink of the Bitterroot had given way to the striking yellow carpet of State Glacier Lilies which adorned the mountains of Western Montana. God, it's beautiful up here! he thought. The Going-to the-Sun-Road had been worth it. He felt on top of the world.

The lodge stood to his left, the office block to his right; opposite ends of the car park. He was desperate to get horizontal and catch up on some well-needed rest. He sighed, watching the heat rise from the bonnet of his '52 Chevy pickup, the miles of dirt ribbons crisscrossing the park had left a fine layer of dust on the paintwork. An American classic, the car was his pride and joy. He bent down to wipe the 3100 badge adorning the Chevy's side. The late afternoon sun glinted off the chrome trim adorning her curves. He had rebuilt her from the ground up with original parts. He had thrown himself into the restoration project but hadn't driven her in years. And so she had laid under cover in storage, her vintage preserved under a perfect patina alongside the memory of another unforgettable love.

He breathed in the heady scent of Ponderosa bark and pine needles; the vanilla and butterscotch accents of the verdant forests providing a much-needed dopamine hit alongside the backdrop of the glorious alpine tapestry. Camp Wildfire had been his happy place, and now the memories were returning; images of a forgotten time fast shifting back into focus.

Nudging the driver's door closed with the heel of his boot, he strode across the space between the two buildings before entering the Reception. An old-fashioned doorbell pinged, announcing his arrival. Sam placed his stetson on the counter, slicked his hair back off his forehead, where it stuck in strands, and exchanged pleasantries and paperwork with the young man behind the desk. Registration complete, he crossed the car park, lodge room keys in hand, with a singular and determined focus.

The key clicked in the lock, securing the room for the night. He tossed his bag onto the sofa bed, before flopping back onto the sturdy-looking double in the corner. Unpacking could wait till morning. For now, sleep was all that mattered. In those few moments, he wondered if it was hope, faith, or love steering his course. Perhaps, he determined, before closing his eyes... it was all three.

Sam woke a few times before dawn, not used to the silence, broken only by the rain pelting against the lodge windows, and thunder rolling in from a distance. He lay awake listening as the rumblings drew closer. Occasionally the room lit up as lightning danced across the night sky. He had forgotten how much he missed these thunderstorms after a hot summer's day in the Glaciers.

The familiar ping brought the receptionist to the desk. The storm had passed and Sam was up early again, hopeful that he might find some closure in these mountains. Pleasantries exchanged, he purchased a map of the local hiking trails, keen to return to the familiar well-worn paths of his youth.

"Where are you headed?" the receptionist enquired as he took Sam's money. "I'm going out back and up the Western trail," Sam gestured over the man's shoulder, as he pocketed his change, and then headed for the door. Raising an eyebrow, the receptionist called after him, "Well, you be careful out there! There were reports that the crick was flowing fast this morning and the trails around it were slippery near the falls." Sam checked his step. For a moment he forgot to breathe. Then, expelling the air slowly from his lungs, he tipped his hat in acknowledgment and strode through the open doorway and into the morning sunshine. He knew too well the dangers lying hidden in these parts after a storm. He had spent the better part of his life trying to forget them.

The sweet scent of geosmin rising from the wet earth, greeted him on the open trail, filling his nostrils. The after the rain smell was delightful to the senses, bringing nostalgia to the fore. With each step, another vivid memory took hold.

Half a mile up the track leading to The Lookout, he paused as the old Western Red Cedar stump appeared over the rise before him. The outer layer of bark had been lost years before, giving way to soft new layers of wood beneath the surface. The history etched into the visible sapwood was important to him - a veritable treasure trove, adorned with innumerable declarations of love. The old relic had a central heartwood core, structurally sound but dead inside. The parallels did not escape him. He approached the old lady of the mountain, and, circling her girth, traced his fingers over faded words written a lifetime before. Their love story, the story of him and Isabella, was captured in inked conversations etched into this wood. And there it was... the beginning of them. A simple "I 💖 rainbows... " had started it all.

Three years later he had proposed to her at this very spot, asking Isabella the most important question of his life. He had etched the four words into the tree and asked her to read them out loud. She had replied by giggling coyly and promising he would have his answer before sunset. He remembered feigning shock and horror before they both bounced back down the trail towards the camp. At some point, she had fallen behind. He had turned to see her waving and caught her words in the wind, "Wait for me! I'll be back in a few minutes." Then she disappeared from view. Those were the last words she had said to him. That was the last time he saw her alive.

The coroner had declared her death accidental. Her body had been discovered twenty feet below the falls. She must have slipped near the edge trying to get another look at the torrent of water flowing into the pools below. As Sam remembered that day, he realised that a part of him was still waiting for her.

He sat on his haunches, retracing their story. Three years of memories etched into a tree stump. "Hey, stranger, what you up to?" Startled, Sam lost his balance and fell backward. Picking himself up from the dirt, and dusting off his hands, he squinted into the sun. The voice belonged to a woman, forty-ish, her dark curls, tied back in a ponytail, bounced as she spoke. She grinned at him, tilting her head, her chocolate-hued eyes drawing him in. They exuded a warmth that set him at ease. She seemed to be trying to make out what he was looking at. "Uh, hello," he faltered, slightly embarrassed at being caught in nostalgia. "I'm uh... just looking at some old graffiti from when I was younger. I used to come up here for the summers. I'm staying at Camp Wildfire for a few days. Did you come to see the Falls or are you headed further up the trail?" "Both!" She said as she slid her pack off her back and took a swig from her water bottle. "I'm also staying at the camp this evening." She extended her hand, "I'm Emma." He took her hand in his. The soft skin of her palms felt warm and comforting against his own. "I'm Sam... just Sam." "Well, just Sam, do you fancy joining me on the hiking trails? I'm heading off now, otherwise I might see you this evening when I get back." He hesitated. He wanted to say yes to another woman, for the first time in twenty-five years. He glanced back at the familiar Red Cedar stump and winced, feeling a pang of guilt. Then he looked at Emma again. "Give me a moment, and I'll be right with you," he said. And with that, he walked around the stump taking photos from all angles, before tucking his phone into his daypack and following Emma up the trail.

That night Sam lay in bed with his photo gallery open. He had finished soaking away the aches of the day and was looking through the pictures from school, trying to piece together the mystery of the writing duo. And then came the aha moment! Gotcha! He double-checked the handwriting across the images and cross-checked them again to his class roster. There was no doubt, that the other half of the romantic pair was none other than Daniel from his eighth-grade class. He flicked across to the next image - a picture of the Red Cedar stump up near The Lookout - and zoomed in to read the rest of their story. It was then that he noticed something he hadn't before. Beneath the four memorable words was the single word YES in capital letters followed by a small sketch of a sunset. *He could hear her laughing at him now... Yes, before sunset. She always did have a good sense of humour. At that moment his phone beeped, not once, but three times. He looked at the messages popping up on his screen.

Emma: I had fun today.
Emma: Maybe we can hang out again soon?
Emma: Sleep tight, E.

Sam's fingers raced across the keyboard.

I'd like that very much!

He sunk into the pillows. He thought about his class and the graffiti on the desks. He thought about Daniel. He thought about his '52 pickup. He thought about Isabella, the tree stump, and the yes that could have led to a lifetime of happiness. And then Emma's face swam into view slowly replacing Isabella's striking features with her own. He smiled. Perhaps it was time to give love a second chance. He scrolled through his gallery, selected all the images of desk graffiti, and hit delete.

I started this short story many months ago (I started quite a few if I'm honest!), but my writing hit a wall for a long time due to personal commitments off-chain, and so I have not had a chance to finish any of them. My mind has just been too preoccupied. I was recently encouraged to stop over-critiquing my work; to just write and get my stories finished. So that is what I did this evening. I'd almost forgotten how much I love the process. It's a rather long piece in terms of recommended length, possibly because I'm a bit rusty, but it's a fresh start. I wanted to put it in The Ink Well, and this latest prompt plan b felt like a damn near perfect fit.

Usually, songs inspire me to write, but in this case, the story brought to mind these two lyrical arrangements. Enjoy them at your leisure.