Any Trope But You

Chapter 4 Margot

4 MARGOT

Walking through the Alaskan woods in the pitch dark with nothing but my phone flashlight is both the bravest and the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life. But after spending all day unpacking while subsisting on my dwindling snack stash, I’ve learned even I can only eat so many avocados. My choice had been simple but grim: get to the lodge for dinner or starve.

At first it seemed simple enough to follow the trail. Dark, ominous, and life-threatening, but still. Simple. Now, though, as I trip over another snow-covered log and my hair gets caught in brambles I definitely don’t remember from my walk earlier, I have to wonder if I’ve taken a wrong turn. My heartbeat becomes the only thing I can hear. I backtrack in the direction I came from ( I think? ), and the trees quickly become denser. When I realize I can no longer see either the light from my cabin or the lodge, I know I’m lost.

A stick snaps to my left, and I suck in a terrified breath. Is it just Bullwinkle or something with sharper teeth? Am I supposed to stay still and silent or wave my arms around to make myself more intimidating? I’m on the cusp of doing the latter when I see a light.

“Thought I heard someone out here,” a voice says as I turn. Relief blasts through me. It’s a nice voice. A human voice. A mellow tenor with humor brightening its edges—completely different from Forrest’s no-bullshit baritone.

The figure of a man approaches me, but I can’t see him well. I hold up a hand against the glare of his headlamp, and he adjusts it upward with a quick “Sorry!”

When my pupils adjust, I find myself looking up at a tall, lanky man. He’s younger than I am—probably midtwenties—and cute. Very cute, with messy reddish-brown hair beneath his beanie, freckles all over, and dark, mischievous brown eyes.

“Wow,” he says with a lopsided smile. “I mean—Hi. Name’s Ollie.” He holds out a bare hand.

“Margot,” I say, offering my mittened one.

He shakes it, then, bringing two fingers to his lips, he whistles loudly. “Found her!” he calls into the woods.

Another whistle responds like a thumbs-up, and he turns back to me.

“My buddy Topher was searching for you too. Guess I win,” he says, grinning. I can’t help smiling back. Suddenly, the woods feel a lot less threatening. “Headed to dinner?” he guesses.

“Trying to,” I say, embarrassed. “It’s my first night. I probably should have packed one of those.” I point to his headlamp.

“That’s okay. Just follow me.”

With his guidance, it’s no time before we get back on the path and reach the porch of the lodge, where I arrive slightly out of breath.

“Here,” Ollie says, switching off his headlamp and holding it out to me before we go in. Under the overhead light of the porch, he looks even younger. Almost Peter Pan–ish, if Peter had gone through puberty and taken up mountaineering. “I’ve got an extra.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “That’s okay, I don’t want to take your things—”

In response, he grabs my mitten and closes my hand over the light. “It’s yours,” he says with all the gallantry of offering me a tennis bracelet.

“Thanks,” I say, my stomach giving a small swoop as he lets go of my hand with a squeeze. Ollie is way too young for me, but it’s not the worst thing to be the subject of his attraction. After the weird energy with Forrest earlier, this feels simple. Manageable.

He opens the door for me. “Ladies first?”

We enter, and my mouth immediately waters from an incredible aroma coming from the back of the lodge. We follow it to a rough-hewn dining table where three people are already seated. As we approach, a young man with elbow-length brown hair throws up a hand in greeting. As he does, his poncho flaps open, and I’m hit by a gust that’s equal parts weed and BO.

“Hey, man! You found her!”

Ollie smiles, unzipping his coat and removing his hat to reveal a messy mop of hair, which only deepens the Peter Pan vibe. “Margot, this is Topher, your other knight in shining North Face.”

“Thanks, Topher,” I say, removing my outerwear. “I’d definitely still be out there if it weren’t for you two.”

“And this is Alice,” Ollie goes on, gesturing across the table toward an athletic-looking woman in her fifties with a frizzy brown ponytail, “and her wife, Yoon,” he finishes, introducing a woman with short gray hair who also looks like she could wake up on any given day and participate in a surprise triathlon.

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, climbing over the bench to sit next to Ollie. The table is already set. Beeswax candles illuminate the length of the table, and their warm glow gives an intimate quality to the large open space.

“First time to North Star?” Yoon asks with excitement.

I nod. “Sure is,” I confirm, hoping she doesn’t see how hard it is for me to imagine coming a second time. “Is this not your first visit?”

Yoon and Alice laugh. “Oh, no,” Alice says in a distinct midwestern accent. “We’ve been coming here since before the Internet. Usually we’re summer tourists, but we had to visit after we heard about Trapper’s—”

Alice seems to catch herself and stops awkwardly, glancing toward Yoon for help. But just then the door to the kitchen opens, and I lose track of the conversation. Forrest strides through carrying a giant earthenware platter and wearing an apron. The dark pin-striped cotton stretched across the center of his broad chest looks like a postage stamp being drawn and quartered. Of course, he’s wearing a white Henley beneath it—the standard-issue uniform of all romance heroes—and in accordance with Romance Law, he has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Thankfully, I’m distracted as Jo, the woman I met earlier, comes through the doors behind him. Like Forrest, she’s loaded down with food but stops to hold the door open for a man in a motorized wheelchair and, right behind him, a dog that looks like an honest-to-goodness wolf. As they all approach the table, Jo quickens her pace and claims a spot next to Alice. The man, who must be Trapper because he’s basically Forrest in thirty years with a mustache, pulls up to the head of the table along with his furry sidekick, leaving Forrest with one obvious place to sit—next to me.

“Hi again, Margot,” Jo says, interrupting the flip-flopping in my stomach. “Settling into your cabin okay?”

“It’s very cozy, thank you,” I say diplomatically. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to truly “settle” into a place where wild animals larger than refrigerators prowl right outside my door.

“Food’s growing icicles, son—come on and sit down,” Trapper calls out to Forrest, who’s arranging dishes like it’s his job to avoid sitting next to me. Honestly, I can’t blame him. Within the first ten minutes of meeting him, I managed to both leap into his arms and go full Regina George on him. Now I’m armed with a steak knife. I’d probably avoid me too.

“Welcome to the lodge, Margot. I’m Trapper,” Forrest’s dad says, confirming my guess with a warm smile beneath his retro mustache. “And this handsome boy is Scout,” he says, ruffling the fluffy head of the placid, blue-eyed giant sitting beside him. “I think you’ve met everyone else.”

I smile back. “Great to meet you both.” Scout is more focused on panting at the spread of food on the table than paying attention to the guests, and I can’t blame him. “Dinner looks amazing,” I say.

I’m ogling a platter of glistening roasted carrots covered in chopped pistachios and herbs when Forrest finally brings himself to sit down, sandwiching me between him and Ollie. His weight makes the wood creak, and as he settles with his forearms on the table, I have an almost vibrating awareness of the empty spaces between us.

“We’re so glad to have you,” Trapper says as everyone begins serving themselves. “Especially Forrest, I think. He’s a real bookworm.”

At this less than subtle overture, Forrest remains silent as a stone, serving himself salad.

“I love books!” Ollie chimes in brightly from my right side, and I get the strong impression that he’d profess his love for maggots if they happened to be my area of expertise. “Do you work in publishing or something?”

I take a swig from my water glass, wishing someone would hurry up with the wine. “I’m an author. But you probably haven’t heard of me,” I demur, hoping it’ll kill the conversation. The last thing I want is a cozy fireside chat about the swift and brutal death of my career.

Ollie smiles. “Try me.”

Internally, I sigh. “Um, have you ever heard of First to Fall ?” It’s my least popular book and therefore my best chance at stopping this conversation before it starts.

“Oh, he probably won’t know that one, Margot,” Jo chides playfully. “But I’ll bet anything he’s heard of Between Two Worlds .”

When a barely audible curse slips from my mouth, I feel rather than see Forrest glance down at me. Between Two Worlds has become my best-known novel after it was adapted for the big screen a couple of years ago.

“ Between Two Worlds ? You mean the movie?” Ollie says, grabbing the bottle of wine and pouring my glass with the finesse of someone used to waiting tables.

“Thanks,” I say, immediately gulping some down. “And yes, but it was a book first.” I serve myself a beautiful piece of meat that vaguely resembles chicken beneath a velvety burgundy sauce.

“Wait. So you wrote a book that got turned into a movie ?” Topher asks, leaning forward to stare at me. “That’s dope.”

Ollie, Alice, and Yoon all gape at me like I’ve announced that I once swam across the English Channel with my legs tied together. Heat rises to my cheeks as both pride and embarrassment surface within me, and I can’t help stealing a glance at Forrest. After our run-in earlier today, I know he thinks I’m an incompetent airhead. But his laser focus on serving himself vegetables doesn’t waver, and I remind myself it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I need to impress him or anything.

“I, for one, am a huge fan, and I just can’t believe you’re going to write your next book right here at North Star,” Jo says, passing a basket of warm rolls around. “Is it another romance?”

I shake my head a little too vehemently and have to check myself. “No. I’m trying my hand at a murder mystery, actually.”

“Oh, now, that’s my favorite genre,” says Trapper. “Ever since my accident, all I really do is read, and there’s nothing better than a good whodunit.” He holds up his glass. “Cheers, everyone.”

We all lift our glasses and drink the surprisingly excellent wine.

“I’m so sorry you had an accident,” I say, wondering if this was what Alice was about to mention as her and Yoon’s reason for visiting.

Trapper’s smile becomes a little forlorn as he nods. “I was leading a hike up on Talkeetna Glacier about six months ago and fell right into a crevasse hidden in the snow. Dropped about twenty feet and hit my head pretty good.”

My hand comes up to cover my mouth as Trapper goes on. “I’ve been hiking that glacier for over forty years now. Thought I knew all her secrets.” He shakes his head. “Foolish. Thankfully, I was the only one hurt. My hikers called in help, and I was transported to Anchorage right away. But I haven’t really used the left side of my body since.”

Sympathy makes my chest feel like it’s being crumpled. “And that’s why you’re…” I say quietly, glancing at his wheelchair.

“In this little dune buggy here?” he says, patting the arm of the chair with his working hand while Jo cuts his food into bite-size pieces. “You got it. But according to my brilliant son, I’m not going to be sitting down forever, am I?”

I turn my head to Forrest, who lifts serious eyes to his father. “Not forever.”

Yoon makes a closed-mouth sound like “Aw!” But while the sentiment is sweet, I find myself annoyed by such a hopeless promise. I personally would never say something like that to my sister, whose autoimmune disorders are never going to be cured by wishful thinking or false platitudes. It’s one thing for a doctor to deliver an optimistic prognosis and wholly another for a glorified groundskeeper to do so.

“Do you mean your doctors are hopeful?” I ask Trapper, taking a bite of meat. It’s absolutely delicious but definitely not chicken. I think of Bullwinkle and decide not to ask.

“I suppose so,” Trapper says with an amused glint in his eyes. “Seeing as Forrest’s my doctor.”

The bite of food I’m on the very cusp of swallowing goes down the wrong way, and I cough, my eyes watering. I drop my fork and knife with a clatter, and there’s immediately a warm hand rubbing my upper back. For a hot lighting-in-my-stomach second, I think it’s Forrest—who is apparently a doctor ?

On top of his romance hero good looks, his woodchopping habits, and the perfect meet-cute I accidentally had with him, the revelation that he’s also a doctor is one trope too far. What the hell is going on? Was my plane sucked through some kind of Alaskan Bermuda Triangle? Am I not actually here, but passed out and drooling on my keyboard, lucid-dreaming a new romance novel plot? If I weren’t busy hacking up a lung, I’d be laughing. Or crying. Probably crying. I came here to turn over a new leaf, but here I am, sitting next to a man who seems to embody the entire genre I’m trying to put behind me. Ollie leans into my field of vision with a worried expression, and I realize it’s his hand on my back. “You okay?” he asks, passing my water.

I take a grateful sip and nod before looking at Forrest, who’s calmly cutting his mystery meat, completely unconcerned by my choking. Without looking up, he says, “I’m not your doctor, Dad.”

At this, it’s Jo who laughs. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Margot. Trap would still be in a medical facility in Anchorage if Forrest hadn’t moved up from Los Angeles to take care of him.”

Finally recovered from my coughing fit, I can only sit and stare, completely stunned. He’s from L.A. ? He gave up California to live here ? I take in Forrest’s profile, chastened by my assumptions. I know better than anyone what it’s like to have the rug ripped out from under you when a loved one becomes unwell. How your priorities do a sudden Rubik’s Cube rearrangement until your life no longer resembles the one you were living before. How you fade out, eclipsed by the endless details of another person—their water consumption, their medication schedule, their symptoms, and their gains.

“Is that true?” I ask him, almost hoping he’ll deny it. I don’t want to feel this empathy or admiration for a man whose gravitational pull requires active resistance.

He glances quickly at me, then away. “I’m not a practicing physician. But I do care for him.”

“But you are a physician,” argues Alice, mid-chew. It reminds me to eat my own food. “You went to school for about a hundred years, didn’t you?”

At this, a corner of his full lips hitches reluctantly. I try not to notice how soft they look between the carved lines of his nose and jaw. “Now, that’s a fact,” he agrees, taking another bite. He swallows, and I watch the muscles of his throat work. “But you know I went into research, Alice. Not patient care.”

Alice gives a side to side head movement as if to say “potato, potahto.” “Last time I checked, your email footer said ‘Forrest Wakefield, MD, PhD.’ If that doesn’t make you a physician, I’m a monkey’s guncle.”

“Don’t be modest, Forrest,” agrees Yoon. “We’re all grateful you’re here with Trap. He couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Truer words never spoken,” Trapper agrees with a catch in his voice. He’s looking at his son with a level of love and pride I thought was reserved for Hallmark movies. Then again, maybe this is how lots of fathers look at their children, and I just happened to draw one of the short straws. Maybe the shortest straw of all. I take a sip of wine to wash away the sudden bitterness in my mouth.

Forrest clears his throat uncomfortably. “And speaking of hands,” he says in a tone that firmly signals a subject change, “you two have any luck climbing Widow’s Neck today?”

At this, I feel Ollie perk up beside me, but Topher answers first. “It was a killer climb. Perfect rec for today, man. The valley views were unreal at the top.”

“Where are we headed on Saturday? Any hints?” Ollie asks.

Forrest shrugs. “No need for mystery. Thought we could hike up to Eagle’s Point if that suits the group.” He looks toward Alice, Yoon, Ollie, and Topher for their input, completely skipping over me.

“Oh, absolutely,” Yoon says enthusiastically. “We haven’t hiked Eagle’s Point since, what, Ally, 2005?”

Nods of agreement and excited chatter flicker through the group, but Ollie notices my silence and nudges me with his elbow. “Up for a hike?”

I press my napkin to my mouth as I swallow some caramelized carrots, trying not to laugh. “Hike? Me? Oh, no. I’m an indoor cat. An indoor cat who has an entire manuscript to write.”

“What? No!” Ollie exclaims. “You’ve gotta come. Alaska’s meant to be experienced outside.”

“Poetic, dude,” Topher says, nodding slowly.

“It’s sweet of you to invite me,” I say, throwing a self-deprecating smile at Ollie, “but do you not remember how you found me tonight? I’d only slow you down.”

He laughs softly, his brown eyes warm in the candlelight. On my other side, Forrest makes a sound in the back of his throat like a boot grinding gravel.

“I don’t mind slowing down,” Ollie promises me.

Leaning forward to look down the table, Topher says, “Back us up, Forrest. She’s gotta come.”

Forrest shakes his head. “Can’t. She’s right about slowing us down. Eagle’s Point isn’t a hike for…” He catches my gaze for the first time all night, and my stomach is convinced I’ve jumped out of an airplane. “Amateurs,” he finishes, like it’s a replacement for “idiots.”

Anger and embarrassment quickly replace all swoopy feelings in my body, and if I didn’t have the very real fear of falling off a cliff into a bear’s nest, I would insist on going on this hike just to spite him.

“Well, we have a few days. I’m sure I can bring you around.” Ollie grins, nudging my knee with his beneath the table.

The rest of dinner is filled with stories from the last few Saturday wilderness excursions. These weekly adventures are apparently included with booking at North Star Lodge and have always been led by Trapper, until Forrest had to step in. I couldn’t be less interested. The only thing I’m looking forward to on Saturday is having Forrest and his big Heathcliff energy off the property.

“Did you bring any of your books with you?” Ollie asks, returning to the topic of my writing as we finish dessert—a wild-blueberry streusel with maple ice cream.

“I did,” I say, popping the last decadent crumb into my mouth with my fingers. “Sometimes I have to reference them. Don’t want to use the same jokes twice, you know?”

“I’d love to borrow Between Two Worlds if you can part with it,” he says. Then, “Maybe I can grab it when we walk back to your cabin?”

“Um, okay,” I say awkwardly, not sure how I feel about him reading the steamy scenes my readers are (correction: were) so fond of. It’s not like I’m usually shy about my writing, but twentysomething rock climbers who are actively trying to get in my pants aren’t my usual demographic.

“Actually, I can walk her back,” Forrest informs us as he stands to collect plates. “She needs to sign our liability waivers after dinner.”

“Liability waivers?” I ask, slightly alarmed. “For what? The local moose problem?”

“I’m happy to wait,” Ollie offers.

“Might take a while, and you and Topher need an early start tomorrow if you plan on reaching Curry Ridge,” Jo points out, her eyes sliding from me to Forrest.

I watch as Ollie bites his lips together. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He throws me an apologetic look. “But I’d love to catch up tomorrow night if you want. Maybe I can pick up the book then?”

“Of course,” I say, slightly relieved.

The feeling doesn’t last. After the group disbands and Jo assists Trapper into his chairlift, following him upstairs with Scout loping close behind, I’m left alone with Forrest and his candlelit cheekbones and surly attitude. Not that I didn’t ask for it—I haven’t been cold to him in hopes of bringing out his cuddly side. It’s almost a relief to know his hackles are raised as high as mine. That I might just scare him too. In the silence of the dimly lit lodge, we approach the book nook like two wary animals, ready to bare our teeth at the slightest provocation.

“These are the standard liability waivers all our guests sign,” he says when we reach the desk, sliding a folder and pen to me with a sharp shh sound. “In case you do decide to go on any of the weekly excursions.”

I cross my arms over my slouchy sweater, accidentally pulling it off one shoulder. His eyes tick to my bra strap and immediately away. “I didn’t realize I was allowed to,” I say.

He slowly crosses his own arms, and I swear I hear a shoulder seam in his Henley pop from the strain. “You said you didn’t want to go. I was doing you a favor.”

“A favor is walking someone through dark, moose-infested woods. It’s not calling someone an amateur in front of the entire ‘I’ve Scaled Everest’ contingent.”

“I did walk you through the woods, and I’m about to do it again.”

“I don’t need you to walk me through the woods,” I declare. “Ollie gave me a headlamp. And who knows? Maybe I’ll change my mind about that hike.”

I toss my hair over my shoulder and lean down, scanning the paperwork. Alarming phrases jump out at me. Remote areas without medical access. Encounters with dangerous wildlife. Grievous bodily harm and/or death.

I glance up at Forrest and the annoying smirk he’s wearing on his smug, handsome face. “Still want to come?” he asks.

Grinding my teeth, I sign all the paperwork in a flurry, not bothering to read any more of it. It’s not like I’m going on any of these excursions, but his judgment is intolerable.

“Maybe I do,” I say airily, standing up straight again. “Ollie said he’d be happy to slow his pace for me.”

Forrest snorts, smirk firmly in place. I want to yank it down. “Ollie can’t resist climbing any boulder he sees. He’d leave you behind in his chalk dust before the first mile.”

“I flatter myself that I can be more interesting than rocks.”

Forrest stacks the papers neatly into the folder while his glossy eyebrows communicate a one-word response: Sure .

I turn in a huff to get my coat. I have a headlamp, I remind myself. I’ll be fine to make it back to my cabin. Probably. But as I zip up and walk toward the front door, Forrest catches up with me.

“I said I can make it back on my own, thanks,” I say tartly.

“I’m going the same way,” he explains.

“Oh yeah? Is it poker night with Bullwinkle?” I say as we walk out into the frigid night.

“I’m going to bed. My cabin’s the one just past yours.”

So he doesn’t sleep in the lodge. I don’t know why I find this interesting. I shouldn’t find anything about him interesting, because I happen to know that Forrest is a human phishing scam. Men like him always seem familiar and trustworthy thanks to Hollywood and the romance novel industry, but they never actually live up to their fictional counterparts. Instead, they lure you in with their good looks and noble careers only to steal your heart and stomp on it before moving on to someone new. Maybe that’s a bold assumption to make about someone I’ve just met. But my life is strung with the blown-out lights of disappointing would-be heroes, and this time I’m not taking any chances.

Along the wooded path, he points out helpful markers for the next time I’m forced to leave my cabin, but mostly, our mutual dislike keeps us silent except for the crunching snow beneath our boots. When we reach my front door, I fumble to find my key, nervous that he’ll keep walking before I’m safely inside.

“It’s in here somewhere,” I say, patting all my pockets while secretly praying he won’t abandon me to the wolves. I finally find it and let out a relieved breath that clouds around my face. I hasten to unlock the door, and when it’s open, I turn, half expecting him to be gone already.

To my surprise, however, he’s still there, solid and unmoving as the evergreens around us. “You good?” he asks. And I may not want to admit it, but knowing he’ll be in the next cabin down makes me feel like I might actually sleep tonight.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”

He nods once and then sets off toward his cabin. I’m about to turn into my own when I notice a white cardboard box beside my door that camouflages with the snow. Bending down, I open it and see that it’s filled with small paper-wrapped bricks labeled as fire starters . A confusing twist of gratitude and surprise tightens my chest. There’s no note or explanation, but that only seems to confirm that Forrest left it in here at some point during the day. I hoist the box into my arms, scanning the trail to call out either a thank-you or a retort. But he’s too far away now, so I just stand there in the bitter cold, watching him disappear into the trees.