Chapter 13 #2
My ancestors can haunt me tomorrow. Right now, I just need to survive the night.
Sierra finds me on the quieter side of the lodge not five minutes later, drinking directly from a bottle.
She’s still got her camera. Of course she's got her camera. Documenting every single mortifying moment with the efficiency of a war crimes tribunal.
“Just preserving history, Everett.” She raises the camera and snaps a photo of me mid-swig. “Grammie Bea would be so proud.”
The shutter clicks and something in my chest flinches.
She's been photographing me since we were kids. I never minded the way she'd catch me unaware, documenting the way I grew into my legacy.
But this isn't that.
This is her documenting rock bottom. Filing it away with all the other evidence of the night I let my family's legacy become a meme.
But there's something else in her eyes too. Something that looks like I see you underneath all the teasing.
She always did. Even when I wished she wouldn't.
“My grandmother is rolling in her grave.”
“Probably. But hey, she’d be proud too. #MountainDaddyTour is trending.”
“How? How the hell is that trending? The tour started just a few hours ago.”
“Someone started a TikTok challenge. People are competing to find all twelve plaques. The winner gets...” She scrolls. “Oh. Oh no. Nope. They’ve lost their minds.”
“What?”
“Caleb's offering the winner a 'private heritage experience.'”
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know. Probably going to haul up an Ouija board and try to get a one more rise out old Jedediah, and see if they spawn baby #8.” She pockets her phone. “But hey, the bar's full. The restaurant has a two-hour wait. People are booking rooms for next weekend.”
“Is that guy seriously flexing at a memorial plaque?” I point toward the stone commemorating my grandfather's service in World War II, where a man in a tank top is currently doing bicep curls.
“He's already posted it. The caption is 'honoring the GUNS of our ancestors.'”
I take another pull from the whiskey bottle.
“Sierra, please stop taking photos.”
Click.
“SIERRA.”
Click.
“THAT'S NOT FOR THE HISTORICAL RECORD.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Oh, it absolutely is.”
Her smile is the sweetest, sexiest, most terrifying thing I've ever seen.
“Every. Single. Second.”
“I thought you were mad about your brothers taking over?”
She shrugs and smiles, but there’s a pinch to her expression that tells me my question stings.
I know that pinch.
It's the same expression she wore when her brothers used to talk over her at dinner.
When someone would compliment her photos and then ask who took them, assuming it couldn't be the pretty girl holding the camera.
When the world reminded her that being taken seriously would always be an uphill climb.
She dug deep to put together that heritage walk. Picking through the histories, selecting the exact right artifacts, elegantly rustic signage, and a narrative arc that honored a hundred years of history.
And now she's watching shirtless men flex at my family's legacy while the internet loses its collective mind.
The camera's not just armor tonight. It's a life raft. The only thing keeping her from drowning in the same absurdity that's slowly killing me.
“The more content you give me, the less angry I get.”
“Yo, Everett?” Caleb calls out when he rounds the corner. “Time to pose with the guests.”
“No.”
“Come on, it’ll just take a few minutes. Or I can grab Uncle Seth. There are quite a few women—”
Uncle Seth who, knowing my fucking luck, would decide his late fifties is the perfect time to start giving old Jedediah’s fertility rep a run for it’s money.
“I’ve got it goddamnit.”
Caleb snags my sleeve and drags me around the corner, Sierra’s laughter echoing behind us.
Two hours later we reach the final tally for the Heritage Tour: After Dark Edition.
Three marriage proposals. (All to Jake.)
Two indecent proposals. (One to Jake, one to the boulder.)
One request to “recreate settler times but with less clothes.” (Denied, but only because Caleb couldn't figure out the liability waiver.)
Fourteen noise complaints from the neighboring property.
One instance of someone spray-painting “MOUNT ME EVERETT” on the lodge sign… vandalism I found when Caleb dragged me around the corner for photos.
Bright red letters across wood my great-grandfather carved by hand. The sign that's welcomed every guest for hundred years. The sign my grandmother used to touch every morning like a good luck charm.
I’m still trying to figure out if “MOUNT ME EVERETT” means the mountain or me.
Hell, I’m still trying to figure out why my first instinct is to laugh instead of scream.
Maybe because screaming would mean admitting this matters. That watching my name turning into a punchline actually hurts. That somewhere under all the bourbon and resignation, I'm still the kid who promised his grandmother he'd take care of this place.
I didn't promise to turn it into a thirst trap.
But here we are.
“Everett?” Caleb's voice cuts through. “Photos. Now. The lighting's perfect.”
I tear my eyes away from the sign.
“Coming.”
Revenue: More than we made in the entire month of November.
My dignity: What fucking dignity?
Oh, and the Prius? Still in the fucking snow bank.
And now three Barrett brothers descend upon me like locusts with ideas.
“We could do themed nights,” Caleb says with a disturbing amount of enthusiasm. “Frontier Fridays. Settler Saturdays. Maybe a whole 'Winter is Coming' thing where—”
“I will burn this lodge to the fucking ground.” The words are little more than a growl as I pinch the bridge of my nose and kick mentally kick my own ass for not appreciating the lowkey days as much as I should have.
You know, the ones where all I had to deal with was a rotten window, a pissed off preservation specialist, and the fourth generation Morgan who refused to let go.
“That's the spirit! We could totally incorporate fire into the—”
“Caleb.” My voice turns feral in a way that surprises even me, but at least it finally grabs his attention.
“Shutting up now.”
The brothers scatter. Caleb to charm more guests. Roman to check on the bar. Nolan to do whatever Nolan does when he's processing—probably stand in a corner looking thoughtful and making everyone nervous.
I stay where I am.
The lodge still buzzes. Laughter, music, the relentless churn of people having the time of their lives at my family's expense.
No. That's not fair. They're having the time of their lives because of my family. Because the Barretts saw what I couldn't—that sometimes survival means letting go of what you thought you were saving.
A hundred years, five generations, and now a hashtag with a few hundred thousand views and counting.
Is this what survival looks like?
But there’s no answer. Just the crackle of the fire and the distant sound of someone yelling “MOUNTAIN DADDY” like it's a battle cry.
Grammie Bea would laugh, tell me to stop moping, and make her a hot toddy.
But Grammie Bea's gone.
And I'm standing here alone, trying to figure out if saving the lodge means losing everything it was supposed to be.
But at least I’m still standing, I guess, even if I'm not sure what I'm standing for anymore.