Any Trope But You

Chapter 6 Forrest

6 FORREST

Why the hell didn’t I just give her the damn letters? Margot would be safely holed up in her cabin right now instead of tagging along on a hike that’s well beyond her capabilities. It might have also established some level of civility between us, which has been sorely lacking in the last few days. Up until now, I’ve mostly been able to avoid her, but unfortunately, she and Scout have formed an alliance. He scratches at her door every time I take him for our morning run, and she always opens up, greeting him with affection while completely icing me out. I’ve never felt a colder shoulder than the one she’s been giving me, and I live in goddamn Alaska.

I glance back at the group I’m leading to the Eagle’s Point trailhead, which lies only a short distance from my cabin. Alice and Yoon are right behind me, followed by Topher, while Ollie pulls up the rear with Margot. Her voice lifts in a flirtatious laugh that makes my shoulders stiffen beneath the heavy straps of my pack, and I turn back to face the trail.

Yes, leaving her would’ve been the responsible thing to do. But after I got my own letter from Margot’s sister marked Please read before delivering Margot Bradley’s package , that became a nonoption. My fists tighten around my hiking poles as the words I memorized from reading so many times come back to me.

To the Excursion Leader of North Star Lodge,

I’m writing because I have a huge, unusual favor to ask, and somehow, a letter seemed like the best way to ask it. Please bear with me—I’ll do my best to explain.

By now, I’m sure you’ve met my sister, Margot, and that you’ve already formed opinions about her. I’m going to hazard a guess that they probably run along the lines of “What the hell is a woman like her doing in a place like this?” Rest assured that Margot is definitely asking the same question. It’s a classic fish-out-of-water trope to the extreme. Like, a fish in a desert… except with snow, and probably lots of flannel. But here’s the thing. You’d never guess it from her polished surface, but my sister’s the strongest, most selfless person you’ll ever meet. It’s also why you’d probably never guess that she’s been hurting deeply for a very long time.

Maybe Margot will tell you all about it on her own terms (it’s not my story to share), but trust me when I say that if anyone needs to find out exactly how resilient they are, it’s my sister. It’s why I’m asking you to tell her about these letters but withhold them unless she goes on wilderness excursions. I know it’s a big ask from a total stranger, but North Star Lodge strikes me as the sort of place that would specialize in personal growth adventures.

Should you decide to do me this solid and earn a lifelong IOU, you’ll see each letter is labeled for every week of her stay, as an incentive to get her out of her comfort zone. I warn you now, though—Margot is going to fight this tooth and nail. But more than anything, my sister needs to discover that she has what it takes to overcome what’s happened to her. Please keep her safe and help her find that strength.

—Savannah

The strongest, most selfless person you’ll ever meet… hurting deeply for a very long time. Why won’t those words let me go? Is it because I’d written Margot off as someone incapable of feelings deeper than a petri dish, only to see how desperately she misses her sister, who clearly hero-worships her? Or is it because all my assumptions about why she’s here have been shot down, leaving me scrambling for answers? I don’t have a fucking clue, and that’s exactly the problem. I like having a firm understanding of the world around me. Up until recently, my entire life was centered on finding answers to difficult questions. Margot Bradley shouldn’t be a mystery to me, but every time I try to file her into one of the neat little gray boxes of my mind, she bursts out in vivid color, making me question her all over again.

It’s why (with the slow-as-shit secret satellite Internet I’ve been selfishly keeping to myself) I plugged my Kindle into the lodge’s computer and downloaded her entire collected works last night. Initially, I told myself that reading her books was simply research. That Margot’s corny romance novels would disprove her claim of being able to write a make-or-break review of North Star, and I could calm the fuck down. Shamefully, I might have also been looking for evidence against Savannah’s description of Margot as strong and selfless. But by the time I started the second book at one in the morning, it had become much harder to pretend I wasn’t completely engrossed by her writing, and by her astounding sensitivity to the challenges of others.

With every nuanced delve into her characters’ complex internal landscapes, I was left wondering why the hell she was switching genres. While murder mysteries seem more appropriate for her prickly personality at first glance, writing tales of the heart is obviously her true calling. Then again, maybe she’s only prickly to me. She seems pretty fucking cozy with that wet-behind-the-ears rock climber Ollie. Which brings me back to the questions of why she’s giving up romance, what that might have to do with her staying here, and how the hell I’m going to keep her from ripping North Star a new one as soon as she has Internet access.

The gears in my mind grind to a halt as I nearly walk into the Eagle’s Point trailhead sign. I’ve barely noticed the ground beneath my feet, and I’m amazed I didn’t lead the group into a sinkhole or worse. I shake my head to clear the suspiciously blond cobwebs. Resettle my pack. Focus . I wasn’t kidding when I told her this climb isn’t for amateurs.

“Okay, everyone,” I say, turning to face the group. “As you know, we’re headed up to Eagle’s Point. There’s going to be a lot of scrambling over icy, snow-covered rocks, so make sure your spikes are on your boots and your poles are secure around your wrists if you’re using them.” I chance a glance at Margot, who’s gone white as a sheet beneath her usual golden glow. Ollie puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and I look away. “If, for whatever reason, you’re not feeling up for today’s hike, this is your last chance to turn back.”

I can’t help meeting Margot’s gaze, but she only lifts her chin and sends me a look that clearly and specifically says, If I die today, it’s your fault, and I will spend my afterlife tripping your cabin’s fire alarm every time you reach deep REM.

Fair enough. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

Past the first thirty feet of dense trees, we’re met with a tumble of boulders that’ll require sure footing to climb safely. Behind me, Topher lets out an appreciative “ Sweeet ” and rushes forward to monkey his way up the snow-dusted boulders outside of the designated path. I turn to look at the group before ascending, and just like I suspected, Ollie’s eyes have gone cartoonishly round at the sight of the rocks. “Just take it slow, and use your poles,” he’s saying to Margot in a distracted voice. “You’re gonna do great.” And with that, he comes forward and leaps onto the first outcropping of rock before scrabbling to catch up to his friend.

Margot shoots me a look of panic, gripping her hiking poles like twin light sabers instead of holding them in any remotely useful position.

Alice pats my elbow as she passes by with the sort of gruff “Good luck” one wishes to a soldier headed to the front lines.

“See you at the top!” Yoon says, beaming.

As soon as they’re out of sight, I walk back to where Margot is standing completely frozen, staring at where Ollie disappeared. “He left me,” she says in shock. “For rocks .”

“Like I said,” I say with a curious lack of annoyance. Mostly, I’m relieved Ollie left so I can manage this situation myself. Not because I want to but because the responsibility of keeping everyone safe is on my shoulders. I’d usually make the group stick together on this climb. But this isn’t the standard crowd of summer tourists. Alice and Yoon have been outhiking me on these mountains since I was a boy, and Topher and his family have been vacationing here since he was in a baby carrier. Even Ollie, I can grudgingly admit, is an excellent climber. They’re safe on their own, but Margot’s going to need all the help she can get, and it’s my job to give it to her—no one else’s.

“You don’t need to rub it in,” she says, walking forward to assess the boulders. And then to herself, “I guess it’s now or never.” She takes a breath and lowers her shoulders. Then she attempts to climb the rocks five feet to the left of the path. My mouth twitches, but I refuse to be charmed.

“You’d have an easier time if you tried climbing the actual trail,” I say after watching her struggle for a solid minute.

She turns sharply, her long blond ponytail whipping around her fleece ear warmer, and blasts me with a smile so beautiful, it has to be dangerous. “Then maybe, instead of just standing there like a creepy Paul Bunyan, you could show me the way.”

Tearing my eyes away from the dimples on either side of her smile feels like trying to peel off industrial-strength Velcro. “The trail starts here,” I say, pointing to a slab of rock that was wedged into a wide crevice by my grandfather decades earlier. “Look for flat places like this, and always secure your poles before you step. You can lean on them for leverage.”

For a moment, her bravado slips, and she catches her full bottom lip between her teeth. “Shouldn’t you go first?”

“Only if you want the rocks to catch you if you fall.”

I watch her eyes travel up the steep incline of boulders, the long line of her throat moving in a tight swallow. “Good point,” she whispers.

“Ready?”

“Are you ready?” she counters, pinning me with a glare.

“For what?”

“Catching me if I fall. My life plan doesn’t actually include ‘Shit my pants and die in Alaska.’?”

A surprised laugh escapes me. “That depends. Are you planning on shitting your pants before I catch you, or only if I miss?”

She holds up a hand, and even through her mitten, I can tell she’s flipping me the bird.

“Come on,” I say, unable to wipe the smile off my face. “I’ll catch you either way.”

And so we begin, step by step, to climb one of the steepest trails on North Star’s property. Margot is slow and unsure of every foothold despite the way her toned legs easily carry her over the boulders. Not that I’m focused on how toned her legs are in those thermal tights. Or her ass, for that matter, which has been directly in front of my face for the past twenty minutes. To keep myself from staring and potentially falling to my death from distraction, I keep my eyes down as much as I can. Finding the next step, and the next, and the—

“I made it!” she shouts up ahead.

I climb over the last boulder on this stretch and find Margot holding her poles above her head. She’s jogging in place like Rocky Balboa doing a victory lap, and I almost don’t have the heart to tell her we’ve barely completed an eighth of the trail.

“Great job,” I say, surprised by how honestly I mean it. “Rest of the trail continues through those trees.” I point with one of my poles.

“You mean there’s more?” she asks with a look of utter devastation. Her poles drop limply by her sides.

“Just a little farther.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re lying to me?”

“I’m definitely lying to you.”

She groans.

“Let’s go,” I say. “It’s less steep for a while.”

She trudges behind me, but as the trail widens to accommodate two hikers, I find myself slowing down to walk beside her, even though I know I shouldn’t. Reading her work last night has confirmed two disturbing facts. One, that she’s talented as hell and I’ve been a dick to underestimate her. And two, that she could absolutely write a Yelp review that could put North Star on either a destination map or on a BuzzFeed list of “Best Places for a Terrible Time.” Recovering from a scathing review is a storm I’d hoped North Star would never have to weather again, and just like last time, it’s all my fault for not leaving a guest well enough alone.

“So when are you going to admit that you’re only withholding my letters to torture and humiliate me?”

I try not to wince. Instead, I lift a branch that’s grown across the trail so she can go under it. A small gesture to symbolize my newfound intention of not being a complete asshole to her.

“I think you overestimate how invested I am in the situation,” I say neutrally, choosing not to examine exactly how invested I am after reading her sister’s letter.

“Is it just me who brings out your sadistic nature,” she says, ignoring me, “or have you always nurtured a secret hatred for blondes?”

Blood rushes to my cold face. What is it about me that says I have a hair-color fixation? It’s completely preposterous and why I say, “You guessed it. My area of research is focused primarily on the inferiority of blondes and how best to make them miserable.”

“Must be nice to be an expert in your field,” she mutters, stumbling over a rock.

“I was under the impression that’s exactly what you are,” I say, more than happy to point the spotlight away from myself. “Except your field is what? Happily Ever Afters?”

At this, Margot jolts. Miscalculates a step and slides on some ice. Automatically, I reach out to stabilize her, but she only bats my hand away. “I’m fine,” she says, though I’ve obviously struck a nerve. I stare at her profile, wishing I could decode the downward pinch of her eyebrows and the tight line of her shoulders beneath her pack.

“So, out of sheer boredom,” she says a few moments later, hijacking the spotlight and turning it back on me, “what is your field of research? When you’re not busy burning blond wigs, of course.”

“You’d be surprised by how time-consuming wig burning is,” I say, earning a snort. “But in my spare time, I research breast cancer. Triple-negative breast cancer, specifically.”

At this, she rolls her eyes and sighs like she can’t help herself.

“Wow,” I say. “Not usually the reaction I get.”

“Sorry—” she says, flushing when she realizes I’m staring at her. “I swear I’m not rolling my eyes at breast cancer.”

I lift another branch for her. “And here I thought I’d finally found someone depraved enough to be my wig-burning assistant.”

She laughs, and a sharp thrill of satisfaction rings through me like I’ve hit the bell at the top of one of those hammer-swing games at a carnival.

“No, it’s just—” But she stops, throwing me a furtive glance.

“What?”

“Well, I know you’ve probably never read a romance novel,” she says while I repress the urge to start whistling innocently. “But they employ a lot of well-worn tropes, and ‘doctor for a worthy cause’ is one of them.”

“So you’re reducing my entire career down to a romance-novel trope?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her. The trail has steepened considerably, but she seems to be taking it in stride while preoccupied with our conversation.

“ Is it your career still? I thought you’d given it up to be with your dad.”

The question hits like a cannonball to the gut and sets off about a hundred others I’ve been asking myself every day for the past six months. Have I really turned my back on all my research and education to be my father’s caretaker? And since, yes, I obviously have, will I ever have the opportunity to return to my old life? Especially when my father’s condition shows no quantifiable improvement, and he’s at constant risk of medical complications? The unfortunate answer is: not likely. Deep down, I know that even if I were deluded enough to think I could make a difference for him medically, it’s not the real reason I’m here. What ultimately made me turn my back on my entire life and what keeps me here today is guilt. During the last year of my mother’s life, I let her and my dad convince me she was okay. I stayed away until it was too late, and that’s simply not going to happen again. It’s why I’m about as stuck here as the stone slabs beneath my feet.

“I did give it up,” I say, hoping my curt answer will deter her line of questioning. But what she says next is the last thing I see coming.

“I get it.”

I look at her, tracing the classic line of her profile with my eyes while she concentrates on securing her hiking poles. “You do?”

She lifts a shoulder. “My sister, Savannah—the one who wrote the letters you’re holding hostage—she’s not well. Or at least she’s not well a lot of the time. She lives with me, and I take care of her.” She suddenly frowns like she doesn’t want to admit her next words, even to herself. “And if she lived in fucking Alaska, I guess I’d have to live here too.”

My mind loops back to the day Margot arrived and she learned (falsely) that there’s no Internet at North Star Lodge. How she whined that she needed to keep in touch with her sister, who has a serious condition. Guilt sends a rash of heat up my spine. I’d assumed she was lying her ass off to get what she wanted because, as we’ve established, I’m a judgmental prick. I glance at her and vow to tell her about the Internet access—shitty as it is—as soon as we’re back. Meanwhile, I’ll deal with the revelation that this woman, who upon first impression seemed completely trite and unrelatable, is probably the one person in a thousand-mile radius who might understand what I’m going through.

“It doesn’t feel like a choice,” I reply.

She catches my eye for a moment and then shakes her head, a quiet exhale clouding her rosy face. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Do you mind telling me her condition?” I ask.

Margot’s eyes sharpen. “I guess that depends. Are you one of those doctors who don’t take autoimmune diseases seriously?”

My eyebrows jump. “Why wouldn’t I take them seriously? They’re extremely well documented.”

She makes a sound of derision. “Go tell that to every asshole who told us Savannah’s symptoms were ‘psychosomatic’ during appointments she barely had the strength to sit through.”

I register surprise as anger on behalf of a person I’ve never met fills my stomach with battery acid. After a moment, I manage to speak. “I’m sorry she—and you—had to tolerate that. Skepticism of poorly understood conditions is an unfortunate defense mechanism in the medical community. It doesn’t mean that what she’s suffering from is any less real than a more easily quantified illness.”

Margot is mid-nod when her pole slips on ice. My arm shoots out to steady her, and this time she grabs on to it. Even through the layers of her mittens and my coat, the pressure of her hand sends unwelcome ripples of awareness through me. “Thanks,” she says as she lets go and starts walking again. “And thanks for not being another dismissive doctor.”

“Of course,” I say, clearing my throat. Then, “Why don’t you go ahead? The trail’s getting too narrow for both of us.” She hikes ahead with a last fleeting look at me, boots crunching on the packed snow, and for the rest of the increasingly difficult trail, the only conversation between us is about where to place poles and feet. As we ascend, the temperature drops and the trees become sparse. Margot struggles with her footing, but with every new boulder, she seems to become more determined to get to the top. Which, after two painstaking hours that leave even my thighs burning, we finally reach.

“Oh my God,” she half gasps, half cries as she crests the last boulder to the summit. She stumbles forward on legs that wobble like a newborn fawn’s as I climb up next. She looks around despondently as she walks through the trees to the huge jut of rock that serves as the hike’s summit. “What the hell was the point of climbing up here? It all looks exactly the same as—”

And then she makes it past the tree line and sees it. A vista of epic proportions, with unfathomable miles of wilderness stretching before us. Her jaw drops slowly as awe renders her speechless. And then, with timing that simply can’t be planned, an enormous bald eagle launches itself from the treetops below us, stretching its six-foot wingspan to fly down toward the snaking river. She gasps and takes a step back.

“This is—” she starts, shaking her head.

“Pretty incredible, huh?” I say softly. Even after growing up here, I find it impossible to take the grandeur of this place for granted.

A disbelieving smile pulls across her face. She shakes her head again. “I can’t believe I made it. I fucking did it.”

“You fucking did it, Margot,” I agree, unable to stop my own smile from spreading.

She turns to look at me with windburned cheeks, a halo of wispy golden hair that’s escaped her ponytail, and amber eyes that practically glow with pride. She’s so beautiful in this moment—sweaty and exhausted and victorious—that I almost forget all my rules. About my blanket ban on guests or, frankly, anyone I find this captivating. Her sister’s words come back to me— she’s the strongest, most selfless person you’ll ever meet —and somehow don’t feel as implausible as they did yesterday. But the possibility that they might be true makes keeping my distance from her even more crucial. The reward isn’t worth the risk, I repeat to myself like a talisman against her. Not worth the risk.

“So where’s the chairlift back down the mountain?” she says, clearing her throat and looking around like it’s hidden in the bushes.

I fight the smile stretched across my idiotic face. “Going down is easier. Come on. We need to get moving if we’re going to make it back before dark. We’re running behind as it is.”

Her brow furrows at my grumpier tone, and she lowers her phone after taking several selfies I shamefully wish I could see. “Speaking of being behind, where’s the rest of the group? Shouldn’t we have seen them coming down?”

“They must have gone down the outer ridge,” I say, pointing my pole to another small break in the tree line. “It’s a longer trail but less steep.”

“Then I guess that’s our path,” she says, looking over her shoulder at me as she moves toward the break. And then, in a moment so fast I barely see how it happens, she’s on the ground, hiking poles splayed and a cry ripping from her.

Fuck . Fear grips me by the throat, and I run over to where she’s sitting up and clutching her ankle.

“It’s broken,” she says through gritted teeth. “I just knew it. I’m going to die up here! I’m going to be an eagle snack!”

“We don’t know it’s broken,” I say with forced calm while practically ripping my backpack apart to find the first-aid kit. “Can you move it?”

She turns her tear-streaked face to glare up at me. “Does it fucking look like I can move it, Forrest? I told you I shouldn’t have done this hike!”

“But you did do it,” I say, steadying her panicked gaze with mine. The words seem to sink in, tethering her back to the pride she felt earlier. “Just like Savannah knew you could.”

After a moment, she gives a shaky nod, and my own pride for her swells beneath my rib cage.

“Take these,” I say, holding out three ibuprofen tablets to her. She dry-swallows them and looks up at me as I stuff the kit back in my bag along with her much smaller pack.

“Shouldn’t I take my boot off?” she asks. “So you can see it?”

I shake my head. “Not till we’re back down the trail. It could swell up like a balloon, and it’s too cold for you not to have a boot on.”

“How the hell am I going to get back down?” she asks, but instead of sounding angry, she sounds terrified.

“First we’re going to stand you up,” I say, keeping eye contact with her. “Then we’re going to see if you can put any weight on it.”

She nods, biting her lip. “Okay.”

With her good leg braced on the rock, I grab her hands and hoist her up. Gingerly, she tests her ankle, and I see the blood drain from her face. “Oh God,” she whispers as pain squeezes fresh tears from the corners of her scrunched eyes. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Damnit . I glance at the sun. We have two hours till dark, and it took us almost three to get up here. There’s only one way this is happening, and she’s not going to be happy about it.

“Margot,” I say, tightening my grip on her hands. She opens her eyes. “Listen to me. It’s getting late, and we have to start moving. I’m going to have to carry you.”

Her wide, glistening eyes go round. “What? No . No way.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“Flying by eagle? They looked fucking big enough.”

I shake my head. “They only work weekdays,” I say. “Union thing.”

The reluctant flash of her dimples allows me to take my first full breath since she went down.

“Come on,” I say, shouldering my pack while keeping one hand gripping hers.

“But I can’t be in another trope with you,” she whines. “And we already did this one! Remember the fire?”

“Did you also hit your head?” I ask, like I definitely didn’t read a Carrying the Heroine trope in one of her books last night.

“My head’s perfectly fine, thank you,” she snaps.

“Good. Then you’ll understand why I’ve got to pick you up right now before we waste any more daylight.”

With that, I scoop her up and hold her to my chest, the scent of gardenias enveloping me like every reminder of home I’ve been craving.

“I better get two letters for this,” she grumbles, even as she settles herself more comfortably against me.

“In your dreams, California,” I say as I enter the tree line.

“Do not give me a cute nickname!” she warns, pointing a pillowy mitten in my face like it’s a deadly weapon.

I only chuckle and grip her tighter, thinking maybe romance tropes are underrated after all.