6. Sloane
SLOANE
The door of my brother’s jet opens, and my breath catches as I step onto the staircase and get my first glimpse of Big Sky Country.
I always figured it was just marketing. How much more massive could a sky really feel than the Colorado bluebird heaven I’ve lived under most of my adult life?
As it turns out, a whole freaking lot.
I grip the railing tighter as my heart stutters under the weight of what I’m about to do. If the sky is this vast, what will the wilderness feel like when I’m alone and surrounded by it?
Derek, the full-time flight attendant I’ve gotten to know way too well over the past year, follows me down the steps and grabs my backpack from the luggage hold.
“Are you sure you don’t need help with this?” Bushy eyebrows lift toward his receding hairline.
I shake my head and paste on a reassuring smile. Derek is sweet, but I can’t have him reporting back to my brother that I couldn’t carry my own weight. Or my pack. “I’ve got it.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Good luck, Sloane. I hope you find what—who—you’re looking for out there.”
“Me, too,” I admit, then head for the small terminal.
I went to Summit Supplies by myself last night after the book club meeting ended. My friends lodged fierce objections, but I wanted to handle it myself. Carrying my own weight is a running theme for me right now.
I brought the gear I already had, and Diane, the owner, set me up with everything else I’d need, from the water filter Iris mentioned to a camp stove the size of a deck of cards, a sleeping pillow and pad, freeze-dried meals, biodegradable soap, and a dozen other things she deemed essential.
“You’re not going to be a cliche of the unprepared lone female with a backpack she can’t heft onto her shoulders on my watch,” Diane promised as she fitted the hip strap across my lower torso like she was buckling in a toddler.
I can name several books with that exact setup.
Hell, a couple of Kristen Quinn’s essays in The Year of Losing It read that way, too.
Self-deprecating narratives about being ill-equipped for challenges despite her blind faith.
A very “whatever happens happens” kind of deal, which made for an entertaining and inspiring story.
But I’ve already survived way worse than a few nights on the trail, so I’m going for the “I’ve got this” vibe. More or less.
In contrast to the giant sky overhead, the terminal is smaller than the coffee shop back home.
An older woman with blue streaks in her gray hair sits behind the counter.
She doesn’t look up until I’m almost at the desk, then gives me a quick once-over.
Pretty sure I don’t look like the typical private jet passenger.
“You come in alone?” she asks, nodding toward the plane out the window.
“Yeah, but…” I feel heat creep up my neck. “It’s not mine. I’m not...” I shrug and remind myself that she isn’t asking for my life story. “I need to get to Red Lodge. Is a ride-share app the easiest way to book a ride?”
“We can do better.” She hitches a thumb toward the parking lot. “Frank’s the best local driver. He dropped some out-of-staters off about twenty minutes ago, and I know he’s still out there eating lunch and playing online poker. His wife monitors his screen time like he’s a kid.”
Jeremy would absolutely lose his mind at the thought of me getting a ride that can’t be tracked through an app. But I didn’t come all the way to Montana to be a blinking dot on my brother’s phone. And I have no doubt he’s keeping track of my location because worrying is his love language.
“Sounds perfect,” I tell her. “Have a nice day.”
“You too.” She smiles. “Enjoy your trip.”
I push out into the afternoon sun and realize I didn’t ask what kind of vehicle Frank drives, but my money’s on the dusty white van parked at the far end of the lot. I’m surprised it doesn’t have a “free puppies inside” sign plastered across it.
I head toward the van and rap my knuckles against the driver’s window.
“Hi, are you Frank?” I ask when he rolls down the window. “The woman inside said you might be able to give me a ride to Red Lodge. I’ve got a room booked at the Edgewater Inn.”
His eyes narrow before his gaze shifts back to a phone propped on the steering wheel with cards fanned across the screen.
“That’s a long drive from here, kiddo,” he tells me.
Ah, mansplaining. My favorite.
“Yep.” Red Lodge is about seventy miles from Billings, but it’s the closest town to the trailhead, and I want to get an early start tomorrow. “If it’s too far, I can try—”
“No worries. I’ve got you. Things are slow around here during the week, and my luck with the cards is complete crap today.” He hits a button, and the backseat slider door opens. “Need help with your backpack?”
“No, thank you.” I hoist it in myself, my shoulder muscles already feeling the weight. That doesn’t bode well for the next four days, but here we go.
The highway unspools through a landscape that gives the majesty of the mountains I love in Colorado a run for its money.
The jagged peaks feel as massive as the Montana sky, and I press my forehead against the window, enjoying the feeling of smallness that has nothing to do with being sick or scared.
Frank doesn’t talk much, which I appreciate as I listen to him hum along to something on the radio.
An hour passes, and he takes the exit toward Red Lodge, which is tucked against the base of the Beartooths like the mountains are its best friend.
It’s small but bustling, and we drive through downtown to get to my motel.
I already miss Skylark—my chosen home—but don’t for a second regret what I’m doing here.
He pulls up in front of the motel’s office, and I tip him extra because he got me here safely and without a word of judgment. Not that a taxi driver should care about my choices, but I’m so used to everyone being up in my business that I savor the anonymity.
The desk clerk, a lanky dude a few years younger than me with a septum piercing, also doesn’t give me a second glance as he takes my information and slides a vintage keychain across the counter.
After spending most of the past year looking, feeling, and being treated like the sick girl, having a couple of random strangers see me as a regular twentysomething woman who may or may not be able to handle herself on the trail is like its own sort of freedom.
Inside the motel room, which appears to have been updated around the time Pacey and Joey were babies, I drop my pack at the foot of the bed and flop down onto the floral comforter. Then I turn my phone off airplane mode, which I should have done when I landed, but…oops.
It lights up almost immediately, and doesn’t stop buzzing with texts to the group chat.
Three from Taylor. Six from Piper. Two from Sadie, who’s always shown the most restraint of all of us.
Plus a voice memo from Avah that’s four minutes long.
I don’t listen but would bet it’s mostly her yelling at me while she stress-bakes.
Molly sent a photo of a vase of pink hydrangeas.
I also have two missed calls from Iris—no messages, but it’s still alarming.
Iris’s go-to communication preference is tersely worded emails.
They mean well, and I know they love me. But the hovering is what I’m trying to leave behind. I can’t take the hovering anymore, no matter how well-intentioned it is.
Me: I’m good. Everything’s good.
I follow the text with a bright yellow thumbs-up, even though Taylor claims that particular emoji reads as passive-aggressive in anyone under forty. If Jensen were here, I could ask him except…nope.
The replies come so fast their thumbs are going to start cramping.
Taylor: How do you feel?
Molly: How’s Montana?
Sadie: You really don’t have to do this alone.
Iris: I can be there tomorrow.
Avah: Tonight. Iris can use Jeremy’s plane.
Piper: You’ve got the bear spray, right?
This is how they’ve been since I announced my diagnosis at the end of last spring. Ready and willing to drop everything to help.
For my entire life, Jeremy’s filled in when our parents couldn’t be bothered to show up. I’m grateful for my friends, my brother, my bookstore, and the life I’ve built inside the walls of Cover to Cover. But I also lost some of myself this past year.
I made a conscious decision to be positive when I chose to stay in Colorado instead of finding my way back home so that my parents could judge me some more.
To be the sunny Sloane my friends know and love and not to let a boringly dysfunctional childhood or my textbook rebellious stage define me.
I’m sure as hell not going to let being a cancer survivor define me either.
I still don’t understand why Kristen Quinn hasn’t responded to my messages, emails, DMs, or the handwritten note I sent to her publisher that made me sound more like a deranged fan than a successful independent bookstore owner.
But my embarrassing eagerness doesn’t matter.
Not really. Her words guided me through those first terrible weeks after my diagnosis, and then the also terrible months that came after.
So, finally finding her and telling her what she meant to me is the step I need to take to make everyone (especially me) believe I’m ready for whatever comes next.
I pull in a deep breath and type a message I know will send my book club besties into a tailspin.
Me: Love you girls. Appreciate everything. But I’m signing off for now. The motel caters to backpackers and rents lockers for valuables. I’m leaving my phone bc I won’t have coverage anyway. I’ll call on the sat phone if I need anything. See you on the other side.
I hit send. The three dots appear instantly.
Avah: The fuck, Sloane. Don’t do this. Jeremy will lose his mind. Take the phone.
I send back a heart emoji and tell her my brother will be fine, and that I’ll use the sat phone to call once I get to Kristen’s cabin.
I power the phone off before I lose my nerve.
Except I’m not quite ready to go ghost mode, so immediately turn it back on, ignoring the fresh slew of notifications as I text my brother.
Me: Hey
Jeremy: Why the fuck is Avah screaming about you leaving your phone behind?
Me: I’ll have the sat phone. You know I won’t have service once I hit the trail.
Jeremy: She’s freaking out.
Me: What about you?
The three dots blink for what feels like forever. I hold my breath.
Jeremy: Do you know what you’re doing?
Me: Yes.
To be fair, I’m not entirely sure, but fake it until you make it and all that.
His reply takes longer this time.
Jeremy: You’re an adult, Sloane. And as much as I like playing mother hen, you were taking care of yourself long before I came back into your life.
And then…
Jeremy: I trust you.
My eyes fill with tears so suddenly it’s like a faucet turned on behind them. That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
Somehow, my brother, who I spent five years estranged from before he came back into my life, moving heaven and earth to take care of me, understands that I need to be allowed to save it myself.
Me: Thanks for letting me borrow your plane.
Jeremy: Anytime, sis. Hope you find what you’re looking for on that trail.
Me: Love you, bro.
I shut off the phone again, then splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection for a beat too long.
I look tired, and still about fifteen pounds lighter than my pre-cancer weight.
In addition to being red-rimmed, my eyes are a little wild.
Because I’m about to do something that could, conservatively speaking, be described as big sky stupid.
But I don’t mind wild. It’s kind of refreshing.
I head back to the lobby and ask the woman now behind the desk about renting a locker.
“Sure, hon. What size?”
“Small. I want to put my phone in there.”
“Where you headed?”
“Four days on the Roma Trail,” I say, bracing myself for a grimace or arched eyebrow.
“Pretty this time of year. Watch for moose. Mean suckers.” She pulls an index card from a drawer and slides it toward me along with a ballpoint pen. “I’ll need your info for the locker. You going in alone?”
I nod.
She gives me a closer look and then returns my nod. “Sometimes you need that.”
“Yeah,” I agree, sounding breathless.
“If you want dinner, there’s a bar across the street with decent burgers and the best fries in town. It’s a popular final meal spot.” She laughs when I flinch. “I don’t mean final like death row. Just until you get back to civilization.”
“Right.” I do my best to return her smile. “Thanks.”
I give her the completed card, and she hands me a small metal key. I walk to the lockers along the far wall, shove my phone inside number twenty-three, then close it quickly before I’m tempted to turn it on and get sucked back into the well-meaning barrage of concern my people specialize in.
I didn’t bother telling my parents about this trip.
They’re in Morocco or Greece or some other dig site for their annual summer research trip.
Who knows if they’d get my text, let alone respond.
I spent too many years putting myself out there, only to be benignly neglected in return.
It took a while, but I made peace with what my parents can and won’t give.
Skylark is my home now, filled with people who love me, and I know I’m worthy of that love.
My hands shake slightly as I step into the cooling evening and glance up at the mountains that surround this tiny gateway town, already bathed in shadows. I’m really doing this. And yeah, I’m scared, but that’s okay. Fear and I have become good buds over the past year.
I turn to cross the street, then pull up short when a man steps into my path, blood suddenly rushing from my head.
He’s tall and long-limbed, with the same dark hair as Jensen.
My body goes into a ridiculous fight-or-flight response that has nothing to do with the fear of being alone on the trail, or pushing my body to its limit, or any legitimate threat.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Didn’t see you there.”
Ma’am. Right.
I manage to smile at the polite stranger wearing a Carhartt jacket before continuing toward the bar. On closer inspection, he doesn’t look like Jensen. His jaw isn’t as strong, his eyes aren’t that storm-surge gray, and his voice doesn’t feel like warm honey across my skin.
It’s crazy to think of Jensen following me to Montana anyway.
Not with how I kicked him out of the bookstore.
Sure, he told me he’d stick around Skylark in case I changed my mind, but I don’t believe that.
He’s probably back in Nashville right now, charming some woman he met at a random bar.
If there’s one thing I know for sure, charm comes as naturally to Jensen Grant as breathing does to the rest of us.
Running away (again) was cowardly. Still, there’s living with fear, and then there’s setting yourself up to be completely ruined. I might want to reclaim my wild, impulsive self, but I know the difference between taking a risk and stepping straight into heartbreak.