“My humiliation is better than hair of the dog?”
“Way better,” he confirms and starts toward the truck, whistling my hit song from twenty years ago. Lucky me, my ass.
I let him put some distance between us before I glance back at The Sugar Shack. Through the window, I see Avah watching me with an expression I can’t read. But I doubt it’s good.
The smart move is to cut my losses and head back to Nashville to lick my wounds, which I’d like to believe have moreto do with dented pride than a busted up heart. After all, it was two nights. But it was also more. I know it, and she does, too.
Sloane Winslow isn’t immune to me. I saw it in her blue eyes the second before she shored up her walls and told me we were finished, like she needed to hear the words out loud to make herself believe them.
Cody glances back at me. “You ready to throw in the towel?”
I exhale past the lump in my throat and the missed chance sitting like a boulder in my stomach. It’s a fair question, but as I look around this town and think about what’s waiting for me back in Nashville—which is a whole bunch of nothing compared to what I’d be leaving behind here—I shake my head.
“Not even close,” I tell him.
6
SLOANE
The doorof my brother’s jet opens, and my breath catches as I step onto the staircase and get my first glimpse of Big Sky Country.
I always figured it was just marketing. How much more massive could a sky really feel than the Colorado bluebird heaven I’ve lived under most of my adult life?
As it turns out, a whole freaking lot.
I grip the railing tighter as my heart stutters under the weight of what I’m about to do. If the sky is this vast, what will the wilderness feel like when I’m alone and surrounded by it?
Derek, the full-time flight attendant I’ve gotten to know way too well over the past year, follows me down the steps and grabs my backpack from the luggage hold.
“Are you sure you don’t need help with this?” Bushy eyebrows lift toward his receding hairline.
I shake my head and paste on a reassuring smile. Derek is sweet, but I can’t have him reporting back to my brother that I couldn’t carry my own weight. Or my pack. “I’ve got it.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Good luck, Sloane. I hope you find what—who—you’re looking for out there.”
“Me, too,” I admit, then head for the small terminal.
I went to Summit Supplies by myself last night after the book club meeting ended. My friends lodged fierce objections, but I wanted to handle it myself. Carrying my own weight is a running theme for me right now.
I brought the gear I already had, and Diane, the owner, set me up with everything else I’d need, from the water filter Iris mentioned to a camp stove the size of a deck of cards, a sleeping pillow and pad, freeze-dried meals, biodegradable soap, and a dozen other things she deemed essential.
“You’re not going to be a cliche of the unprepared lone female with a backpack she can’t heft onto her shoulders on my watch,” Diane promised as she fitted the hip strap across my lower torso like she was buckling in a toddler.
I can name several books with that exact setup. Hell, a couple of Kristen Quinn’s essays inThe Year of Losing Itread that way, too. Self-deprecating narratives about being ill-equipped for challenges despite her blind faith. A very “whatever happens happens” kind of deal, which made for an entertaining and inspiring story.
But I’ve already survived way worse than a few nights on the trail, so I’m going for the “I’ve got this” vibe. More or less.
In contrast to the giant sky overhead, the terminal is smaller than the coffee shop back home. An older woman with blue streaks in her gray hair sits behind the counter. She doesn’t look up until I’m almost at the desk, then gives me a quick once-over. Pretty sure I don’t look like the typical private jet passenger.
“You come in alone?” she asks, nodding toward the plane out the window.
“Yeah, but…” I feel heat creep up my neck. “It’s not mine. I’m not...” I shrug and remind myself that she isn’t asking for my life story. “I need to get to Red Lodge. Is a ride-share app the easiest way to book a ride?”
“We can do better.” She hitches a thumb toward the parking lot. “Frank’s the best local driver. He dropped some out-of-statersoff about twenty minutes ago, and I know he’s still out there eating lunch and playing online poker. His wife monitors his screen time like he’s a kid.”
Jeremy would absolutely lose his mind at the thought of me getting a ride that can’t be tracked through an app. But I didn’t come all the way to Montana to be a blinking dot on my brother’s phone. And I have no doubt he’s keeping track of my location because worrying is his love language.
“Sounds perfect,” I tell her. “Have a nice day.”
