Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Sierra
Saturday morning arrives with the kind of crisp, golden sunshine that makes you believe in second chances.
Or at least, that's what the light streaming through my window is trying to sell me.
I'm not buying. I've got swollen lips, approximately four hours of sleep, and a secret that grew teeth last night and is currently chewing through my sanity.
But there's a festival to document. A lodge to save. And if I lie in this bed any longer replaying the way Everett's hands felt on my—
Nope. Up. Coffee. Camera. Professionalism.
I find my brothers in the great room, huddled around a whiteboard covered in Caleb's chaotic handwriting.
Today's schedule looks like it was designed by a twelve year old boy with a marketing degree with “SATURDAY’S HUNG LIKE A MORGAN HANGOVER SCHEDULE” scrawled across the top.
Have they learned nothing?
10am: Best Beard Competition
12pm: Heritage Sausage Fest
2pm: Kids' Craft Corner
4pm: Hot Toddy Hour
7pm: Fireside Storytelling: Morgan Men Legends
“Heritage Sausage Fest?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Traditional Maine sausage-making demonstration,” Nolan clarifies. “Charlie tapped into a few contacts, pulled big strings, lovingly threatened a few lives. Family recipes, smoking techniques, the whole thing.”
“And the name?”
“Caleb's idea.” Roman doesn't look up from his phone. “We've learned to pick our battles.”
“The internet named our Mountain Daddy Tour,” Caleb points out, zero shame in his voice. “At this point, we're just leaning into the chaos. Sausage Fest is tame compared to what they'd come up with on their own.”
He's not wrong. I've seen the hashtags. #MorganMeat was trending at 3am for different reasons and I wish I could scrub that knowledge from my brain.
And that’s with them never having seen the fifth generation Morgan wielding gray sweatpants.
“Fine. What do you need from me?”
“Documentation,” Roman says. “Wholesome content. Families, kids, the whole vibe. Tara's crew is focusing on the competition stuff, but we need the heartwarming B-roll that doesn't make us look like we're running a thirst trap operation.”
“So basically, save your overeager asses and undo everything you've done for the past twenty-four hours.”
“Exactly.”
I grab my camera bag and head outside, where the main lawn has been transformed into competition central.
Mid forties, not a snowflake in sight, but it’s sunny and people are taking full advantage.
A temporary stage sits at one end, flanked by banners reading “BEST BEARD OF THE MOUNTAIN” in what I'm guessing is Roman's attempt at rustic font. Hay bales line the perimeter, already filling with spectators clutching steaming cups and wearing varying degrees of plaid.
The contestants are something else entirely.
Men of all ages mill around the staging area, stroking their facial hair like prized show dogs. There's a category list posted on the registration table:
COMPETITION CATEGORIES:
The Lumberjack (Full beard, natural)
The Distinguished Gentleman (Groomed/styled)
The Mountain Man (Longest beard)
Future Lumberjack (Ages 5-12, costume beards welcome)
It's the last category that stops me in my tracks.
A cluster of kids have gathered near a craft table, where someone has set up a “Build Your Own Beard” station.
Yarn, felt, cotton balls, and elastic bands spread across the surface like a facial hair buffet.
And standing in the middle of it all, patiently helping a tiny redheaded girl attach a lopsided yarn beard to her face, is Everett Morgan.
My camera comes up before I can think.
Click.
He's crouched down to her level, those broad shoulders somehow making the position look natural instead of awkward.
His hands—hands that were on my waist twelve hours ago, hands that I can still feel—are gentle as he adjusts the elastic behind her ears.
“How's that?” he asks. “Too itchy?”
The girl shakes her head solemnly. “It's perfect. Now I look like my Daddy.”
“You look even better than your Daddy.” Everett grins, and something in my chest cracks wide open. “You've got the best beard in the whole competition.”
She beams. “Really?”
“Really. But you can't tell anyone I said that, okay? I'm supposed to be a neutral judge.”
The girl giggles, and I watch something soft and devastating move across Everett's face—something that looks a lot like longing.
Oh no.
Oh no-no-no-no-no.
I can’t go there. Will not go there. I won’t survive going there.
Camera. Now.
I hook my thumbs under the straps and follow them down into my natural handhold.
Click. Click. Click.
I'm documenting. That's all. Professional documentation of festival activities.
I'm definitely not imagining that expression directed at a child with his dark hair and my stubborn chin.
I'm absolutely not thinking about the future I threw away eleven years ago when I convinced myself that protecting everyone else was more important than protecting us.
A little boy tugs at Everett's sleeve. “Can you help me too? I want a BIG beard.”
“How big?”
“Like THIS big.” The kid spreads his arms as wide as they'll go.
“Whoa. That's a serious beard. We’re going to need more supplies for that one.” Everett glances around the table, then spots a tangle of brown yarn. “What do you think—brown like mine, or should we go full mountain man with the gray?”
“GRAY!” The boy bounces on his heels. “Like a WIZARD beard!”
“Excellent choice. Very distinguished.”
I lower my camera just long enough to feel the full weight of what I'm watching.
Everett Morgan, fifth-generation lodge owner, subject of my teenage fantasies, my first love—my only love, and the man I still can't stop wanting—on his knees on frozen ground, covered in craft supplies, helping a stranger's kid build a fake wizard beard.
This is the man I told it meant nothing.
This is the man I watched leave town because he couldn't stand to see what I'd broken.
This is the man who looked at me last night and said we'd be alone together like it was a promise instead of a pipe dream.
My throat tightens.
A woman approaches Everett—the redheaded girl's mother, based on the matching hair. She's got the frazzled look of someone who's been chasing a child through a festival for hours.
“Thank you so much,” she says, putting a hand on his arm in that casually grateful way strangers do. “She was worried she wouldn’t be allowed to participate being a girl and all. You're so good with her.”
“She's a natural.” Everett stands, brushing yarn fuzz off his jeans and watches the little girl help the boy with his wizard chic. “You've got a future beard champion on your hands.”
The woman laughs. “Do you have kids of your own?”
My lungs seize, the breath lodging in my chest.
I watch Everett's expression flicker—just for a second—before he slides his customer-service smile back into place.
“Not yet,” he says. “Someday.”
Someday.
The word echoes in my skull, rattling against all the walls I've built.
Eleven years ago, we talked about someday. Whispered it into the dark of the Shred Shack, tangled up in each other, too young and too stupid to know we were already doomed.
Someday we'll tell them.
Someday we won't have to hide.
Someday we'll have this forever.
I thought we were telling stories.
He was declaring his future.
And someday never came.
Now he's thirty-one, still single, still waiting for something that looks a lot like everything I stole from him.
The woman moves on, dragging her yarn-bearded daughter toward the registration table. Everett watches them go, and for just a moment, his mask slips.
He looks tired. Lonely. Like someone carrying a weight he never asked for.
Then his eyes find mine across the crowded lawn.
I don't look away fast enough.
Something hot and complicated passes between us—recognition, want, frustration, and finally anger.
His jaw clenches for the briefest second before he deliberately turns back to the kid waiting for help.
Dismissed.
Fine. I deserved that.
Doesn’t mean it doesn’t bleed.
I throw myself into documentation mode, capturing every wholesome moment I can find.
The seventy-year-old man whose beard reaches his belt buckle.
The father-son duo entering matching categories.
The group of women who showed up with fake beards in solidarity, calling themselves the “Beard Wives Support Group.”
But my camera keeps drifting back to Everett.
He judges the Future Lumberjack category with the gravity of someone deciding international treaties. Shakes every tiny hand. Tells every kid their beard is spectacular. Poses for photos with the winners like they're meeting a celebrity.
The parents eat it up. The kids adore him. Even Tara's camera crew is circling, clearly recognizing good content when they see it.
I stand just on the outside. Dying inside. Because the man I love is going to make an incredible father someday.
And I don’t see a clear path to it being with me.