Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sierra
The great room looks nothing like it did this morning.
It's softer now. Dimmer. The fireplaces throw gold across the walls, and the storm outside growls just loud enough to make everything feel intimate instead of apocalyptic.
The entire lodge is tucked in together—sixty-four guests, two dozen staff members, a TV host who deserves coal until retirement, plus her entourage.
And smack in the middle of all of it?
My insanity. My heart. Pinned to foam boards. Strung on twine. Clipped with tiny gold clothespins Holly insisted on because “presentation matters.”
If I weren't already sweating, I'd start now.
Dixie nudges one last photo straight and whispers, “You ready?”
“No. Absolutely not. I would rather eat my own camera.”
Charlie beams. “Good. Terror looks great on you.”
Holly squeezes my elbow. “Deep breath. You're not exposing anything you haven't already lived.”
I don't tell her she's wrong.
I'm not worried about surviving this.
I'm worried about him.
Because Everett Morgan is about to walk in here and see—everything.
Every feeling I stitched together out of hope, fear, and darkroom chemicals.
Every stupid teenage note. Every picture I took because looking directly at him felt like stepping off a cliff.
Every quiet moment I loved him because loving him out loud hurt too damn much.
The doors open behind us.
Guests shuffle in—families, couples, college kids who definitely did not plan to witness a public emotional autopsy today.
Tara's crew enters next, cradling equipment, faces pinched. Tara herself comes last, jaw locked, radiating twelve varieties of “I don't like this.” Her smile has frozen into something brittle. Her fingers twitch toward her phone, then stop.
That's right. You can't spin this.
Then Shelley walks in, followed by Bruce—arms crossed, shoulders squared, wearing the expression of a man who's been told this is a community event but suspects an ambush.
Shelley waves. “He thinks this is a community event.”
Of course he does.
Bruce absolutely said Sure, honey, like we aren't in a blizzard with a shelter-in-place alert. More likely, he's looking for an excuse to check on Everett without admitting he's worried. Or curious. Or both.
Let's be honest: Shelley made him come. Which is exactly why I like her—big Grammie Bea energy with the calm authority of a woman who solves problems before anyone else even notices them.
Bruce scans the boards, the photos, the crowd.
Then—
He sees Everett.
Everett comes in from the back hallway, flanked by Roman, Nolan, and Caleb like he's being escorted to his own sentencing.
His eyes find mine.
One brow lifts. What are you up to?
I don't answer. Can't. My voice has already evacuated.
He looks steady. A little tired, a little bruised under the eyes, but open. Waiting. Trusting me with something huge.
God help me.
“All right,” I whisper. “Let's ruin my entire life.”
Holly nudges me forward. “Showtime.”
I step into the center of the room. My knees tremble. My voice doesn't get the memo about subtlety.
“Hi! Everyone! Um. Hi.”
Strong start. Real professional.
People chuckle—bless them.
“So... sorry to interrupt your normal evening, but things are about to get weird.”
More laughter. Good. Buy goodwill before the public meltdown.
I gesture toward the first panel. “Originally, the heritage walk was supposed to focus on multi-generation Morgan Lodge history—everything Grammie Bea told so many times she could've copyrighted the stories.”
Ripples of laughter. Even Roman cracks a tiny, betrayed cough.
“But because of the storm...” I inhale. “And because I apparently lost every functional brain cell I once possessed... I had the chance to do something different.”
I draw a long breath. It feels like prying open my ribs.
“This is the Fifth Generation Edition. Everett's generation. The one who didn't just inherit devotion—he built it. He's been choosing this place since before he understood what choosing meant.”
People murmur.
I move to the first board: Everett at fifteen, elbow-deep in a snowmobile engine he had absolutely no business taking apart.
Everett during his first aid certification—jaw clenched, determined.
Everett teaching a little kid how to drive a nail straight, taking twice as long because the kid refused to quit, so Everett refused too.
“These are the first photos I ever took of him,” I say. “Before I knew what exposure was. Before I knew what I was looking at. Before I realized this boy was going to wreck my life a little, fix it a lot, and somehow become the safest place I knew.”
A soft wave rolls through the room.
Roman looks at Everett like he's seeing him with brand-new eyes. Caleb tilts his head like a confused husky. Nolan goes still—absorbing everything.
And Everett...
He just looks at me.
Steady. Unblinking. Like he's watching his own heartbeat walk around the room.
It strips me bare all over again.
I expected to expose myself to strangers. To Tara. To the cameras. To my brothers—who are absolutely going to need emotional support beverages after this.
I braced for that part.
What I didn't prepare for was how exposed I'd feel to him.
The world seeing my teenage crush is one thing.
But Everett seeing my private first moments—every shaky, ridiculous discovery of what love was for me, and who it was for—that's different. That's intimate in a way I've never said out loud.
I pause. Swallow.
I never learned how these things were supposed to work. My mom died before the whys.
Why someone can knock the air out of your lungs by smiling. Why wanting someone feels like falling down stairs you willingly jumped from. Why the safest place can also be the scariest.
I grew up with brothers—good ones, but not exactly emotional tour guides. So instead of asking questions, I took pictures. I documented what I didn't understand.
Maybe that's not how people do it. Maybe it's messy.
But it's mine.
And tonight... it's his too.
“When I was younger,” I say, “I loved the mountain. I loved the lodge. But mostly... I loved the boy who belonged to both.”
I gesture to the next panel—the scraps and confessions.
“These are things I wrote when I didn't have the guts to say them out loud.”
I pick up a scrap. “This one says, 'Do NOT forget how he looked at you today.' Apparently teenage me was dramatic and had raccoon handwriting.”
Laughter breaks the tension.
Holly hands me another.
“If he kisses me tonight, I'm not going to survive it.”
Charlie hollers, “Spoiler: she survived!”
The room laughs again.
“Look,” I say, “I know this is ridiculous. It is ridiculous. But for eleven years, I kept all of this hidden because loving him felt dangerous. I thought choosing him meant losing everything else.”
My throat tightens.
I look at Everett.
“And then last night... I realized the only thing I was afraid of losing was him.”
His breath stutters.
Out of the corner of my eye, Bruce's expression shifts—something wondering, something aching, something maybe waking up.
Shelley bites back a smile. She 100% knew this was coming.
“I'm not here to talk about clickbait storylines,” I say, flicking a glance at Tara's crew, who suddenly study the ceiling. “I'm not here for drama or edits made by people who weren't in the room.”
My voice steadies.
“I'm here because Everett Morgan is the fifth-generation heart of this lodge.”
A ripple of agreement crosses the room.
“Because he works harder than anyone,” I continue, “and he does it quietly, steadily—like the mountain itself taught him what endurance looks like. Because he loves this place in a way cameras can't capture. Not in sound bites. Not in sensationalism.”
I gesture to the photos.
“This is his story. Through my lens. Through my heart. This is what it looks like when someone grows up loving a boy who turned into a man who turned into home.”
The room holds its breath.
Then I move to the final board.
The one with the photo I took yesterday—Everett lit by broken gold, jaw set, fierce and steady.
“And this,” I say softly, “is the moment I stopped running.”
A quiet sound escapes him—a small break he can't hide.
Charlie fans herself.
Dixie whispers, “Somebody sedate me.”
Holly squeezes my hand.
“And just so we're clear,” I say, “this isn't about embarrassing him. It's about correcting the record.”
I smile—small, scared, honest.
“I'm choosing him.”
A collective inhale sweeps the room.
Everett looks gutted—in the best way.
I swallow.
Bruce steps forward, taking in each board again—really seeing it. His jaw works. Something shifts behind his eyes—something that looks almost like recognition. Almost like grief.
He doesn't speak.
He just looks at his son.
And for the first time in months, there's no disappointment in it.
Shelley's eyes shine. Even Tara doesn't dare interrupt.
My pulse spikes. My knees wobble. I lock them so I don't face-plant.
“Okay,” I whisper, “if someone doesn't give me a sign I didn't ruin my entire life just now, I may actually faint.”
Everett steps forward—
And the room goes still.