Page 27 of Total Jane Wreck

Huh. I mean, it’s one thing for Axel Rose to imply that Chet and Birdy called things off. It’s another thing entirely for them to broadcast their relationship’s demise on social media.

After assuring Brontë that I’ll call her again in exactly twenty-four hours, I reach for my laptop and do something that, weeks ago, was unthinkable.

I open an Instagram account.

The first and only person I follow is Birdy Banks. As I scroll through her thousands of posts and reels, my fingers tremble as if touching something forbidden.

Two years ago, Birdy and Chet were wandering through sun-drenched markets in Marrakech, tasting neon fruits, laughing at some shared joke. There’s a shot of them strolling hand in hand across a secluded beach—his strong arm around her delicate waist, her long blond hair fanning in the breeze. The sunset bathes them in a wash of orange and lavender, their smiling faces haloed in light. Birdy always looks model-perfect. She’s leggy with high cheekbones, her blond, silk-straight hair hanging in a curtain. Together, Birdy and Chet are like a royal couple in a private kingdom.

It seems impossible they could ever falter. But then comes a post that clenches my heart. Birdy’s in a hospital gown, cheeks pale but eyes determined, sharing her diagnosis. Days later, standing in her immaculate kitchen while cradling green juices and spirulina pills, she vows to beat lymphoma. More posts about holistic remedies and talk of moving to Sugar Pine, where the hot springs are rumored to possess ancient healing properties. There’s a reel of her riding Copper Cash at Resilience Ranch, overlaid with bold text: “The oil no one’s talking about that kills cancer cells in an hour.” The caption spirals into dense medical jargon—lysosomal membrane permeabilization, 2015 studies . . . I skim it, confused.

There are lots of posts where Birdy extols the virtues of clean living and the healing power of horses. Stuff about how, since horses are prey animals, they constantly wonder if today will be their last day. “I can totally relate to that feeling,” Birdy states. “These horses and I are helping each other.”

Then, a few weeks ago, she announced that she was leaving for Port St. Lucie, Florida, where she’ll be a temporary outreach advocate for a nonprofit that aims to “bridge holistic cancer treatments with comprehensive, results-based medicine.”

More posts. Birdy meeting with doctors, nutritionists, and wellness experts, or sharing information about which cosmetics use the most carcinogens, how to detox your liver, and the “biggest lies” about your cancer diagnosis.

She makes having cancer seem glamorous.

Then, in a reel posted earlier today, Birdy announced that she and Chet broke up. “Chet couldn’t be my port in the storm. Sometimes letting go is the only way to find yourself.” She stares into the camera with no makeup on, hair tucked behind her ears, blue eyes like puddles of rain.

There are thousands of comments—well wishes, hugs, prayers, and heart emojis. But there are also angry comments; people aren’t angry with her, but with Chet. “Forget him,” one says. “Only a true bastard would dump you when you’re sick.” It’s a good point. But perhaps there’s more to the story.

Or perhaps, Chet is actually a true bastard.

Chapter Thirteen

I had not intended to love him…he made me love him without looking at me.

River and the other members of the backpacking group scrape together some equipment for me to borrow, enough that I don’t need to buy anything. Not even boots. Turns out, Jocelynn’s the same size as me.

The first mile up Vallecito Creek Trail a gently rising path. We traipse over red dust, roots, and the occasional stone. The group strings itself out fast, stretching along the trail like a bead of water, each person hiking their own pace. River and I drift toward the back, his stride lazy and his mood shifting from goofball to something more reverent.

“How do like backpacking so far?” he asks, not even out of breath from carrying his heavy pack.

Can’t say the same for myself. My shoulders are already starting to ache. “We’re only an hour in,” I tell him. “Ask me this evening.”

“Cool. Will do.”

He strides ahead, unbothered, and I take a deep breath. Not that I don’t enjoy River’s company. But all I really want right now is take in the scenery, and enjoy the feeling that life is full of possibility. Despite my heavy gear and the blisters already forming on my toes, I like that instead of reading Escape From the Springs, I’m living it.

But that night, it rains. And yet, somehow it’s still hot. Jocelynn (my tentmate) and I play twenty questions as we lie on top of our sleeping bags, hoping water won’t leak in through our nylon ceiling.

Spoiler alert: It does.

The next morning, we’re hiking back when River comes up to me. “Hey—with last’s night storm, I forgot to ask. What’s your verdict on backpacking?”

“Despite everything,” I tell him, “I think I’m in love.”

His grin is so wide, it’s like I just declared my love for him instead of for hiking. But that’s arrogant of me. If I actually told River that I love him, he’d probably run right back up Vallecito Creek Trail.

It’s late evening when I return to Resilience Ranch. Chet is by his firepit again, just like on the night of our first real conversation. I pull up in my car, park near my trailer, and do my best at pretending that I don’t notice him sitting there.

But he sees right through me.

“Jane!” Chet calls, as I’m retrieving stuff from my car’s trunk. “Come join me. I’ve got bourbon. You’re from Kentucky,” he slurs. “So you gotta like bourbon.”

I stroll over. “How much of that have you had?”