Sharon nods. “I envy how your generation refuses to take shit for prioritizing work-life balance. Kareem and I struggled with that twenty years ago. Our parents taught us to value outward success. No problem, until we had our kid and realized we were going to end up divorced unless we struck a better balance between work and home. Not to say we totally de-prioritized work, but our careers had to take turns growing. Right, Liz?”
My smile feels more like a grimace. My marriage was all work, no life; perfectly fine until it wasn’t. And we never confronted what his absence and my endless striving did to our relationship, or discussed making sacrifices so we could have a different kind of life.
“Some people my age are still committed to—” With supremely ironic timing, my work ringtone cuts through the conversation.
“That better be your hot-ass husband, Liz.” Sharon takes a deep swig of her pint.
“Uh, nope. Guide team. Excuse me a second.”
I hurry outside, to the relative quiet of the street. The satellite phone signal is patchy, but the important words get through: “Clients… forest stream… unpurified… six more days!… Fuck.”
We’re running a custom river trip right now, at the wrong time of year, for a VIP client who wanted to replicate the conditions on a popular Pacific Northwest survival show. Ultra-wealthy clients are the most dangerous kind; they’ve gotten used to money making their problems disappear. They forget beaver fever doesn’t care about your bank account.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve found a bush pilot who’s flying in that general direction tomorrow. She’ll make an extra supply drop: a gross of supersoft toilet paper, multipacks of underwear, plus an assortment of medications, salt tablets, and broth packets. My supplier promised to package and deliver everything to the Pendleton airfield by 6A.M., latest. In the morning, I’ll arrange a new extraction point at twice the price of the original, shredding our margin. Good thing I suggested padding the trip price.
And Craig says guided hikes aren’t profitable. Ha.
Back at the table, Sharon grins. “Béa’s coming on our golf date!”
“Jason called us ‘predictably corporate,’” Béa chimes in.
“Make sure it’s not your turn to cover the emergency phone that day, Liz.”
“My turn…?”
Sharon gets thislook,sharp and blunt at once. “You aren’t telling me you always cover?”
“I’m the entire ops department. It has to be me.”
“No, it doesn’t. Put together an after-hours manual with yourten most common emergencies and make a call rota. My god,” she exclaims. “What if you’re sick? What if you leave? Do they not have backups?”
“We’ve never needed a backup.”
“Seriously?” Sharon doesn’t look like she thinks this is an accomplishment. “Okay, well, trust me when I say you’ve got some room to set boundaries.”
I shrug. It seems boastful to say I’ve always come through, and pathetic to admit I hoped going above and beyond would make people notice me.
Also, problem-solving is my favorite part. Patching together solutions reassures me of my deep connections with the industry, the area, and its people. I always wanted to feel embedded in West by North in the same way—like Tobin is with the guides—instead of being a barnacle clinging to the outside.
And my chance is finally coming. A week from today, I’ll check off another one of Craig’s boxes on the golf course with Sharon and Béa. In less than a month, I’ll be competing for the promotion that puts me right where I want to be, in the center of my own tour.
And yet everything seems to spiral further out of control all the time.
Getting magic is so much harder than I imagined. It’s not just about changing what I do, but how I do it, and why. The countdown clock to the pitch presentation keeps eating the time I need to try new things, fail at them, learn something, and try again. I have to get everything right, right now. No second chances.
And I don’t know if I can achieve that anywhere in my hot mess of a life. Especially with Tobin and our unwise plan to be both allies and competitors.
Yet deep down I was hoping he’d want to keep going with the book, becauseIwant to keep going. No matter whether someone gets hurt, no matter that there’s a 95 percent chance the hurtingperson will be me—in my heart of hearts, I don’t want to say no anymore.
What would it mean if I said yes to him and whatever he’s got up his sleeve for our scenario tomorrow? Or said yes to myself?
I don’t know.
But I have no choice except to show up and find out.
Chapter Fifteen
SCENARIO 4: HAPPY ENDINGS
