8. Sloane
SLOANE
It takes two hours on the trail for me to have a come-to-Jesus moment with my own impulsive decisions.
The late August sun sits high in the bluebird sky as I step out from under the cover of the pines into an alpine meadow that feels like the spot that launched a thousand stock photos.
Wildflowers bloom amidst the scruffy grass in a rainbow of colors so vivid it takes your breath away.
Any normal backpacker would stop and appreciate the view, but I’m too busy making a mental list of the errors I’ve made to kick off this journey.
The picturesque meadow will have to wait.
Why the hell did I leave my phone in the locker of the motel?
At the time, it seemed like getting into the spirit of the Kristen Quinn book I’m trying to embody.
A digital detox with no pings, texts, or late-night doomscrolling in the event I found a pocket of cell service out here.
And definitely no well-meaning check-ins from my friends or Jeremy.
I’d prove that I could do something hard without needing anyone to watch over me. Real badass energy type shit.
I didn’t think about being stuck inside my head for days on end with nothing and no one to break up the swirling monotony of my own thoughts.
My phone has my favorite playlists, along with the dozen or so podcasts I downloaded for the trail.
Not to mention—and this one physically hurts—my audiobook library.
The best part of my new romance obsession is dual narration, and I was counting on hours of a deep-voiced dude reading sex scenes directly into my ear while I walk.
Trudging up the trail in silence is a cruel and unusual punishment that’s way worse than the blister forming on my pinky toe.
I wanted a stranger’s voice in my ear. Or, if I’m being honest, any voice that isn’t mine.
Because my head isn’t the chillest hangout spot.
I was a sensitive kid, a personality trait not appreciated by my distracted parents or my overachieving brother, and I never quite learned how to quiet the noise.
Trust me, I’ve tried everything. Alcohol and recreational drugs I swore I was only flirting with, which turned into heavier-duty stuff and random hookups. The cherry on top of my shit-choices sundae was a boyfriend who dumped me on the side of the road just outside of Rocky Mountain National Park.
Is it possible to hit rock bottom at twenty? It was the closest I’ve ever been, and I hope to never be that close ever again. No money or friends, and certainly no plan.
But then I got the call that the grandmother I barely remembered, who I’d only ever spent time with one Christmas when I was eight, had died and left me an inheritance. Me, the girl on the edge of nothing. And only because she and my mom had been estranged for decades.
It was enough money to buy a failing bookstore in a postcard-cute town that felt like home the first time I set foot on Main Street. It was the second chance I needed, and I latched onto that lifeline and never looked back.
Before I can start in on the other errors in my perfect plan, I spot a couple perched on a flat rock at the far end of the meadow who offer identical waves when they see me.
I raise my hand because that’s trail etiquette, and frankly, I’m thrilled for a break from my own company.
When they invite me to join them for lunch, I take a seat on a nearby rock even though I’m not hungry.
I tossed and turned all night on the motel mattress and slept past the alarm this morning, so the breakfast burrito I ate in Frank’s back seat on the way to the trailhead is still sitting in my stomach.
But I dig into my pack, pull out one of the PB&J sandwiches the motel sells to hikers each morning, and nibble the corner of the bread while Julie and Pete tell me their life story.
They met senior year of college in Iowa thirty years ago, and even though both sets of parents hated the match, they got married six weeks later.
“It was love at first sight,” Julie says.
“I know people don’t believe that’s a thing,” Pete adds, “but when you know, you know.”
A shiver flickers along my spine as I think about Jensen taking up too much space in my tiny office and the timbre of his voice when he said we aren’t finished.
And my need for us to be, which is what sent me running from Skylark sooner than I planned, chasing my bucket-list challenge and the author who’s been ignoring me for the better part of a year.
So I do, in fact, know what Julie and Pete are talking about, but I really wish I didn’t. I’m afraid that how I felt after two nights with Jensen (not to mention how I still feel) is what love at first sight believers like to wax poetic about. I’m also the worst possible candidate for it.
Jensen isn’t the man for me. In his eyes, I’ll always be the sick girl. Someone whose body might betray her again, my shadow looking a little too much like the one his mother cast. I refuse to be a mirror for potential heartbreak reflected in his smoky eyes.
“You’re lucky,” I tell them, mustering a smile.
“We are,” Julie agrees without hesitation.
“It hasn’t been easy.” Pete reaches out to squeeze his wife’s hand like it’s second nature. “But the best things never are.”
My eyes start to burn, and I glance up at the sun like I’m using it to track the time. What would it feel like to be on the receiving end of love like that?
“Our first grandbaby is due next month,” Julie tells me. “So we wanted to do another trek along the trail we followed on our honeymoon before settling into grandparenthood.”
“That’s great,” I say. “I’m really glad our paths crossed.”
I stand up, shoving the half-eaten sandwich back into my pack before slinging it on my shoulder. I need to get out of here before I burst into tears in front of two strangers.
“I’d love to chat longer, but I got a late start, and a friend’s expecting me in a few days. I need to keep up the pace.”
“Hold up, sweetie.” Julie’s gray eyebrows draw together. “If you can wait five minutes, we’ll keep you company for the afternoon.”
“Oh, that would be great, but I should get going.” I swipe two fingers across my cheek, grateful when they remain dry.
Julie and Pete exchange a look that suggests I’ve come off as either rude or possibly a trail creeper, which I’m obviously not. I don’t want to be this unhinged version of myself, and am fumbling for something to say that will make this moment less awkward, when Julie stands.
To my shock, she steps closer and wraps her arms around me like we’ve known each other for twenty years, then holds on for one extra beat. Shit. My eyes start that burning thing again.
“I hope you have an amazing trip,” she murmurs into my hair. “You look like you need one. Just remember that the mountains can cure whatever ails you.”
I manage a smile and refrain from telling her that the mountains will be less effective than the monoclonal antibody protocol coursing through my bloodstream. Instead, I nod and wave to Pete before starting up the trail again without looking back.
According to the built-in thermometer on my Garmin, it’s fifty-six degrees inside the tent and another ten degrees colder outside.
The Rocky Mountains are all about the fuck around and find out vibes once the sun goes down.
I tuck my gold notebook into the tent’s side pocket and burrow into the sleeping bag like I’m going to get anywhere close to comfortable tonight.
Dinner was a foil pouch of freeze-dried beef stroganoff that had the taste and consistency of oversalted sludge.
It was filling in the technical sense, but satisfying only in that I managed to set up the packable stove and boil water all on my own.
Buoyed by that success, I inhaled it like I was in a Michelin-star restaurant.
By the time I cleaned up and changed into the thermal leggings and crewneck that will be my pajamas for the next week or so, it was nearly pitch black in the clearing where I set up camp.
In case you were wondering: pitch black and alone in the Montana backcountry is scary AF.
The forest didn’t get the memo about being quiet after dark.
Creatures that I won’t attempt to name make rustling sounds in the dense brush around the campsite.
It’s the wind, I tell myself, when a branch cracks somewhere above me.
Or a bunch of fat squirrels partying like it’s 1999.
Imagining feral squirrels getting their freak on is safer than thinking about lying in a thin nylon tent with something bigger heading my way.
I passed a few other groups after the lunch couple, and one solo guy with a beard so thick his mouth got lost in it, but I didn’t see anyone for the hour before I set up camp.
I hiked longer than I’d planned for day one, trying to make up the time I lost thanks to my late start at the trailhead.
Pretty sure my feet and back are going to want to throat punch me in the morning.
We’ll all have to suck it up, though, because I’m still behind, although not horribly.
Two and a half days and I should reach the cabin and finally meet Kristen Quinn.
Assuming she hasn’t packed up and relocated to some hot-air balloon over Argentina to do a new ten-part Instagram series on gratitude.
Even with my swirling thoughts and the sludge in my stomach, I’m proud of myself.
One thing I learned from The Year of Losing It is not to gloss over the little victories.
I survived today, and I’ll do it all over again tomorrow.
I might be a little lonely and scared, but those two emotions have become close companions this past year.
And I’m ready to have it out with them. I can fool my friends and my brother, but one part of my challenge is to stop lying to myself.
I’ve chosen not to think about how it’s going to go when I get to Kristen Quinn’s cabin.
What if she’s awful? What if she opens the door and looks at me the way my mother used to: like I’m an inconvenient nuisance?
Will this trip be a story I’ll eventually joke about with friends?
A cautionary tale about what happens when a woman who’s desperate to say fuck cancer does it by choosing an insane and reckless adventure.
Nope. Not going there.
My friends succeeded at their bucket list challenges, even when the endings didn’t remotely resemble what they’d planned at the beginning. There’s no reason to think I’ll be any different.
Okay, I can think of about a dozen reasons. Not one of them is invited to hang out in my brain right now.
Except the other thing I can’t keep my mind from circling back to is Jensen.
He’s probably on his way back to Tennessee now after flying across the country to see me. I gave him five minutes, then I ran. Again.
Because I’m terrified.
It was still a fairly clear message, and the right one because it protects both of us, especially him.
So why won’t my heart believe it?
I shove foam earplugs into my ears to drown out the forest sounds, zip the sleeping bag higher under my chin, and try to fall asleep in a tent in the woods on the first night of living with my newly minted, just-this-moment christened motto: fuck cancer and fear.