15. Sloane
SLOANE
I step out of a clearing mid-afternoon the following day, and the small cabin where Kristen Quinn is staying to write her new book is right there in the meadow. Looking every inch a mirage that might dissolve if I blink too hard.
“You did it,” Jensen says, nudging my shoulder with his.
You could knock me down with a feather right now, because, yeah, I did it. I hiked through wilderness I had no business being in, slept on the ground for three nights, and I made it. But staring at the weathered wooden door, the triumph I expected feels a lot closer to nausea.
“What if she’s pissed?” My voice is barely audible. “She could be staring at us through the window right now, loading up a shotgun.”
“From what you’ve told me about this author hero of yours, she doesn’t seem like a shotgun type,” Jensen says, missing the point entirely.
I’ve been imagining this moment for so long, but now that it’s here…
“What do I say to her? ‘Hi, I low-key online fangirled you for a year then hiked three days through bear territory, but I swear I’m not a stalker’?”
“She’s going to love you,” he says, like it’s simple.
Hearing Jensen speak the word love out loud, even though I’m well aware he isn’t talking about the two of us, doesn’t feel simple after last night.
We didn’t plan last night, and trail sex in a tiny tent was a logistical challenge of monumental proportions.
But it was also fun and felt so freaking good.
And it made me realize I hadn’t actually amplified the memory of being with him. It was that mind-blowing.
This morning, I felt the need to fumble through an explanation about how it didn’t change anything for the future. We were beyond a two-night stand, but only in the realm of a trail fling between two consenting adults who’d go back to their regular lives at the end of it.
He’d cut me off before I could finish butchering the speech.
“I get it, Sloane. You don’t need to put me in my place. I know it.”
He’d said the words without bitterness. But instead of feeling relieved, which would have made sense, I wished I’d said something else.
Do you really know your place? I’d wanted to ask. Because I’m confused as hell.
That’s a slippery-slope rumination. Right now, I need to focus on what I’m going to say to the woman inside that cabin and how she might react.
Will she invite me in or slam the door in my face like I’m deranged? Is it possible she could look at me and see a kindred spirit? Someone who gets her message down to my core.
When I started this trek, I had a vision of her eyes lighting with recognition right before she invited me in because she’s happy to have the company and is glad it’s me. Maybe we’d talk for a while before she sent me on my way. Maybe we’d even become friends.
God, that sounds pathetic.
“Knock on the door,” Jensen says, the gentleness in his voice telling me he can read every single thought pinging through my brain. “You won’t know what happens next in the story until you do.”
The words—or maybe his tone—calm me a little. And make me feel brave, which is totally unexpected. I don’t know what my friends saw that made them send him after me, but I’m so glad he’s here.
“Let’s do this.” I nod and take a step forward, then stop when I realize Jensen isn’t following me. “You’re coming, right?”
His full lips press together. “I thought you wanted to do this part on your own.”
Yeah. I did at the start. Before he caught up to me on the trail and made alone a whole lot less appealing. Now I’m used to the steady, solid thereness of him, and I’m not quite willing to give it up just yet.
“Come with me,” I say. “You know you want to.”
He grins, and God, it’s disorienting how deeply that smile affects me.
“Should I get out my camera so I can snap a pic?”
“Absolutely not.”
We cross the clearing, and I knock on the door with more confidence than I feel. We wait for a minute, then I knock again, harder. Nothing but silence answers.
Jensen moves to the window and cups his hands around his eyes to peer inside. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
“Maybe she’s off writing in the woods?”
“You looking for Kristen?” a voice asks from the side of the cabin.
I spin around so fast I nearly lose my balance as an older man appears. He looks to be in his mid-sixties with a shaggy beard and leathery skin that speaks to decades in the outdoors. He wipes his hands on his jeans like he was in the middle of something he doesn’t mind abandoning.
“You just missed her,” he says. “Well, by a few hours. She left this morning. Had another few days on her reservation, but being alone can get real lonely for certain people.”
My center of gravity shifts at this news, as if this stranger just yanked off a tablecloth and left all the dishes wobbling.
“How is that possible?” My voice sounds thin and far away through the deafening rush of blood in my head. “We didn’t see her pass us on the way back down. Did she go further into the wilderness?”
He chuckles. “Not a chance. She’s probably halfway to Tahoe by now,” the man says, like we’re discussing the weather and not the disintegration of my bucket list dream. “That’s where she said she was headed next. I’m Rick, by the way. Cabin caretaker, among other titles.”
“You live up here?” Jensen asks as his hand finds the small of my back. It’s the barest pressure, and I hate how much I need it. The warmth of his palm is keeping me tethered to this conversation instead of spiraling into the dark, familiar tunnel of what an impulsive idiot I am.
“During the summer season,” Rick explains.
“About a quarter mile in that direction.” He points to a narrow trail snaking through the trees.
“This place has gotten popular in recent years. More people wanting to get away from it all. I make sure the cabin’s stocked and tidy up between guests.
The lady who owns it doesn’t get up here much anymore, but she’s not willing to sell.
Hoping her city kids will eventually see the value. ”
“It seems pretty special,” Jensen says. “Although it’s a commitment to get here.”
“A lot easier if you come in by ATV,” Rick says with a laugh. “I’m partial to the hike you guys just did. Makes the destination worth the miles.”
I blink. “ATV?”
“Oh, sure. The forest service put in a wider trail about a decade ago, for fire access primarily. But most people choose that method of transport.”
I feel Jensen’s gaze but refuse to look at him for fear of losing my shit and shattering into a thousand humiliated pieces right here in front of Rick the caretaker. That would give him a good story for the next guests.
“I didn’t know.” What a damn fool.
Jensen’s hand moves to my shoulder, and his squeeze is so tender that it somehow makes everything worse. “It was an adventure,” he says, his voice low enough that it’s for my ears only.
Three days of blisters and sore muscles and freeze-dried meals and peeing in the woods, and for what? For just missing her?
“You said Kristen still has time on her reservation?” Jensen asks conversationally. “Any chance we could stay here for a night or two? Happy to pay you, but it would be a relief to get a break from sleeping on the ground.”
Rick looks between us, and I force myself to smile. My grip on composure has about thirty seconds left on the clock.
“We’d appreciate it,” I manage.
“Sure,” Rick says, his burly shoulders moving up and down.
“It’s got two bedrooms and a bathroom with hot water.
The mattresses are old as dirt, but it’s a step up from tent camping.
I haven’t gotten to emptying out the fridge or cupboards, so help yourself to whatever.
We’ve got another party coming in three days, but it’s yours until then.
” He waves toward the trees. “I’m not far if you need anything. ”
“Thanks,” Jensen says. “It’ll feel like five-star luxury.”
Rick smiles, then studies me for a moment. “You look like you could use some comfort,” he says. “I think you’ll find it here, although I’m sorry you missed your friend.”
She’s not my friend. She doesn’t know I exist. She’s a woman I’ve been pouring admiration into like water into a well with no bottom.
Convincing myself that the act of loving someone’s work from a distance means we have a legit connection.
I don’t have anything except a parasocial attachment to a stranger that I dressed up as a bucket-list quest so I wouldn’t have to face the truth.
I wanted an excuse to run from the barren emptiness of my actual life toward someone who might have the map out.
Because that’s what Kristen Quinn is, if I’m being honest. A proxy for the version of myself I haven’t managed to reclaim. The one who feels things deeply and isn’t so goddamn afraid of wanting more that she settles for nothing.
Rick waves as he turns away, disappearing up the narrow trail.
“We’re going to figure this out.” Jensen’s hand on my shoulder feels like the only thing holding me upright. “You did something big, Sloane. Don’t lose sight of that.”
“I could have rented a fucking ATV and made it here in hours instead of days.” I hate the way my voice cracks. I hate the burning behind my eyes and the lump in my throat. Most of all, I hate that Jensen is witnessing every graceless, falling-apart second. “Before she left. God, I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not.” He says it like a fact, then steps past me and opens the door. “Let’s take a breather and regroup.”
I don’t want to regroup. I want a time machine, different instincts, and to be the kind of person who Googles basic logistics before launching a multi-day wilderness expedition.
I want to undo every choice that led me to this moment—the place where I finally proved to myself that I could be brave and spontaneous and alive again. Instead, it’s just another mistake.
I learned my lesson about impulsivity when I followed my ex-boyfriend to Colorado with nothing but a duffel bag and the deranged conviction that love was enough.
Then he dumped me on the side of the road like a wad of trash.
After that, I’d sworn off spontaneity in order to build a life where nothing could catch me off guard.
I never left the house without a plan until cancer changed mine.
I thought being sick was the reason I’d lost my spark. But maybe it’s just me.
Jensen holds the door open, and I appreciate that he isn’t trying to fix this moment with words or jokes or that devastating smile of his.
And in the silence, perhaps without knowing it, he’s making space for me to fall apart and not trying to catch me before I’m ready to be caught. I need that more than I can say.
I walk past him into the cabin without making eye contact.
Under any other circumstances, I would love the rustic space that smells like pine and decades of guests.
A stack of paperbacks sits on the end table, and the blanket draped over the back of the worn couch looks like it was crocheted by someone’s grandmother.
It’s perfect and awful at the same time. Awful because this isn’t how any of it was supposed to go. Yet, here we are.
“I’m just going to—” I gesture vaguely toward the narrow hallway. “I need a minute.”
“Take all the time you need,” he says behind me.
I shuffle to the first bedroom, dropping my pack with a thud as I close the door and press my back against it. I slide down and draw my knees up to my chest. The tears that wrack my body are the ugly kind that make your ribs ache and nose run, and I don’t try to stop them.
I’m sure Jensen can hear me, but I have a feeling he knows that right now, the kindest thing he can do is to let me fall apart alone.