Chapter 23 Success Without Sage
SUCCESS WITHOUT SAGE
SAGE
Day eighteen.
Day eighteen, since Luke Sterling broke my heart on my own porch—and I'm standing in my office holding a check that could solve every problem I've ever had except the one that matters.
Beyond my windows, November is being particularly November-ish, with gray skies that match my mood and rain that can't decide if it wants to be mist or actual precipitation.
The perfect weather for staring at an obscene amount of money while feeling absolutely miserable.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," I read aloud to the empty room. "Pay to the order of Cascade View Inn LLC."
The memo line, in what must be Daniella's handwriting, reads: "Partnership Investment - Q4 2024."
Partnership investment.
Like this is business. Like he didn't hold me in the rain.
Like he didn't say this was real for him. That we were real for him.
Were.
Past tense.
The awful, final past tense.
"Sage!" Mira bursts through the door, practically vibrating. "The goat yoga people are here! All of them! With actual goats!"
"Great," I manage, folding the check and sliding it into my desk drawer like it's evidence of a crime.
Which maybe it is. Evidence of how badly I screwed up the best thing in my life.
"Four goats, eight participants, and someone from the Snoqualmie Valley Record!" Mira continues, oblivious to my internal crisis. "They want to do a feature on 'Rural Wellness Trends.' We're going to be famous!"
"We're already famous," I mutter. "Just not for good reasons."
"What?"
"Nothing. Tell them I'll be right out."
She bounces away, and I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror.
Three weeks of barely sleeping has left me looking like an extra from The Walking Dead.
I've tried concealer, but there's not enough makeup in the world to hide heartbreak.
"You wanted this," I tell my reflection. "Successful inn, no foreclosure, actual goat yoga. This is literally everything you said you needed."
My reflection looks unconvinced.
Probably because we both know what I actually need is currently in Seattle, presumably hating me with the kind of quiet competence he brings to everything.
I smooth my hair, paste on my innkeeper smile, and head out to meet my destiny.
Or at least, my goats.
The yoga instructor—Melody, she of the perpetually ailing grandmother—has actually shown up this time with four goats and no family emergencies.
"Sage!" She floats over in yoga pants that leave very little to the imagination. "I'm so sorry about all the delays. Mercury was in retrograde, and then there was grandma's toenail situation—"
"Is she okay?" I ask, because I'm not a monster, even if I feel like one.
"Oh, she's fine now. Turns out it wasn't infected, just painted the wrong color. She's very particular about her pedicures." Melody gestures to the goats. "I brought the whole crew! There's Namaste, Chakra, Zen, and—"
"Buttercup!" I finish, spotting my former houseguest among the group.
Buttercup looks up from where she's investigating someone's yoga mat and bleats in recognition.
Or accusation.
"She's been asking for you," Melody says. "Well, not asking, obviously. But she's been very vocal. And she keeps escaping to look for something. Or someone."
My heart clenches. Even the goat misses what we had.
"Alright everyone!" I clap my hands, summoning my professional voice. "Welcome to Cascade View Inn's first official goat yoga session!"
The participants—a mix of locals and tourists who apparently have nothing better to do on a Thursday morning—arrange themselves on mats while Melody starts explaining the basics.
"The goats will interact naturally with your practice," she's saying. "They might climb on you, which helps with pressure therapy and mindfulness—"
"Is it sanitary?" asks a woman in Lululemon everything.
"The goats are very clean," Melody assures her. "They're bathed regularly and—Buttercup, no!"
But it's too late.
Buttercup has identified the most expensive yoga mat in the room and is methodically eating the corner with the kind of focus she usually reserves for my personal belongings.
"I'm so sorry!" I rush over, trying to extract premium yoga mat from goat teeth. "Buttercup, drop it. Drop. It."
She looks me dead in the eye and continues chewing.
"She's spirited," the mat owner says faintly.
"That's one word for it." I finally retrieve the mat, now with distinctive teeth marks. "I'll replace this, of course."
"Oh, that's not necessary—"
"No, really." I think about the quarter-million sitting in my desk. "I insist."
The session continues with the kind of controlled chaos I've come to expect from anything involving Buttercup.
Zen lives up to his name, calmly standing on people's backs during downward dog.
Chakra seems confused about the whole concept and spends most of the time trying to eat the photographer's camera strap.
Namaste has apparently decided this is a good time for a nap.
And Buttercup? Buttercup follows me around like a fuzzy white shadow, occasionally contributing commentary.
"She really is attached to you," Melody observes during tree pose, which Buttercup has interpreted as an invitation to headbutt my knees. "Have you considered keeping her?"
"I can't keep a goat."
"Why not? You clearly have a connection."
I look down at Buttercup, who's now trying to untie my shoelaces. "Because I ruin everything I care about."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just... I can't. You should take her back."
"If you're sure..."
"I'm sure." I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything anymore. But keeping Buttercup would be selfish, and I've been selfish enough.
The photographer from the Record snaps pictures throughout, occasionally asking for "more dynamic goat interaction," which mostly results in Chakra trying to eat her hair.
"This is wonderful!" she gushes as the session winds down. "Exactly the kind of local color piece our readers love. 'From City Stress to Rural Rest: How One Inn Is Revolutionizing Wellness.'"
"That's... a title," I manage.
"Could you maybe look a bit happier? You're grimacing."
"This is my happy face."
"Oh." She lowers her camera. "Maybe we'll focus on the goats."
The session ends with surprising success.
No injuries, only minor property damage, and the participants seem genuinely pleased.
They're all chattering about booking rooms for a "wellness weekend," and I should be thrilled.
I'm dead inside.
"Same time next week?" Melody asks, herding her goats toward the trailer. All except Buttercup, who's planted herself at my feet like a stubborn cloud.
"Sure. Next week." I look down at Buttercup. "Go on. Time to go home."
She bleats and presses closer to my leg.
"Buttercup, come!" Melody calls. "I have treats!"
Buttercup doesn't even look at her.
"She doesn't want to leave," one of the participants says. "How sweet!"
"It's not sweet," I mutter, kneeling down to Buttercup's level. "Hey. You have to go. This isn't your home."
She butts her head against my chest, and suddenly I'm crying.
In front of eight strangers, a photographer, and four goats, I'm sobbing like my heart is breaking.
Which it is.
Has been.
Eighteen days.
"Oh honey," someone says, and then there are hands on my shoulders, tissues appearing from nowhere, the kind of impromptu support group that only happens when women see another woman ugly-crying.
"I'm fine," I sob. "I'm totally fine. The inn is saved and the goat yoga worked and I have everything I wanted and I'm completely, absolutely fine."
"You're not fine," Lululemon woman says gently.
"I'm not fine," I agree, burying my face in Buttercup's surprisingly comforting neck. "I ruined everything. I lied to someone and he found out and now he's gone and he sent me a check like I'm a business transaction and—"
"Breathe," someone instructs.
"I can't breathe. I can't breathe because I miss him and he was everything and I destroyed it because I'm an idiot who thought saving the inn mattered more than being honest and—"
"Was this the billionaire?" Melody asks. "The one from the Instagram posts?"
"Luke," I whisper his name like it hurts. Because it does. "His name is Luke and he builds train cars when he's sad and dances the waltz to make me feel better and sends inappropriate notes with flowers and I love him."
"Have you told him that?"
"I can't. He made it very clear we're done. He even honored the business partnership because he's good and decent and keeps his promises even when the other person is a lying disaster who doesn't deserve—"
"Okay, stop." Lululemon woman—who I now notice has a therapist's calm—takes charge. "Let's break this down. You lied?"
"I hacked his dating profile to make us match."
There's a moment of silence.
"That's..." someone starts.
"Fraud. I know."
"I was going to say romantic."
I look up through tear-blurred eyes. "What?"
"You wanted to meet him so badly you hacked a dating app?" A younger participant grins. "That's like a rom-com plot."
"It's a crime plot."
"Look," the therapist-like woman says. "What you did was wrong. But people make mistakes when they're desperate. The question is: was the connection real?"
"Yes," I say without hesitation. "Everything after that first night was real."
"Then fight for it."
"I can't. He doesn't trust me."
"Trust can be rebuilt."
"Not with Luke. His ex-wife betrayed him. He…doesn't give second chances."
"Has he explicitly said that?"
I think about our last conversation.
The hurt in his eyes.
The finality in his voice.
"He said he needs to think."
"That's not never."
"It's been three weeks!"
"And you've tried contacting him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because..." I trail off, realizing I don't have a good answer. "Because I'm scared?"
"Of?"
"Of him confirming it's really over. Of hearing that cold professional voice again. Of finding out the check was his way of buying me out of his life."
Buttercup bleats and licks my face, which is either comfort or salt-seeking. Either way, I'll take it.
"You know what?" Lululemon woman stands, pulling me up with her. "You're going to wash your face, save your inn, and then figure out how to win him back."
"It's not that simple—"
"Is the inn saved?"
I think about the check in my drawer. "Yes."
"Then that's one problem solved. Now you just need to solve the other one."
"By doing what? He won't even take my calls. Probably."
"Have you tried calling?"
"...No."
"Then start there." She hands me a business card. "I'm Dr. Patricia Chen. I specialize in relationship counseling. Call if you need to talk."
"Chen?" I stare at the card. "Are you related to Amanda Chen?"
"My daughter. Small world." She smiles. "She mentioned Luke Sterling once. Said he was brilliant but emotionally constipated. Her words."
"That's... accurate."
"She also said he was worth the effort. Good men usually are."
The group disperses after extracting promises that I'll "fight for love" and "stop being an idiot" and "at least wash your hair, honey, it's looking rough."
Melody has to physically carry Buttercup to the trailer. The goat mewls the entire way, looking at me like I'm betraying her.
"I can't keep you," I tell her. "I can't even keep a human. How am I supposed to take care of a goat?"
She responds with the saddest bleat in goat history.
"Don't look at me like that. You have a good home with Melody."
Another pathetic bleat.
"Stop it."
Bleat.
"Fine! I'll think about it!"
"Really?" Melody brightens. "Because honestly, she's been a nightmare since she left. Won't eat properly, keeps escaping, bit my assistant..."
"I said I'll think about it."
"Think fast. I'm getting married next month and moving to Portland. I need to rehome her anyway."
She drives away with three goats and one very vocal Buttercup, leaving me standing in my successfully saved, financially stable, goat-yoga-offering inn.
Everything I wanted.
Everything except what matters.
I walk back to my office and pull out the check again.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Enough to fix the roof, update the electrical, pay off the second mortgage, and still have money left over.
Luke Sterling, solving my problems even while hating me.
No, not hating. Luke doesn't hate.
He just... withdraws. Builds walls.
Protects himself.
I pick up my phone, pull up his contact. His name sits there, like it’s teasing me.
"Just call him," I tell myself.
But I don't.
Because Dr. Patricia Chen was wrong about one thing.
Some mistakes are too big to fix.
And some trust, once broken, can't be rebuilt.
Even if you're willing to hack a dating app to try.