Epilogue 1
Tori
Wednesday morning at Wylde Beans. Corner table. Three coffees, one laptop, and the warm chaos of two women who live on a mountain and one woman who is learning how.
Marissa is reorganizing the sugar caddy.
She does this every time we come here. The owner Emma has stopped raising her eyebrow at it.
Jenna is editing photos on her phone, occasionally turning it toward us with “look at this ridgeline” energy that we’ve learned to receive with genuine interest because the ridgelines are, in fact, incredible.
I’m researching travel nursing agencies.
Three tabs open. A spreadsheet with columns for contract length, location, pay rate, and proximity to Wylde Mountain.
That last column is new. It didn’t exist two weeks ago.
Two weeks ago my spreadsheets were organized by hospital rating and shift differential.
Now they’re organized by distance from a man who reads rivers.
“You’re smiling at a spreadsheet,” Marissa says.
“I’m not smiling. I’m reviewing data.”
“You’re smiling at the column that says ‘miles from Kai.’”
“It says ‘proximity to primary residence.’ That’s standard relocation terminology.”
“Your primary residence is a cabin belonging to a river guide you’ve been sleeping with for less than two weeks.”
“Twelve days.”
“Oh, she’s counting,” Jenna says without looking up from her phone.
“I count everything. It’s a professional trait.”
“It’s a symptom,” Marissa says. She finishes the sugar caddy, aligns the napkin dispenser with the edge of the table, and looks at me with the warm, satisfied expression of a woman whose scheming has produced results and who believes she deserves credit. “A beautiful symptom.”
I take a drink of my coffee. It’s good. Wylde Beans does a pour-over that would make every hospital vending machine in Charlotte weep with shame.
I’ve had more good coffee in the past two weeks than in the previous four years combined.
This is not nothing. This is, in fact, a meaningful quality-of-life metric that belongs on a spreadsheet of its own.
The door opens. I look up. Left to right.
The man who walks in is not someone I’ve seen before.
He’s tall. Broad in a way that isn’t gym-built.
The kind of upper body development that comes from carrying heavy things up inclines for a living.
Long dark hair. His hands are calloused (I can see from eight feet because I read hands the way most people read faces) and there’s sawdust on his jeans and a pencil behind his ear and he orders his coffee with the unhurried ease of a man who has never rushed anything in his life.
“Who’s that?” I ask. Casual. Clinical curiosity.
Marissa glances up. “Leo Granger. Contractor. He’s renovating the old fishing lodge on the east side of the mountain. Been here about two months.” She pauses. “Why?”
“No reason. I’m cataloging locals.”
“You’re cataloging a man with sawdust on his jeans.”
“Sawdust indicates construction work. I’m noting his profession. It’s observational.”
Jenna looks up from her phone. Looks at Leo. Looks at me. Looks back at her phone. “Good bone structure,” she says, and returns to her ridgeline.
Leo takes his coffee and leaves. The door closes behind him.
I go back to my spreadsheet. I do not file him under any category more interesting than “local contractor.” I do not think about who on earth would be a good match for a tall, easygoing man who smiles at strangers and carries things for a living.
I especially do not think about Claire.
My phone buzzes. Group chat.
Claire: I’m coming back to Wylde Mountain.
The table goes silent. Marissa’s hand freezes on the sugar caddy. Jenna looks up from her phone. We stare at each other for one second, then all three of us look down at our screens.
Jules: WHAT? You don’t do spontaneity, Claire.
Claire: I mapped seven trails in July and only did two of them. I have unfinished business with this mountain. And a week of unused PTO.
Jules: You’re coming to Wylde Mountain. Voluntarily. The woman who said, and I quote, “I am completely immune to whatever is happening on that mountain.” I’m scrolling for the screenshot. Give me thirty seconds.
Claire: It’s not romantic. It’s practical. Marissa is there. Tori is there. Jenna’s there. I miss my friends. Also Montana has no state income tax, which I find fiscally interesting from a remote-work perspective.
Me: You’re coming for the tax structure?
Claire: I’m coming because I want to make sure you’re not making major life decisions based entirely on a man you’ve known for less than two weeks.
Me: Too late.
Marissa laughs out loud. Jenna grins at her phone. I can feel both of them reading the chat with the energy of two women who have already been caught by this mountain and are about to watch it happen again.
Jules: THREE DOWN. THREE TO GO. The mountain is UNDEFEATED.
Claire: I am not “going down.” I’m taking a vacation. I’m going to hike. Read. Do my firm’s quarterly reports from a porch with reliable Wi-Fi. That’s it.
Jules: SCREENSHOTTED. Adding it to the museum. Marissa had an itinerary. Jenna had a camera. Tori had a vacation plan. You have quarterly reports. The mountain doesn’t care what you bring, Claire.
Claire: The mountain is a geological formation, Jules. It doesn’t have a strategy.
Jules: It has a PERFECT RECORD.
Paige: I’m so happy you’re going!!
Claire: I’ve already mapped seven trails and checked every elevation profile. I have a first aid kit. Extra batteries. A backup phone charger. Bear spray. I am not going in unprepared.
Jules: The preparation is adorable. Truly. You’re going to show up with a laminated survival guide and a man built like a mountain is going to hand you a coffee and your whole system is going to crash.
Claire: My system does not crash. My system is backed up on three separate cloud services.
Me: Claire. I’m an ER nurse. I read people’s vital signs for a living. I was going to come here, rest, and leave. I am now sitting in a coffee shop researching how to move to Montana. The mountain doesn’t care about your cloud backup.
Claire: You’re different. You were burned out. I’m not burned out. I’m organized. Those are different conditions.
Marissa looks at me across the table. I look at her. Jenna looks at both of us. We are three women who came to this mountain for practical, logical, perfectly sound reasons and are now living here, and Claire is telling us she’s immune.
Marissa: Can’t wait to have you. I’ll get the guest room set up.
Claire: Thank you. See? Normal. Friends visiting friends. No drama. No mountain men. No life-altering decisions made on gravel bars.
Me: You know about the gravel bar?
Claire: Marissa told me everything. Jules also sent me your “I don’t know” text with a fourteen-point analysis of its emotional significance.
Jules: Twelve points. I was RIGHT about every single one.
Claire: I’m landing in Bozeman on Friday. I will be hiking, reading, and working. I will not be falling in any rivers, getting lost in any backcountry, or being carried anywhere by anyone. This is a vacation. A NORMAL vacation.
Paige: That’s exactly what Tori said!!
Jules: That’s exactly what ALL OF THEM said.
Jules: SCREENSHOTTED.
Claire: I hate this group chat.
Jules: You love this group chat.
Claire: Goodbye Jules.
Paige: Have the BEST time!! Pack layers!!
I set the phone down. Marissa is smiling. Jenna is smiling. I’m smiling. Three women at a corner table in a coffee shop on a mountain that keeps doing this.
“She’s doomed,” Marissa says.
“She’s so doomed,” Jenna agrees.
“She has bear spray and a backup phone charger,” I say. “She’ll be fine.”
We all look at each other. We all know what “fine” means on this mountain.
It means Marissa running a business with a man who looks at her like she built the sunrise.
It means Jenna photographing ridgelines from a cabin built by a man who communicates through furniture.
It means me sitting in a coffee shop with a spreadsheet that has a column for proximity to a river guide who read my room-scanning habit and said “I know” like it was the simplest truth in the world.
“Fine” on Wylde Mountain means something different than it does everywhere else.
I pick up my coffee. I take a drink. Through the window I can see the street. Leo Granger’s truck is parked at the end of the block. Construction logos on the side. A ladder in the bed. The truck of a man who builds things and carries things and has an easy smile and calloused hands.
Claire lands Friday.
I don’t think about these two facts at the same time. That would be scheming. Scheming is Marissa’s department.
But I’m fairly certain my orbicularis oculi are doing something.
And across the table, Marissa’s are doing it too.