Two days after my rafting mishap, I give my final presentation to the Wilders. We’re in the barn, where I stand in front of the pull-down screen and wait for the last of the brothers to plant their hot asses in their seats. In this case—of course—the stragglers are Brody and Easton. If I know my stuff, Brody will slink in and sink into his chair without making eye contact. And Easton will be all charm and sincere apology.
Meanwhile, Gabe sits stiffly in his seat, paging through my handouts, not looking at me.
Some people get super nervous before big presentations. I usually get pumped. I work hard, I know my stuff, and I polish every last word, so when I stand up there with my slides, I’m confident that I’ll impress.
This time is no different, except that the only person I care about impressing has been avoiding me for two days, ever since he all but ran out of the ER.
I knew even before he bolted that things were over between us. I think I knew it in the Jeep on the way to the hospital, when he was so quiet, but for sure I knew it when he wouldn’t jump in to tell the story of what had happened. When he wouldn’t look at me.
I wasn’t surprised, that’s the thing.
This is Gabe’s way of putting enough distance between us so that we both can walk away. It’s what I need, too. If I saw him, I might tell him the truth, which is that I let myself fall in love with him even though he told me, a hundred different ways, not to.
I guess I’m never too surprised when it turns out I’m not what a man wants or needs.
And in this situation, it’s definitely for the best, because I was getting too comfortable in Rush Creek. Too comfortable in Gabe’s world, in his bed.
And I belong in New York City, the best place on earth for a woman who needs extra space between herself and other people.
Gabe did approach me this morning—wariness in every line of his face—to ask how I was feeling, and I told him I was fine, which was true. The headaches are mostly gone, and the dizziness only creeps up when I’m tired. I’m limiting screen time and resting as much as I can.
What I didn’t tell him was that I’m definitely not myself yet. At night, I have weird jolts of terror every time I nod off, and even when I’m wide awake, I keep getting these flash visions of what it felt like to be disoriented under the water. Easton connected me with a wilderness therapist, which I didn’t even know was a thing. She seems to know more about what my body and mind are going to do next than I do, which is super helpful. She says we’ll work through it and I’ll come out pretty much fine on the other side, with a nice, healthy fear of whitewater.
“You might never be gung ho about rafting again,” the therapist said.
“I can live with that,” I told her.
She and I will keep meeting by video call after I go back to New York, until I tell her I think I don’t need her anymore. Being in a different location will help, too, she tells me.
A different location.
I’m looking forward to it. My streets, my territory, my city. Back where I belong.
Brody comes into the barn and drops—as predicted—into his chair without a word, his body language all fuck you. And right behind him is Easton, grinning at me.
“Thank you for joining us,” I tease.
“I never miss a chance to see you in action,” he says, with a smirk that on any other face would be over the top but on Easton’s is hot fudge on vanilla ice cream, sexy but not smarmy.
I sneak a peek at Gabe, but he’s still deep in the handouts. I search hopefully for a sign that he’s upset by Easton’s flirting, but nothing.
That’s when my heart finally accepts it’s really over, and clenches so hard in my chest that I wince.
I cover it with a smile and start my presentation, leading them through everything I’ve learned, all the data on who visits the new Rush Creek, how to reach them, and how that translates into new offerings and new branding.
“Not all of these will appeal to you. They’re meant to be examples and suggestions. But I think it will give you a strong starting point. And let me stress: This is about adding new offerings, not getting rid of old ones. Clark will still offer survival trips, but he will also offer ‘a night under the stars for beginners.’”
Clark tilts his head, what I’ve come to recognize as his, I don’t hate that idea body language.
“For each segment of the business, I’ve proposed twenty new trip titles. You can think about what appeals to you and discard what doesn’t.”
I glance up to find Gabe watching me. His face is blank, but he’s nodding. Warmth slithers through me. I hate that I still crave his approval, but this is his baby, his whole world, and I want to save it not only because it’s my job, but for him.
Hanna crosses her arms. “So you make a plan, like, ‘Star-Gazing for Book Clubs’ or whatever, and then you… drop it in our laps and go back to New York?”
I will miss Hanna so much.
“Star Gazing for Book Clubs,” I repeat slowly, and write it down, just to wind her up.
She knows it and gives me a look.
“Yes and no,” I tell her. “I’ll be available to consult via phone or video call if you have questions as you implement the plan.”
“If we pay you more money,” Hanna says.
“Hanna,” Barb warns.
“No, it’s a valid question,” I say, smiling. “Yes. Once I fulfill the terms of this contract, additional work would be contracted separately.”
Hanna doesn’t push it any further. I could be insulted by her question, but instead, I’m pleased by it. Because Hanna has just admitted that my work has value to Wilder—and to her.
I finish presenting the new offerings and segue into messaging and branding. “You need very specific messaging to reach those women and couples. To appeal to their desire for unique experiences, luxury, and romance.”
There’s some grumbling around the table, mostly muttered luxurys and romances, but nothing compared to the first day. Victory is sweet.
I talk them through the new language. Explain how they need to emphasize connection, learning, trust, comfort, friendship, and other non-tangibles. And they need to make a clear distinction between those trips and the ones that offer “challenge,” “adventure,” or “survival skills.”
The Wilders (and Hanna) get it. They’re nodding and making notes on their handouts, and the contrast between their frustration on that first day and their willingness to listen now could not be sharper.
I only had to weather seasickness, floundering in the mud, and a concussion to get them here.
Building trust is not for the faint of heart.
“You’ll use a variety of warm marketing techniques—detailed in the next section—to entice people who go on the entry-level trips into more traditional wilderness experiences. You get them to fall in love with the outdoors, then convince them that if they’re going to be camping regularly, they need a survival course. You get them comfortable on the water, then take them onto whitewater. You introduce them to the slow rhythm of a day on a boat, then teach them to fish. And not everyone will bite on the upsell—but a lot of people will, because they’ll be comfortable with you as guides, and because you’ll do a lot of talking about how passionate you are about your other trips. And no one can resist a hot guy who loves what he does.”
I smile at Easton. Easton, of course, smirks right back. And not a single cell in my body is remotely moved by his perfect, beautiful, cocky face. Such a pity.
I smiled at him so I wouldn’t have to look one more time at Gabe and discover that he wasn’t looking back at me.
“I’m sorry my brother is an asshole,” Amanda says, later that day, when we are celebrating with drinks at Oscar’s.
I left the Wilder brothers—and Hanna—with strict marching orders. They all promised me they had it in hand, except they refused to go with the name I proposed: Wilder Romantic Adventures. It was a long shot; my feelings weren’t hurt.
(Even though I already had the logo picked out.)
Gabe promised, too, still not looking at me.
I wave Amanda off. “It’s fine,” I say.
“How is it fine? He won’t talk to you.”
“I’m leaving anyway, right?” I say.
“But maybe you wouldn’t have to leave. If he… I thought you two…”
Hanna interjects, “Ever the romantic. Didn’t we go over this at the beginning? Wilder brothers don’t fall.”
And there it is. She’s right. Even Hanna warned me.
“But I thought... I was sure...” Amanda starts, and then trails off again.
“You saw what you wanted to see,” Hanna tells Amanda.
She could be saying those words to me, but I’m grateful she’s not. I’m grateful she doesn’t seem to know how sad and hurt and lonely and deluded I feel right now.
Nan comes in the front door of Oscar’s. She waves at us, then hurries over. Amanda grabs a chair from the next table and pulls it up. Nan sits and rests her chin in her elbows. “So. I heard you took a crack to the noggin.”
I feel a tiny ping of the old anxiety—someone is talking about me behind my back—but it’s way muted. I lean down and show her my stitches.
“They said twelve stitches,” Nan says.
“How’d you know that?” I ask, although I’m long past the time when I’m surprised by the way news travels.
“Word gets around.”
“Ahh.”
“Gabe convince you to stay yet?” Nan demands.
Hanna looks at Amanda. Amanda looks at me. I give Amanda a tiny nod: I’ve got this.
“I don’t think convincing me to stay was ever part of Gabe’s plans.”
“Then that boy’s an idiot,” Nan says.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I say, and I do. I want to hug Nan, and I’m not a hugger. Or I didn’t used to be.
“Everyone knows he’s sweet on you.”
“Nan,” Amanda says gently but firmly. “She has a head injury. Quit it.”
Nan grumbles but drops the subject, switching instead to wanting to know if it’s true that Brody got in a fight the other night, that Gabe had to haul him off Len Dix after Brody broke Len’s nose, and that Brody spent the night in jail. Amanda straightens Nan out.
Nan frowns. “He has a kid. He needs to get his act together. No one wants a daddy in prison. Lucy and I both know that from personal experience.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I missed that—what did you say?”
But I heard it. Daddy in prison.
For a split second, I think Gabe told her. But that doesn’t make any sense.
Nan gives Amanda a look, then says, “My daddy went to prison for car theft when I was eight. Yours went for embezzlement, right? But it sucks no matter what. Sucks not to have your daddy around, sucks to have your daddy’s crimes dictate what people think of you.”
She puts a hand out, covers mine. It feels pretty good. I don’t pull my hand away. I say, “It does suck.”
And something in my chest thaws a little, and slides, the way ice slides over pavement when water gets in between.
“Where’d you hear my father went to prison?” I ask her.
“I play bunco with Barb and Adele. Adele told us.”
My mom. My mom, the one who taught me to play my cards close to my chest, who said the more people who knew your secrets, the more people could hurt you. I try to imagine her chatting over bunco with Barb and Nan.
And the thing is, I can picture it.
I envy it, even.
Nan’s hand is still on mine. Amanda is looking at me with sympathy that I can tell isn’t pity. Even Hanna’s face is scorn-free. Almost gentle, though I’d never tell her that.
I want to tell them I love them, but I hold back, because after all, I’m leaving.
It really is a good place, Rush Creek.
Just not my place.