Chapter 6 Mira #3
Six identical cabins sit at the edge of the property, the timber fresh and pungent with the odor of cedar.
Burgundy Adirondack chairs and well-strung hammocks are placed around a firepit, and I can’t wait to sit and relax with my book as I watch the ducks slowly skimming along the blueish-green pond.
In the distance, cattle roam across sprawling green grass speckled with yellow-and-white flowers, and Douglas firs lead the way to the snow-capped mountains sparkling in the distance.
It’s a view that could sell a thousand postcards, and I resist the urge to take out my camera to capture it.
“You survive back there?” Adrian asks as he hops out of the car, opens the tailgate, and lends me a hand to climb out.
“Still in one piece,” I reply, rubbing at the indentations on my shins from the bungee cords that acted as my seatbelt. Hoisting myself up, I grab ahold of the crossbars, tossing one leg over the side to climb out of the back.
“I got you,” Derrick says, grabbing me by the waist and setting me onto solid ground. I barely have a moment to acclimate to my surroundings or the fact that a strange man just hoisted me like a rucksack before Meredith’s voice is calling for me across the lawn.
“You made it,” she squeals, skipping towards us.
She’s in a white peasant skirt and matching crochet top, her skin sun-kissed, her honey-soaked hair falling down her back. She looks exactly like she did in college, barefoot and carefree. The only noticeable difference is a thin gold nose ring that glints under the sunlight.
Her arms wrap around me excitedly and I find myself melting into her embrace.
I can’t remember the last time I saw her in person. Has it been five years? Or seven? I try to recall as regret pricks my conscience.
Nowadays, our friendship mainly consists of sharing the occasional meme and obligatory “Happy Birthday” text, but I don’t hold it against her.
Choosing a career that took up my nights and weekends made it practically impossible to hang out with anyone with a normal work schedule.
And when the invites stopped coming, I didn’t take it personally.
So being welcomed with open arms makes me appreciate this trip for what it is: a second chance. And I’m not going to blow it.
“I’m so sorry about the car situation,” she says, releasing me from her anaconda-like grip. “I just got your text. Service out here is spotty, but I’m glad these guys were able to scoop you up.”
“It’s not a problem at all,” I assure her as Derrick comes up beside me and swoops Meredith up into his arms. She squeals playfully as he spins her around.
“Anyone up for a whiskey tasting?” Grant asks, pushing open the cabin door and holding up two bottles of liquor, one in each hand.
“Hell yeah,” Derrick says enthusiastically, setting Meredith back down on the ground and heading towards the entrance of the cabin. Angie and Jocelyn follow close behind.
“Adrian? Vanessa? A little pre-game before the boat ride?” Meredith asks, taking slow, backwards steps in the direction of her cabin.
Adrian defers to Vanessa.
“I would but I need to settle in,” Vanessa says. “It takes me forever to unpack.”
“How many suitcases did you bring this time?”
“Only three,” she says sweetly.
“You packed light. I’m impressed,” Meredith jokes, and I can’t help but wonder how many girls’ weekends I’ve missed out on.
How many times have I put my career first?
And for what? To please Phoebe, to make her proud of me, to prove that my work ethic is just as strong as hers?
If only I could have known that it was all for nothing.
“Mira?” Meredith asks, pulling me from my spiral. “Want to relive the glory days with me?”
As much as catching up would be fun, I know better than to let myself blur the line between friend and client again.
“I’m feeling a little jetlagged. Think I’m going to take a quick power nap before tonight,” I explain as I watch Meredith’s mood deflate. “Is that okay?”
“Yes, yes. Go get settled. But I do want to carve out some girl time for us this weekend. Maybe tonight after dinner?”
“It’s a plan,” I say, already readying excuses to get out of it as I watch her disappear behind the cabin door.
Realizing I have no idea where to go, I try to spot other lost guests with luggage, but all I see are adventure seekers carrying fishing rods and dragging well-worn kayaks towards a building at the edge of the ranch.
A large, sun-stained sign outside the building reads “Adventure Starts Here,” a mantra accompanied by a collage of photos showcasing visitors participating in a slew of different wilderness activities.
I step inside. Shelves of commemorative water bottles, keychains, and magnets are scattered throughout the space, and a gaggle of children run past me, their sopping-wet swim trunks dripping onto the carpet, as groups huddle around a wall of brochures completely oblivious to the idea of personal space.
Caution tape splits the space in half, creating a barrier between the guests and construction workers who are hanging drywall on the other side.
A large, laminated banner hangs overhead, depicting renderings of the updated building, proclaiming the mess the “Majestic Ranch Expansion Project.”
Between the shrieking of children and the pounding of hammers and drills, I’m overstimulated and eager for my room key.
“Climbing, rafting, or kayaking?” the woman behind the desk asks me, utterly unfazed by the chaos surrounding her.
She can’t be older than twenty. Her honey-colored hair falls over her shoulders in a messy braid, tendrils sticking out all over the place, and the purple shirt she’s wearing has a rainbow on it with the words “Hiking My Way to Happiness.”
“Neither,” I reply, hoping I’m in the right place. “I’m checking in for the Graham wedding.”
“Oh, another one! You guys have been coming in all day.” She picks up a clipboard. “What’s your name?”
“Mira Maxwell.”
She eyes the sheet skeptically, and turns to grab one of the plastic keychains hanging on wooden dowels behind her head.
“You’ll be in room seven,” she says, handing me my key. “Each room has its own patio, but since yours is on the first floor, we highly suggest locking your door after every entry and exit.”
“Stragglers?” I joke, having watched too many true-crime documentaries.
“Bears,” she corrects. “With the heatwave they’ve been exploring a little bit further than usual. We can normally shoo them off before they make it to camp, but it’s always good to be vigilant.”
I mentally add Check for bears to my nightly routine.
“You’ll be in the Big Barn, which is about a half a mile down the ranch,” she continues, handing me a brochure and a map. “It has its own separate parking lot, so feel free to drive down.”
“I don’t have a car,” I say, a reality that’s continually biting me in the ass.
“Oh,” she replies, biting her cheek. “Do you have a lot of luggage? We do have a golf cart, but I’ll have to radio one of the guides to get it.”
“Just the two bags,” I say, shuffling the weight of my backpack on my shoulders, a weight that feels ten times heavier as I think about carrying it a half mile.
She presses a button on her walkie-talkie, speaking through the static. “Bo, I have a guest here who needs to go to the Big Barn. You got time? Over.”
“Negative on that. On a search and rescue for a missing cell phone. ETA forty-five minutes.”
She gives me a sympathetic glance before one of the screaming children knocks over a rack of plastic license plates.
“It’s fine,” I assure her, backing out towards the exit. “Gotta get my steps in.”
“Well, if you need anything, give us a holler,” she says cheerily, already bending down to pick up the mess on the floor.
I snag a brochure for the property on my way out, flipping past all the expected upgrades in the coming years to examine the map.
The Big Barn isn’t that far, barely longer than my daily walk around my neighborhood, but as I take a step forward the wheels of my luggage catch on one of the many minuscule rocks embedded into the dirt path and I regret not waiting for the golf cart.
I’ve only made it a few feet, dragging the suitcase behind me, when Derrick jogs over from across the lawn.
“You need some help?”
By the size of his biceps, I’m certain Derrick could carry me and my luggage effortlessly across the entire property but asking for help is a short circuit in my customer-service-oriented brain.
I’m not the one to have problems, I’m the one who solves them.
But as I stare at the path ahead, the sun blazing down on top of me, I give in.
“Would I be an asshole if I said yes?”
“Absolutely not,” he says, reaching for my suitcase. The sweet scent of liquor is pungent on his breath as he closes the distance between us. I’m instantly aware of how big he is as I crane my neck to make eye contact.
“Actually,” I say, removing the camera bag from my back. “If you could carry this, I can manage the rest.”
Considering I only packed four outfits and my toiletries, my luggage is significantly lighter than the gear on my back.
“Why don’t I carry both?” he offers, hoisting the bag over one shoulder.
The maneuver is effortless, and I wonder how easily he could toss me over those shoulders.
Not that I would ever consider allowing him to do that.
After the disastrous night with Hudson, any romantic interests, even casual ones, are off the table for the foreseeable future.
Or at least until I’m more confident in my judgment.
With my current track record, Derrick is probably a serial killer—or worse, hiding a wife and kids at home.
“How do you know Meredith and Grant?” he asks, as we make our way towards the main building.
“Meredith and I were placed together our freshman year at Appalachian State. Lots of late nights being homesick and drinking too much cheap vodka.”
“For me and Grant it was high school baseball camp and Patrón.”
“I haven’t officially met Grant yet,” I confess. “What’s he like?”
Unlike other clients who I get to know during engagement photos or pre-wedding Zoom meetings, my only knowledge of the groom has come from an hour of online sleuthing as I waited for my flight.
According to his LinkedIn, the only social media account of his I could find, and the snippets Meredith has posted on her Instagram, he’s in asset protection at Harding International Finance, was treasurer of his fraternity during his time at UNC, and is a four-time champion of his fantasy football league. Not really a lot to go on.
“Loyal. Hilarious. Smart, way smarter than me,” Derrick remarks. “We’ve been friends for over a decade. He’s practically my brother at this point.”
“I bet you have quite a few stories you could share then.”
“Oh, plenty. But I’m hoping to tell the most embarrassing ones over champagne at the wedding.” He laughs with his whole body, and there’s a boyish demeanor under his suit of muscles.
“So, you’re giving a speech then?”
“Being Grant’s oldest friend and all, it’s expected,” he explains. “I’m sure the girls have theirs all written out, but I’m planning on winging it.”
“You totally should,” I reply a little too enthusiastically.
Drunken toasts are one of my guilty pleasures.
Listening to judgmental fathers, weepy best friends, and plastered groomsmen tell inappropriate and explicit stories in front of family members makes eight hours of surviving on appetizers worth it.
The experience is like being in a reality TV show where the characters change but the secondhand embarrassment always hits.
“Just don’t drop the mic. I’ve seen my fair share of them shatter. And the subsequent tears that come with the fifteen-hundred-dollar replacement fee is not worth the one second of cool you think it embodies.”
“Eh, probably won’t even use one.”
“Really?”
“My voice carries,” he says, projecting into the nothingness ahead of us.
“Theater kid?”
He lifts a you’ve got to be kidding eyebrow at me.
“Fire department,” he retorts. “In my line of work, speaking up is a necessity. You have to be able to warn your coworkers about structural issues or falling debris, and I’m proud to say I’ve never needed the megaphone once.”
I imagine Derrick putting on one of the red plastic hats they hand out in elementary school on fire safety day and committing to the bit. We fill the rest of the walk with mindless chatter, discussing his adult kickball league and my favorite wedding destinations.
Derrick sets my things down on a picnic table in front of the Big Barn, the red paint of the building a facade of rustic charm.
“Thanks for the help,” I say, eager to go inside and take a nap.
“Anytime,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. His movement is slow, an obvious attempt to show off his muscles, as if the half-shirt he’s wearing is leaving anything to the imagination. “And if you need anything else, an extra towel, a helping hand, I’m right upstairs, in room fifteen.”
He grins cheekily and I don’t know whether to be appalled or impressed by his audacity.
“I’ll make note of that.”
Derrick gives me a lingering glance before jogging up the side staircase and, finally, I’m alone.