Chapter 5 Margot
5 MARGOT
I’m not a pacer. When I sit down to write, my butt is basically glued to the chair until my Stretch Your Legs alarm goes off each hour, or until my toes go numb if I’ve forgotten to set it. But not today. Today is my first full day in Alaska, and I’m already a floorboard-scuffing, Internet-starved, hair-pulling writer who is approximately one thousand words short of her two-thousand-word goal.
I came here under the impression that it would be no problem to switch genres. After all, I’ve logged hundreds of hours falling asleep to grisly murder-mystery podcasts (perfectly normal and not at all concerning, thank you very much). But there are still a million gaps in my knowledge, and I didn’t count on not having the world’s collective information at my fingertips. As it is, half of the thousand words I’ve managed to write are bracketed notes like “insert detective lingo here.”
I pull my hands down over my cheeks, blowing out an exhale. As the afternoon has worn on, the cabin has become noticeably colder. Looking for a way to procrastinate, I eye the empty fireplace and the box of fire starters. I bite my lip. Forrest grumped nonsensically at me about catching the flu if I wanted to start a fire, but instead of listening, I was far more focused on getting him out of my hair. A potentially regrettable choice in hindsight, but honestly, what’s so hard about building a fire? Cavemen—no, cave people —did it, so why can’t I?
I walk over to inspect the area and find a wooden box beside the rack of fire tools. I open it and discover a bunch of twigs and papery bark. Based on every barely remembered Man vs. Wild episode I’ve ever zoned out to in various waiting rooms with Savannah, I get the feeling this isn’t potpourri but an essential piece of the fire-starting process. I turn my attention to the grate in the fireplace. Obviously, the logs go there. Gingerly, I slide one of the rough quarters of wood from the stack. I start adding logs and twigs at random, stuffing the little fire-starter bricks between them until the haphazard stack fills out most of the fireplace. After searching around a bit more, I find a long lighter and crouch back down. I smile to myself, thinking about Forrest’s face when he sees a cheerful plume of smoke unfurling from my chimney. That’ll teach him to mansplain fire to me again.
I hold the lighter flame to the stack, waiting for it to catch in several places. The fire-starter bricks light up at once, and I let out a whoop of victory as, soon enough, the whole stack starts crackling with leaping blue and orange flames. Quickly, I take a selfie so I can show Savannah (once I return from exile), that I’ve become a fire goddess. Inordinately pleased with myself and convinced that the gentle crackling will soothe my writer’s block, I strut back to my computer desk and sit down.
Closing my eyes, I take a breath and try to see the world I’m attempting to create through my main character’s eyes. Mentally, I feel her hair whipping at her face as she power-walks across a frozen parking lot to the remote Alaskan precinct she’s flown out to assist. After hours of writer’s block, I’m typing in a blur, words finally flowing, when my eyes begin to sting. I cough. Next to me, the fire roars on merrily, but I notice the air in the cabin is hazy and getting darker with every passing second. That’s when I see the smoke rolling in from the top of the fireplace.
I stand quickly as a thread of panic pulls taut within me. I might not know much about fireplaces, but I’m pretty sure that smoke is supposed to go up the chimney, not out of it. Quickly, I walk toward a window and open it, but as I do, the fire alarm goes off.
“ Shit, ” I say, wheezing and running around the cabin and throwing open every window. But the smoke just keeps pouring in and the alarm is still blaring, I can’t stop coughing, and I’m suddenly freezing my tits off as arctic winds whip through the smoky air. I’ve run to the kitchen, desperately searching for a pitcher I can fill with water, when my front door bursts open.
Forrest stands backlit in the swirling smoke like an Avenger, searching the room until he locks eyes with me through the gloom. Without a word, he strides toward me with a face like thunder. He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches me, only stoops and lifts me off the floor. I kick pointlessly. “I can walk!” I croak. “I have legs!”
He ignores me and leaves the cabin as quickly as he came in, unceremoniously setting me down in the snow. “Stay,” he barks, before marching back in without sparing me a glance. I send an I Curse You look at his back and immediately run to a window to see what he’s doing.
Through the smoke, I see Forrest walk purposefully into the kitchen and grab the fire extinguisher hanging prominently on the wall. I cringe so hard I nearly sprain something. How did I miss it? It’s literally the brightest object in the room. I watch as he pulls the pin and aims it at the fire, which has gotten so large that flames are licking the outside of the mantel. He pulls the trigger, and fluffy clouds of foam shoot out, instantly dousing the flames. Apparently, he isn’t done. He walks to the kitchen and grabs an oven mitt. Crouching low near the scorched fireplace, he sticks his arm up the chimney, and there’s a metallic squeaking noise. Like magic, the smoke stops pouring from the fireplace and disappears.
Dread builds within me. He is never going to let me live this down. I think of the other guests—rugged, strong, and capable. I’m willing to bet my frostbitten buns that none of them has ever turned a cabin into a barbecue pit. If it hadn’t been clear enough already that I never should have left L.A., this is my signal. My literal smoke signal. Savannah has obviously overestimated me by a stunning margin. I’m no Taylor Swift. I don’t have what it takes to reinvent myself, especially not in a place like this.
The only problem is, I don’t have much of a choice. What remains of my career is still floating back to earth like charred bits of fireworks. My sister and my agent are expecting me to return with a shiny new manuscript and a blueprint for the rest of my life. And while I can withstand many things, disappointing those two isn’t among them. Which is why, when Forrest comes back through the open door, I tilt my chin up, ready to defend my right as a paying customer to stay in this cabin until I’m smoked like a Christmas ham, even if it’s the last thing I want to do.
“Here,” he says, shoving his arm out toward me.
I look down to see my parka and grab it, teeth chattering. As I pull it on, fully expecting him to begin shouting at me, he does something far, far worse. He steps in close and gently lays both of his rough hands on the sides of my face. The defensive speech I’ve been preparing dies on my lips. His thumbs graze over my cold cheeks, gently pressing in different spots, his dark-green eyes sweeping back and forth across my face. Until, abruptly, he lets go. I blink.
“What the hell was that for?” I ask, telling myself my voice is weak from the smoke and only the smoke.
“Your cheeks are red,” he clips out. “It’s a sign of carbon monoxide poisoning. I had to check.”
“And?”
“And…” He scrubs a hand down his beard, visibly trying to rein something in. It doesn’t work. “And I told you to open the goddamn flue!” he bursts out. “But did you listen? No . Instead, you built a bonfire and almost torched the whole fucking cabin! You’re a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”
I take an involuntary step back, more hurt than I want to admit. “Well, obviously everything’s fine. Congratulations on saving the day, Smokey Bear.”
Forrest takes a step closer, his eyes boring into mine, and this is not the moment to notice how perfectly the sharp angles of his beard follow the cut of his cheekbones.
“It’s Smokey the Bear and it’s not fine, ” he snaps.
“ Pretty sure it’s Smokey Bear,” I mumble, but my argument is met with a sound of exasperation as his eyes widen in disbelief.
“You could have passed out. You could have been burned. You could have died, Margot!”
At the sound of my name and the raw worry in his eyes, I hesitate for half a second. But then his cold dismissiveness during dinner and our walk to my cabin comes roaring back to me. He doesn’t care about my well-being at all. This is a self-preservation thing.
“Well, I guess it’s good that I signed your little liability waiver last night. No skin off your nose if I—What was it again? Come to ‘grievous bodily harm and/or death’?”
“That waiver is meant to serve as a warning against all the dangers of this place. I didn’t realize I needed to include the goddamn fireplace on the list,” he says, jabbing a pointer finger toward the chimney.
“Okay, fine! You win!” I say, holding my hands up in surrender. “I suck at being in Alaska. I don’t know how to build a fire, I’m scared shitless of being eaten by a reindeer, I can barely find my cabin in the daylight, much less the dark, and I’d give anything to be back in L.A. with my sister. But did you ever stop to think that maybe there’s a reason I banished myself to Winterfell?”
While I’ve been ranting, Forrest’s expression has undergone minute changes. His dark eyebrows remain at full furrow, and his jaw looks tight enough to crack a bolt in half, but there’s something new in the depths of his green eyes. Is it remorse ?
“It was to research your book. That’s why you came,” he says, like any conclusion he draws is the right one.
I open my mouth in a ditzy expression of surprise and put a finger to my dimple. “Oh! So that’s why I came. Thanks so much for explaining my own reasoning to me.”
His eye twitches. “Is that not your reasoning?”
“No, it’s not,” I say darkly, suddenly wondering if #Pantiesof Lies is still trending.
“Then why—”
“It’s none of your business! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to writing. Thanks for putting out the fire.”
I’ve already turned when he says, “Wait.” When I don’t stop, he lets out a strained “Please.”
I toss a look over my shoulder. Forrest is standing in the snow with his hands in his back pockets, looking like what he’s about to say might kill him.
“There’s a letter for you.”
If I were covered in lightbulbs, every single one of them would be lit up and flashing. “Savannah,” I say, breathless. I’ve never gone this long without talking to my sister, and at the prospect of having any contact with her after this epically shit day, I’m feeling desperate. “Where is it?” I demand, stepping closer. I’m not beyond frisking him.
“Back at the lodge.”
I’m already marching past Forrest to the trail when he grabs my elbow. “Hold up. You’re not walking anywhere in those.”
Confused, I look down to see my sheepskin slippers. “Oh. Right.” I run back into the cabin for my boots, while Forrest follows to close all the windows. It smells like the inside of a meat smoker, and the fireplace is a sticky, foamy disaster, but I’ll deal with that later.
When we leave, I power-walk down the trail. Forrest’s much longer legs keep up easily, and when we reach the lodge, I follow him in like a bloodhound. “Where is it?”
He calmly walks to the desk where I signed the waiver and pulls out a drawer. He hands me the letter, and I nearly weep with relief when I see Savannah’s looping cursive on the envelope. I tear it open and pull out a sheet of paper.
Dear Margot,
I swear I can almost hear you cursing my name all the way from Alaska. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the no-Internet thing. You’ve probably been wondering why I booked you this middle-of-nowhere cabin when there are plenty of luxury resorts that would have been much more comfortable for you. But the thing is, that’s exactly what I was trying to avoid. I know how awful that sounds, and if you haven’t already burned this letter and stomped on the ashes, let me explain.
Reinvention doesn’t come for free, and it definitely doesn’t come with room service. It’s born out of pushing yourself to the limit after you’ve already endured the worst thing in your life. If you’d simply stayed home or booked yourself into a cushy resort after all your shit hit the fan, then sure, you might have been able to lick your wounds and recover. But would you have grown? Definitely not. Which is exactly why I sent you to North Star Lodge.
I’m sure by now you’ve heard about their weekly wilderness excursions. I also know you’ve probably laughed in the face of anyone who’s suggested you participate. But now I’m asking you to participate. I’m asking you to push yourself so that when you come back, you’ll have the strength to pursue whatever the hell it is you want for your life, regardless of what your fans, publisher, and even I want. This is your opportunity to look your fears in the eye and stare them the hell down.
To help motivate you, I’ve sent ahead a letter for every week of your stay. The proprietor knows that they’re ONLY to be given to you upon the completion of a wilderness excursion, so don’t bother trying to get them early.
Lastly, I know you’re doubting yourself. But just know that if there’s one person in the world who I believe can pull off a Swiftian reinvention, it’s my big sister. I believe in you, Margot. Go out there and climb a mountain for both of us.
Stay safe, but not too safe,
Savannah
The hand holding Savannah’s letter falls limply to my side. I stare unseeingly at a knot in the wooden floor while the inside of my chest turns over like a rock tumbler. Homesickness—no, Savannah-sickness—pricks the corners of my eyes, even while I have the urge to do exactly as she suggested and destroy the letter. She’s asking too much. She has way too much faith in my ability to cope with this place. I just nearly set myself on fire . There’s no way I can go on wilderness excursions—a fact I’ve been reminded of repeatedly since my arrival, by one person in particular. My eyes jerk up to Forrest, who’s staring at me warily. Savannah said the “proprietor” was keeping the other letters, and now I know my target.
“Where are my other letters?” I ask, slowly approaching the desk like a lioness on the hunt.
He shakes his head. “You know the deal. No excursions, no letters.”
“Bullshit,” I say, inching closer. “You and I both know that’s not happening.”
“Apparently, it is.”
“Remind me: Who was it who said I’d only slow the group down? That I’m an amateur? A danger to myself and everyone around me?”
The natural downward slant of his eyebrows that gives him resting don’t-fuck-with-me face shifts subtly from straight disapproval to disapproval with a hint of guilt.
“Your sister seems to believe in you,” he says.
“My sister also believes in crystal healing,” I snap.
“Not my problem.”
“Give. Me. My. Letters, ” I say, my fingers landing on the edge of the desk across from him.
“No.”
“Why the hell not?” I burst out. “Savannah’s not here! She’ll never know!”
“And you’re perfectly fine lying to your sister?” he asks with a look of censure. “After she took all that time to plan this out for you?”
His words pack a bigger punch than he probably realizes. Squirming slightly, I think of how I hid my Happily Never After file from Savannah for years, letting her believe I was the same romantic, optimistic version of myself that she approves of most. Mr. Moral Compass is frowning at me like nothing about my response surprises him, and shame plucks at me with barbed fingers until I’m sure I’m covered in red splotches.
“I wasn’t planning on lying!” I lie. “I’ll tell her I couldn’t follow through,” I promise, edging around the corner of the desk. But as soon as I’ve said it, Savannah’s voice seems to whisper through my mind. I know you’re doubting yourself. I believe in you, Margot. I shake my head to clear it. “Give me my personal property,” I repeat in a cold voice, coming to stand directly in front of him. “Stealing mail is a federal crime.”
Without breaking eye contact, he crosses his arms over his lumbersexual flannel and puffer-vest combo. He shakes his head. “No excursions, no letters.”
I barely resist throwing a paperweight at him. Fine . I didn’t want to pull out the big guns, but all’s fair in love and (in my case) desperation.
“Look. Forrest,” I say, softening my voice around his name. I tilt my head innocently and take a step closer to him. He visibly swallows. “I’m a professional writer. If you let me have my letters, I will write fucking sonnets about North Star Lodge and its extremely accommodating staff on every review site there is. If you decide not to give them to me…” I trail off and shrug, letting his imagination cook up the alternative.
Like clockwork, his whole body goes rigid, and his nostrils flare like I’ve inflicted a mortal injury. When he speaks, his voice sounds like it’s being forced through a meat grinder. “Thanks for the offer, but reviews are the last thing we need right now.”
Shit . I only meant to vaguely threaten him without actually acting on it, but I didn’t think of Trapper’s accident. I didn’t think about how they probably don’t want an influx of bookings while they’re adjusting, or a setback from the normal flow of business. I bite my lip, stewing in my guilt until Forrest takes the box of letters out of the drawer.
I gasp and make a grab for them, but his big hand clamps around the package and lifts it skyward, many untold feet above my head.
“You give those back!” I jump pointlessly, and he has the nerve to laugh . I’m weighing the options of either climbing him like a tree or kicking him somewhere soft and vulnerable when he steps away from me, arm still raised. “Where the hell are you going?” I demand.
“To put these in my dad’s underwear drawer.”
I let out a growl of frustration, to which Forrest only responds, “Hike starts on Saturday at noon sharp. Pack appropriately.”
And with that, I’m left to fume by myself, smelling like a smoked brisket and already strategizing how to push him into a ravine and make it look like an accident. Because one thing is certain—I’m going to get those letters or die trying.