Chapter 40 Sadie
Everything happens in a whirlwind: one minute we’re packing up camp, and the next, I’m back in an airport shuttle, on my way to catch a flight. The seats feel strange after spending so much time sitting on rocks and logs and my sleeping bag.
It’s also weird to hear music again. I can’t hear a single buzzing insect, or any babbling brooks, or the crunch of hiking boots (and one extremely soiled pair of Adidas Ultraboosts) on gravel.
I never thought I’d miss the soundtrack of these last two weeks. And for how out of place I felt when I first arrived in the wilderness, it’s surprisingly jarring to be back in the real world—like a severe case of whiplash.
The airport feels too bright, too busy, too loud.
It’s weird that I can just walk up and buy myself a slice of pepperoni pizza, or a latte, or a family-sized bag of Cheez-Its. (I definitely buy all of these things.)
It’s weird to use an actual toilet again. This one is good weird—going to the bathroom in the woods is one of the primary reasons I won’t be making a career out of this like Thorn has.
Thorn.
I miss him so much already. Danica pulled him away for a long talk as soon as we got back to the museum.
We found out on the way over that she had arranged for an airport shuttle for those of us with early departures—the tour group handles all return flights since weather and injuries like Brittany’s can cause changes to the original itinerary—and I was whisked away, along with Trey and Hunter and Silas, not fifteen minutes later.
Like I said: whiplash.
I didn’t think eleven days would throw me so thoroughly out of sorts, but wow, everything feels foreign and sterile and digitized. Did I really wake up in a tent this morning? Did I really watch the world transform under the sunrise—lavenders into oranges into the full spectrum of daylight?
We kissed, one last time, while we still could.
It wasn’t long or steamy, like in my spiciest dreams—
But it was everything I needed, and the perfect way to remember him.
The only problem was that it had to end.
“Whoa,” Abby says when she flings open her front door five hours later. I came straight here from the airport—she was thrilled when I texted her from California, and insisted we have a girls’ night. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”
I don’t have to ask what she means: when I first saw myself in the airport bathroom mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself.
“You smell like campfire,” she adds, laughing as she pulls me in for a huge hug. “I already booked us an actual spa day for next Saturday, but in the meantime, I stocked up on some stuff to make you feel like you’re at the Four Seasons! Go pamper yourself, Wilderness Queen!”
I almost burst into tears right then and there. For all the ways the real world feels jarring, Abby feels like home.
She wasn’t kidding about stocking up on stuff—she must have bought one of everything from our local spa’s line of products. There are more bottles than I know what to do with, and a trio of candles, and some fluffy white towels I’m almost certain she must have acquired today.
I shower first, washing the campfire off my skin and out of my hair, and then I soak in the tub, and then I shower again.
Even after I’ve scrubbed the wilderness off, I’m left with a lingering sense that it’s fused to my bones. There’s still something different when I study myself in the mirror—something in my eyes, I think. Maybe my cheekbones, too.
Or maybe it’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve seen my own bare face and not felt the pressing urge to cover it up with foundation and concealer and mascara.
I think that’s what it is.
Maybe I’ve always looked like this, and what’s changed is much deeper: for the first time in years, I’m truly seeing myself—flaws and all—and instead of wishing them away, I see someone beautiful and strong staring back.
I swallow hard, blinking until my eyes clear.
My phone buzzes on the counter, lighting up with a notification: the name August Thorn on the text gives me a hit of dopamine.
Hi :) Miss you already, and I hope you made it back okay. Wanted to let you know I found all the stuff you stashed in my office before we left—did you leave it behind intentionally? If you still want it, I can get it to you.
He’s sent a picture, and I almost laugh out loud…why did I ever pack all of those things in the first place? I want to give Past Sadie a hug, bless her sweet little overprepared heart.
Totally forgot to grab all of that, I write back. If it’s not too much trouble, I wouldn’t mind having it back, but please don’t go out of your way.
I hit send and then type out one more message on a line of its own: I miss you, too.
Over dinner—a gigantic spread of sushi, courtesy of Jonathan, who made a brief appearance to drop it off before going to a movie with friends—I fill Abby in on everything.
She hangs on my every word.
She can’t believe I went kayaking, and rappelling, and that I actually came to enjoy all the hiking and being out in nature. She can’t believe I summitted a mountain.
I tell her I still hate mosquitos, and snakes, and sweating, and the feeling of needing a shower but not having anything but a lake to wash off in.
I tell her how much I missed real shampoo and conditioner—but how, actually, I feel like I could throw my phone off a cliff now that I’m not used to checking it compulsively out of habit.
Except, I add, for one thing.
One person.
“Tell me about him,” Abby says.
So I do.
A little over a week later, Jonathan and Abby and I are hanging out at the JW Marriott, like we did every day at the beginning of the summer. Jonathan’s just starting his shift at the poolside bar, so Abby and I are perched on a pair of stools while he works, enjoying some on-the-house appetizers.
“Let’s see,” Abby says, holding a french fry in midair. “I despise this idea with every fiber of my being because I would die without you here—but—worst-case scenario—you could move out there, maybe work at the tree museum you told me about?”
Thorn and I have been texting every day since I got home.
It’s great, but it’s also not. I miss laughing with him in person, face-to-face.
I miss his arm around me—I miss kissing him.
We’ve tried phone calls and FaceTime, but his connection is so sketchy most of the time; it’s easier and less frustrating to stick to texts.
“Or,” Jonathan says as he shakes a cocktail, “you could go be a hiking guide, too.”
Abby and I both burst out laughing.
“What?” he says.
“It’s sweet that you think I’m cut out for that,” I say. “But I know my limits.”
Abby and I are still brainstorming two days later when we finally go for our epic spa day. We’re in the sauna, post-massage and pre-facial, soaking up every minute of relaxation together.
“I’d miss you if you moved,” she says, “but I would totally understand.”
Our latest great idea involves a cabin she found for sale that might actually be doable on my income—it’s adorable, and has a gorgeous view, and I’ve even put feelers out at work to see if they’d have any issues with me working remotely from the West Coast.
My boss told me he would move into that adorable cabin in a heartbeat if he could, and would I be willing to host any work retreats?
So that was an easy yes.
Still, I’m reluctant to upend everything—maybe the wilderness loosened me up in some ways, but I’m still an overthinker and a planner at heart.
I like where I live. I love being close to Abby.
I don’t know anyone but Thorn out in California, and I’ve always been of the don’t move somewhere just to be with a guy mentality, so it’s hard to fully commit to that leap, especially this soon.
That said, I have not yet ruled it out.
All day at the spa, I think it over.
It’s fascinating how different it feels being here now; even though I’ve been home for a week and a half, I’m still seeing the world through a new filter.
The spa’s chilled cucumber water, for example, feels unnaturally cold now, and the ambiance—especially the nature soundtrack they’re pumping through the speakers on a loop and the “rainforest room” full of themed showers—feels extra artificial compared to the real thing.
It’s still the most relaxing day ever.
I’m so blissed out by the end of it that I’m tempted to take a rain check on dinner and head straight home to binge an entire season of The Great British Baking Show.
When I float that idea, phrasing it as a joke, Abby hesitates.
“Jonathan pulled some strings to get us a reservation tonight,” she says. “They were totally booked.”
We’re going to Uchi, one of our favorite spots in town, where it’s nearly impossible to snag a table at all, let alone on the day of.
It’s fancy, and expensive, and delicious—it really does sound amazing, but if I’m being honest?
The idea of going just with Jonathan and Abby makes me feel like I’d be imposing on a date, not to mention how extra aware I’ll be that my own personal date of choice lives two time zones away.
“You’re sure I won’t be a third wheel?” I ask as I check out my freshly blow-dried hair in the spa’s locker room, then adjust the little black dress Abby told me to bring.
“Sadie,” she says, meeting eyes with me in the mirror.
“This is a celebration for you. It’s our treat.
We’re so, so proud of you—Jonathan and I talked about you every single day, wondering what you were up to.
He’s as invested in your badassness as I am.
” She grins. “You deserve this. Let us celebrate with you?”
It honestly doesn’t take that much to twist my arm when a fancy dinner is involved, especially when said fancy dinner is a) free to me, and b) at Uchi.
“Okay,” I give in. “Let’s do it.”