34. Off The Grid
Off The Grid
brIELLE
T here’s something magical about being unreachable.
Three weeks in this remote Alaskan cabin, and I’ve written more than I did in the three months before the Groomsman to Groom disaster.
No cell service. No Wi-Fi. No reality TV cameras documenting my every facial twitch.
Just me, my laptop, and the kind of silence that feels like you could scoop it up in your hands and mold it into something tangible.
The isolation should be terrifying, but instead, it’s been the balm my reality-TV-wounded soul needed.
“Cheers to you, Brielle.” I toast myself with a mug of lukewarm coffee, the dregs of this morning’s pot. “Nothing heals heartbreak like creating an artificial intelligence that hallucinates people’s darkest desires.”
The cabin owner, a septuagenarian named Lloyd who lives at the base of the mountain, warned me that talking to myself would be the first sign I’d been alone too long. But I’ve always talked to myself—it’s part of my process, the auditory testing ground for dialogue before it hits the page.
I glance around my temporary kingdom—six-hundred square feet of rustic solitude.
The stone fireplace that warms the entire space.
The lofted bedroom accessible by a ladder I’m still not convinced won’t collapse under me one night.
The kitchenette with its tiny propane stove where I’ve become surprisingly adept at one-pot meals.
The questionable plumbing that gives me approximately four minutes of lukewarm shower water every day.
It’s paradise.
The food supplies I brought during my three-mile cross-country trip are dwindling—another few days and I’ll have to make the hike down to Lloyd’s for more provisions—but I’ve rationed carefully.
One more week here should be enough to finish the season outline and start the final episode.
Then back to Atlanta, back to production meetings and studio notes and the inevitable awkwardness of facing my team after they see my reality TV fiasco.
I close my laptop with a satisfying click. The weather report Lloyd gave me yesterday—delivered along with a freshly caught trout I didn’t request—promised clear skies, perfect for watching the sunset from the tiny deck. I pour the last of my boxed wine into a chipped mug and step outside.
The view never gets old—pine-covered mountains stretching to the horizon, the dizzying drop of the slope beneath the cabin, a slice of crystalline lake visible in the distance.
The April air is crisp but not bitter, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of spring.
I breathe it in, feeling my lungs expand with something that, if not happiness, is at least contentment.
This is moving on. This is healing. This is—
A sound breaks the silence. Not a natural sound—not wind through pine needles or a bird call or the occasional distant howl that Lloyd insists is just a neighbor’s husky—that I’m convinced is a mountain lion. No, this is the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on the trail leading to my cabin.
My pulse quickens. Lloyd isn’t due to check on me for two more days. The cleaning service that preps the cabin between guests isn’t expected until next week when I leave. No one else should know I’m here—I specifically chose this spot for its obscurity and inaccessibility.
The footsteps grow louder, accompanied now by the sound of labored breathing. More than one person. My imagination, honed by years of writing thriller storylines for streaming networks, immediately conjures images of axe murderers, escaped convicts, bear poachers who won’t appreciate a witness.
I retreat inside, quietly sliding the glass door shut behind me.
The cabin has a landline for emergencies, but who would I call?
The local sheriff is an hour away, according to Lloyd.
My eyes dart around for potential weapons—a cast-iron skillet, a heavy flashlight, the emergency axe by the fireplace.
A knock on the door makes me jump, sloshing wine onto my sweater.
“Hello?” a male voice calls, followed by a wheezing cough from someone else. “Is anyone home?”
The voice sounds strangely familiar, but fear distorts my ability to place it. I grab the flashlight—heavy, metal, capable of inflicting serious damage—and approach the door cautiously.
“Who is it?” I call, trying to sound confident, authoritative. The way the woman in a horror movie never does.
“Brielle? Is that you?”
My heart stops. Literally stops. I’m clinically dead for a solid three seconds before it restarts with a painful kick against my ribs. I know that voice. I’ve replayed it in my head for weeks, analyzing every word, every inflection, searching for clues I might have missed.
“Hayes?” My own voice emerges as a squeak.
“Yes! Can you open the door? We’ve been cross-country skiing for hours, and I think Tyler might have altitude sickness.”
Tyler? One of the Groomsman to Groom camera people?
I unlock the door with trembling fingers and pull it open to find Hayes Burke standing on my doorstep, looking like an REI catalog model in ski boots and performance gear, his cheeks flushed from exertion, his hair tousled by mountain wind.
Behind him, Tyler the cameraman slumps against the rail, his face an alarming shade of gray-green.
“Oh my God,” is all I can manage.
“I know this is a shock,” Hayes says, his eyes—those eyes that haunted me for weeks—locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees wobble. “But can we get Tyler inside first? He’s not doing well.”
I step back automatically, allowing them to enter. Tyler staggers to my couch and collapses, the camera still clutched in his hands like he’s been instructed not to release it under any circumstances.
“Oxygen,” Hayes says, glancing around. “Lloyd mentioned you have an emergency canister?”
“Lloyd? You talked to Lloyd?” My brain is short-circuiting, unable to process the surreal image of Hayes Burke in my sanctuary, talking about my curmudgeonly quasi-landlord like they’re old friends.
“Yes, at the base of the mountain. He gave us directions but refused to take us up—said something about you needing to ‘marinate in your words’ without interruption.” Hayes almost smiles. “But he was worried about the weather turning, so he told us where to find you. The oxygen?”
Right. Oxygen. Altitude sickness. Tyler, who looks ready to evacuate his stomach contents onto the old, very real bearskin rug.
“Under the sink,” I say to myself, finally moving into action. I head there, finding it beside the medical kit.
I retrieve it while I get Tyler a glass of water. The cameraman accepts it gratefully, though his hands shake so badly I have to help him hold it.
“Thanks,” he gasps. “First time... mountains... didn’t know... would be this bad.”
“Deep breaths,” I say, helping Hayes set up the small oxygen canister with its mask attachment. “This will help. Just relax.”
Tyler nods weakly, accepting the mask. His breathing gradually slows, some color returning to his face.
I’m aware of Hayes watching me, his gaze heavy on my skin like physical contact.
I don’t meet his eyes, not yet. Can’t. If I do, I’ll either punch him or kiss him, and I’m not sure which would be worse.
“I’m sorry for barging in like this,” Hayes says quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Are you?” I finally look at him. “Because showing up unannounced at someone’s remote cabin with a cameraman seems pretty intentional.”
Hayes tilts his head. “Okay, yes. I wasn’t just passing through the neighborhood, if that’s what you mean.”
I manage a laugh as my heart flutters. “Very true. And thank you, Tyler.”
He makes a muffled sound behind the oxygen mask.
Hayes runs a hand through his hair—that gesture I’ve seen a hundred times, the one that always signals he’s frustrated or nervous. “Look, can we talk? Privately? Once Tyler’s stable?”
I nod mutely, still processing. Hayes Burke is in my cabin.
Hayes Burke, who eliminated me on national television with tears in his eyes and an “I love you” that made no sense.
Hayes Burke, who apparently cross-country skied three miles up a mountain with a cameraman to find me.
Hayes Burke, who is supposed to be on an island with three other women right now.
The next twenty minutes pass in a surreal blur.
Tyler’s color improves with the oxygen. Hayes helps him to the single armchair, arranges him with a blanket, then makes him drink more water.
Their dynamic suggests they’ve been together for a while, and they have—Hayes anticipating Tyler’s needs before he expresses them, Tyler responding to Hayes’s directions with the weary compliance of someone who’s spent too many hours with a relative stranger in stressful conditions.
Finally, Hayes turns to Tyler and says, “Can you give us some time? Off camera.”
Tyler glances between us, then removes the oxygen mask to respond. “Darren said to keep rolling no matter what.”
“And I’m saying stop.” Hayes’s voice is firm but not unkind. “This isn’t part of the show. This is my life.”
Something in his tone must convince Tyler because he sighs and sets down the camera. “Twenty minutes,” he says. “Then I need to get something, or Darren will have my job.”
“Thank you,” Hayes says with genuine gratitude. “Why don’t you rest? We’ll be on the deck.”
Tyler nods, looking relieved at the prospect of not moving for a while.
Hayes gestures toward the sliding glass door, a question in his eyes.
I hesitate, then lead the way outside. The sun is lower now, painting the mountains in shades of gold and amber.
Under different circumstances, it would be romantic.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say as soon as the door closes behind us. “You should be filming with the three finalists.”
“That’s not happening,” Hayes says simply.
“But this week’s Lock & Key ceremony—”
“Was already filmed.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “And I didn’t give out any keys.”