24. Sloane
SLOANE
The Cedarcastle Wellness Retreat is the kind of place a woman goes to convince the internet she’s found inner peace.
The main building is the lodge of dreams, all reclaimed timber and stone facade—massive, but trying to be casual about it.
The landscaping is immaculate, not a pine needle out of place.
Nothing like the worn charm of the Montana cabin, which felt so perfect I never wanted to leave.
Turning the dusty low-end rental to the valet area, past shiny SUVs and luxury sedans, I do my level best to ignore the pit in my stomach that says I don’t belong here. They’re cars, not a cadre of high school mean girls.
I could leave. Drive out of here right now and beeline back to the rental house. Tell Jensen I changed my mind. That tracking down Kristen Quinn was a nice idea that didn’t pan out. I should listen to my gut and go home to my friends in Skylark with a good story and no closure.
Seriously, though? I mentally smack myself. I made it through multiple rounds of chemo, but can’t handle walking into a bougie resort to finally meet the woman who means—meant?—the world to me? Not today, Satan.
I make a deal with myself as the valet takes my keys. I’m going to walk in, give the front desk my name, and ask to see Kristen. If she refuses, the universe has spoken. I’ll leave with whatever dignity I have left.
If she says yes, I’ll know this was supposed to happen.
Either way, I stop wondering.
The massive front doors open to soaring ceilings crossed with dark wooden beams and an entire wall of windows facing the lake.
The lobby smells like eucalyptus and the few guests milling about look performatively relaxed with their designer hoodies, matching leggings, and glossy ponytails.
Nobody’s sunburned or dusty. And I doubt any of them ate almost an entire bag of Twizzlers for lunch the previous day.
The woman behind the reception desk looks up with a smile so serene it borders on creepy. “Can I help you?” she asks in a hushed tone, like we’re in church.
“I’m hoping to see one of your guests. Kristen Quinn?” I keep my voice casual, like this is a totally normal thing to do and not the culmination of a borderline obsession that started in a sterile exam room. “I’m—”
I pause, because how do I explain what brought me here?
I read her book during cancer treatment, and it meant enough to me that I almost got a tattoo but I’ve been poked with needles too many times so decided backpacking into the Montana wilderness to find her felt more manageable.
Only she wasn’t there, so I drove fifteen hours to Tahoe instead of going home like a reasonable person.
“I own a bookstore in Colorado,” I say. “Since we’re both here, I was hoping for a few minutes of her time.”
The woman’s smile doesn’t waver as she picks up a phone, dials an extension, and speaks quietly into the receiver. Right. So this is the part where the nice security man comes to escort me out. My heartbeat roars like class-five rapids in my ears.
She hangs up and gestures toward the far side of the lobby. “Ms. Quinn is in Bungalow Seven. If you follow the path past the spa terrace and reflection garden, it’s the last bungalow on your left.”
I blink. “She said yes to seeing me?”
“She did.”
I turn from the receptionist without thanking her, my manners clearly shocked into silence.
As I walk through the grounds, following a stone path that winds beneath towering pines, I’m increasingly cloaked in a surreal sensation that this can’t actually be happening.
A fountain murmurs somewhere nearby while the lake flashes blue through the trees, and while I know they must be stunning, I barely notice the view.
The bungalows are tucked discreetly behind thick hedges and native grasses, each one with its own private patio and oversized lanterns flanking the doors.
Blinking myself back to reality, I approach the last building along the path.
Bungalow Seven has a front door the color of weathered driftwood, and I knock on it before I can talk myself out of it.
The woman who opens the door is shorter than I expected. In the photos I’ve scrolled through hundreds of times on Instagram, she seems larger than life. Someone who could stand on a mountaintop and make you believe fear was just a choice you could unmake.
In person, Kristen Quinn is barely five-three, barefoot, in a fluffy white robe with a ketchup stain above her right breast. Her auburn hair is pulled into a topknot that’s leaning hard to the left, and she’s holding a green smoothie in one hand and squinting at me like the sunlight is a personal attack.
“You’re Sloane?” Recognition flickers in her brown eyes. Or maybe I’m hoping it’s recognition and not trepidation. What’s the protocol for convincing someone famous you’re not a stalker?
“Yes. Hi.” Two words, but they sound breathy and a little too eager. I’d like to grab them back and try again. “Thank you so much for seeing me. I know I’m showing up unannounced, and I hope this isn’t—”
“No, I know who you are. You comment on my posts. You’ve got the bookstore in Colorado, right?”
My heart swells. “Cover to Cover, in Skylark.”
“Yeah.” She nods like she’s placing a pin on a mental map. “My publisher actually mentioned doing an event there at one point, but I don’t really do smaller venues anymore. No offense.”
“None taken,” I say, which is a lie so enormous it might be visible from space.
Cover to Cover is not a smaller venue. It’s the center of my universe.
The place I built with every ounce of stubborn optimism I could scrape together during the second worst year of my life. But sure. Smaller venue. Cool.
“Come in.” She steps aside and waves me in with the smoothie hand. “I could use the distraction.”
The bungalow is a study in understated elegance with cream-colored walls, wood trim, and a bed piled with white pillows.
But there are also two empty wine bottles on the nightstand, a monogrammed suitcase that appears to have exploded across the floor of the walk-in closet, and a laptop on the desk buried under crinkled snack cake wrappers.
Apparently, somebody at this swanky retreat center hit the convenience store pastry aisle on the way in.
Kristen drops onto the edge of the bed and tucks one foot under her. She gestures toward a chair near the window. “Sit. Tell me why you’re here.”
I do as she says, folding my hands in my lap because I don’t want her to see them shaking. Then I start talking.
Not about my trek through the wilderness or how I sobbed uncontrollably the first time I read her book.
I tell her about the leukemia, the book club, and how The Year of Losing It became the foundation for our bucket list challenges.
I explain that her words meant so much to me during the worst of it that meeting her and thanking her in person became part of my journey, especially once I got to this last stage of treatment.
“That’s sweet.” The smile she gives me can’t be taken for anything except patronizing. “I’m glad the book meant something to you. A lot of people feel that way.”
There it is. The not-so-subtle reminder that I’m just part of the nameless masses. Except she knows my name, and my small venue, so no need to get all in my head. This is my dream come true, so I’m not going to let overthinking ruin it.
“I was actually surprised when I found out you were in Tahoe,” I say, once again trying to embody the easy-breezy vibe and not emotionally unstable fangirl energy. “I thought you were finishing the new book in Montana.”
“Girl, don’t trust online pics.” Kristen mock shudders. “The cabin my editor booked for me was a dump.” She wraps the robe tighter around herself. “And it was so weirdly dark at night. Plus, no room service. Am I right?”
No, I think. You’re totally wrong. All of this is totally wrong.
I glance toward the laptop, wondering if Kristen’s about to announce a brand partnership with Hostess. “Are you finding it easier to write here?”
“Deadlines suck,” she groans. “Nothing kills creativity quite like the pressure of having millions of people waiting for you to be profound again.”
“I’m sure the new book will be just as good as your first one. Truly, it changed my life.” As the words leave my mouth, I know they’re too much.
Kristen sets the smoothie down on the nightstand next to the wine bottles someone other than her will eventually clean up. “Look, Sloane. You seem like a genuinely nice person, so I’m going to be honest with you.”
My stomach drops. Nice doesn’t sound like a compliment when she says it.
“Writing is a job,” she says. “I had a good concept and a publisher willing to pay a big advance for The Year of Losing It. And I tapped into a goldmine. But I’m not…
” She waves her hand in the air. “I’m really not that deep.
Most people aren’t. I wrote about facing my fears because it made for a great story.
It did well, and I’m grateful. But they were just stories. ”
The room seems to tilt. Not dramatically in a way anyone else would notice, but I feel the world as I know it—or believed it to be—shift inside me.
“All of the challenges you set for yourself...” My voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “The fact that you were terrified and did the things anyway. It changed you.”
“I guess in the moment.” She shrugs. “But it didn’t transform me into a different person. I wrote about my experiences. That’s what writers do.”
“But it felt real.”
“All of it was real,” she says defensively, then sighs.
“But real and life-changing aren’t the same thing.
I faced my fears, and then I came home and went back to being the same person who was afraid of everything.
” She laughs like we’re both in on the joke.
“I just had a fat bank account to show for it.”
“Good for you,” I answer, because what else am I supposed to say?
I squeeze my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms like that will disrupt the pain cutting across my heart.
“I hope that when you do finish the next one, it’s just as big a hit.
” Nice. That sounds normal, like we’re colleagues making small talk instead of whatever this is.
Kristen snorts and glances at the closed laptop. “Hard to recreate the magic, you know? Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”
I nod, although I don’t actually know. I’ve just spent the most amazing days of my life with a man who makes me feel like lightning could strike as many times as we want. Because we’re the magic.
“If I’m being honest, I don’t want to be anyone’s hero,” Kristen says, and there’s a gentleness in her voice now that almost makes it worse.
“I’m glad the book helped you. Truly. But whatever you took from those pages, I can’t take credit.
That was you finding whatever bravery you needed. My words were just the vehicle.”
“Okay,” I agree numbly and stand up, because sitting in this luxurious bungalow for another second is going to make me cry in front of a stranger. I refuse to do that. “Thank you for your time,” I manage, and my voice cracks a little. “I appreciate you being honest.”
“Of course. Take care of yourself, Sloane,” she says and plucks her phone out of the robe’s deep pocket, already engrossed in the screen before I’m out the door.
The stone path feels longer going back, and I walk past the reflection garden and manicured grounds on autopilot.
At the valet stand, I hand over my ticket and wait while a guy in a pressed polo jogs off to retrieve my car from whatever back corner they tucked it into, away from the Range Rovers and Audis.
The tears I’m expecting don’t come as I pull away from the lodge. It feels like a small victory, until I realize it’s because I’m too empty to cry.