13. Sloane
SLOANE
The trio of women we run into right after lunch latch onto us like we’re about to become trail besties.
Or maybe they’re sick of having only each other to talk to.
I’d guess they’re in their early thirties, and they look like they’d be more at ease in a hot yoga studio than on the trail, which is relatable, tbh.
The tall blonde with skin so smooth and creamy it looks filtered tells us her husband left her for the new hygienist in his dental practice.
Jensen and I share a grimace behind her back.
“He said it was about her ‘energy,’” she says, making aggressive air quotes. “Seems to me it was more about her being twenty-two and willing to blow him in the supply closet.”
I swallow back a snort as Jensen nearly trips on his own feet.
“That’s why we’re on this forced march,” her redheaded friend explains. “I suggested a girls’ getaway to Miami, but Veronica wanted to commune with nature.”
“I wanted to do something that cheating asshole wouldn’t think I’m capable of, you know?” Veronica asks over her shoulder, hazel eyes imploring me to understand.
“I get it,” I assure her and decide that I like Veronica. We’re mutual fans of the character-building power of voluntary suffering.
After the overshare icebreaker, we make first-name introductions. The third woman, who has glossy curls and is named Emma, loses her entire mind when she recognizes Jensen.
“Oh, my God.” I cringe when she screeches out the last word. “I’ve seen you in concert at least six times. You’re like the best guitar player ever.”
“That’s kind of you.” Jensen’s practiced tone lacks the rough-edged warmth I hear when he talks to me. I’m not sad about that.
The other two aren’t die-hard country music fans, but since it’s clear that he’s hot and famous, the fawning and ass-kissing commences post haste.
I know he’s famous. I’m not an idiot, although my search history from last summer might suggest otherwise. Of course, I Googled him after the nurse mentioned his career.
Okay, fine. I did a two-week deep dive into all things Jensen Grant that would make a CIA operative proud.
From YouTube concert footage to old press coverage from when “Lucky Me” went viral to interviews with other musicians talking about why he’s a legend, I consumed that content like it was my last meal.
I finally forced myself into a Jensen moratorium when it became clear that obsessing over a man I never planned to see again crossed about a dozen lines.
Our trail companions have no problem fangirling. They’re ready to invite Jensen along for the rest of their trip, and probably into their tent, sleeping bag, or pants. Especially after I make it clear we aren’t a couple.
The slight narrowing of his eyes tells me he doesn’t like that, even though it’s true.
And as the miles go on, the flirting gets a little less subtle as the trio peppers him with questions and song requests.
Veronica—who I’m not sure I like so much anymore—laughs like an asthmatic hyena while Emma keeps finding reasons to touch his arm.
The third woman, whose name I refuse to commit to memory, giggles at everything he says like he’s the main act at a backcountry comedy club.
And now I’m wondering if I imagined his annoyance at my refusal to claim him.
Overnight spider-monkey imitation notwithstanding.
“We’d love to spend the evening hearing more of your stories,” Veronica says as the sun starts to dip below the peaks in the distance.
“It would be the highlight of the trip,” Emma agrees in her high-pitched, perky voice.
For the record, I hate perky. Sunshiney is different than perky. Don’t ask me how.
“We’d make sure you had a great time, too,” the redhead says. Since I can’t remember her name, I’ll call her Slut Muffin. Rude, I know, but have a little dignity, ladies.
Jensen doesn’t appear the least bit interested in spending another minute with his adoring fans, even with the promise of a great time.
“We’re going to press on a ways,” he says. “Don’t you think, Sloane?”
He speaks my name like I’m the only person in this conversation whose opinion matters, and my stomach flutters with butterflies I’d rather not acknowledge.
“Yeah.” I adjust my pack strap and force a smile. “It was nice meeting you guys. Sorry about your husband, Veronica. He sounds like a real cockwaffle.”
“There aren’t a lot of good ones left.” Veronica’s eyes flick to Jensen with resigned longing.
“There are still some,” I say, and I’m pretty sure all three of them know who I’m talking about. Not that I’m admitting it out loud.
“Right,” Veronica agrees. “Maybe we’ll see you guys on the way back.”
“I doubt it,” I tell them and pretend I don’t notice Jensen’s satisfied smirk as we continue on down the trail.
“Those three would like to do a lot more than hear you sing,” I say when we’re out of earshot.
“Never gonna happen.”
“Never say never.” I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “If you want to—”
“I don’t.” His tone is firm enough that the rest of the sentence dies in my throat. “I don’t want to spend any more time with them. Plus, I had the best night’s sleep of my life last night, so why would I want to change a thing?”
I cough out a laugh. “I highly doubt you had the best sleep of your life on an inch-thick sleeping pad in a tiny tent.”
“I woke up a happy man,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice.
“Happy or frustrated?”
“Happy.”
I don’t bother to hide my answering smile since he can’t see it. “I thought that was just the morning.”
“It was you being wrapped around me on this particular morning,” he clarifies.
“It’s not going to happen again.”
“If you say so.”
I pick up my pace because the alternative is risking him seeing how the memory of waking up draped across him has been playing on repeat in my brain.
After another thirty minutes, with dark clouds ominously gathering above us, we reach a spot that offers some protection from the weather.
A thick canopy of pines that smells like Christmas morning provides shelter on one side, and a natural rock overhang on the other promises dry ground.
The timing is perfect as the rain starts falling in earnest, fat drops that splatter on the brim of my hat and run down my waterproof jacket in rivulets.
“Feels like it’s a granola bars for dinner night,” Jensen says as we unfold the tent poles.
“Yeah, the rain doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up anytime soon.
” I thread the poles through the grommets as the rain picks up, and we work together in coordinated silence.
He holds the fly while I stake the corners, then toss him the rain cover so he can secure the guy lines.
We’re not a bad team, which is annoying.
Being good at something together makes it harder to pretend there’s no together happening here.
We unroll our pads and sleeping bags, and there’s barely any room to maneuver once we stuff the packs inside the tent to keep them dry. I grab the first-aid kit out of mine.
“How are your feet?”
“They’ll survive.”
We each unlace our boots, keeping them under the rain fly but out of the tent. “You need fresh bandages.”
“I can take care of it tonight.”
“Suit yourself.”
He nudges my arm. “But I wouldn’t say no to a couple more ibuprofen.”
“Honestly, same,” I tell him and reach for the bottle. “My shoulders have reached their limit.”
“Want a massage?” he asks casually.
“No,” I chirp, convincing no one that I mean it, and his low chuckle vibrates across the space between us.
I leave him to the first-aid kit, pull out a protein bar and my journal, then turn to sit cross-legged, facing the opposite direction as I uncap my pen. I’ve made an entry—sometimes multiple—every day since my diagnosis. This is my ninth golden notebook, and it’s already half-filled.
A lot of the early entries were me working through the pain and fear of an uncertain future.
A level of unedited honesty I couldn’t afford to show anyone in my regular life because I’m Sunshine Sloane, the girl who rallied the book club and turned her cancer into a challenge instead of a defeat.
That version of me is real, but she’s not the whole story.
She’s not the woman who curled into a ball on the floor of the shower too many times to count during chemo because her legs were too weak to hold her up.
Sometimes I make gratitude lists instead.
Every day, I manage at least the basics.
Thank you for hot water, thank you for a body that got me up this trail, thank you for the fact that my white blood cell count was normal at my last check.
I now understand that hot water matters more than I gave it credit for when all I had to do was turn on the tap.
Behind me, Jensen rips open a packet of something, so I pop a bite of bar into my mouth. Although what I’m actually hungry for right now isn’t food.
He lets out a quiet groan as he stretches out on his sleeping bag.
The innocuous sound reverberates through my body like he’s just begged me to call him daddy.
For such a big man, he’s remarkably good at folding himself into tight spaces.
Lord, I need to get a grip. No thinking about tight spaces and Jensen and—just no.
I keep writing because tonight there’s a lot to process, mostly around tomorrow and what it’s going to be like to finally meet Kristen Quinn in person.
What she’s going to think about me tracking her down through the Montana wilderness.
I’d like to believe that tracking down is a harsh term for what I’m doing.
I’m fangirling. Authors love reader fans—at least all the ones I’ve ever hosted at Cover to Cover.
Even Iris’s fiancé, Jake, who wrote mysteries under a pen name for years, was generous and appreciative with readers despite craving anonymity more than most.