The question catches me off guard with its simplicity.
“Fame? Money? Neither is worth much when you're alone in a room at night, wondering if anyone would recognize you without the mask.”
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the tent for an instant before thunder crashes overhead. I flinch, moving closer to Finn. His arm slips around my shoulders, a gesture so natural it doesn't register as crossing a boundary.
“What about you?” I ask, settling against him. “Ever been married? Almost married? Tragic love story I should know about?”
Now it's his turn to laugh, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest to mine. “Nothing tragic. One serious relationship in college. Sara. We were together three years before she got a job offer in Seattle. She wanted me to leave Alaska, but I couldn't imagine living anywhere else.”
“You chose Alaska over love?”
“I chose being true to myself over compromising what matters most. Sara would have been miserable here eventually, and I would have resented giving up my home. Sometimes love’s not enough if you’re not walking the same road.”
His words hit me with surprising wisdom. How many times have I compromised myself for what I thought was love? How many pieces of my identity have I sacrificed at the altar of approval?
“What about you?” Finn asks. “Are Hollywood romances as manufactured as the rest of it?”
I think about my dating history—selected relationships that benefited both our public images, coordinated by publicists and captured by conveniently placed paparazzi. “Most of it,” I admit. “There's someone for every career stage. The up-and-coming actor to create buzz. The established name to cement your status. The strategic breakup for sympathy. It's all calculated.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” I look at the tent ceiling, watching shadows dance across the canvas. “When you spend your whole life performing, you forget where the role ends, and you begin.”
Another crash of thunder, closer this time. The storm settles over us like a living thing, wild and unpredictable. I move closer to Finn, drawn to his steady presence.
“Cold?” he asks, voice low.
“A little,” I lie. The truth is more complicated. I'm drawn to his warmth, yes, but it's more than physical heat I'm seeking.
He adjusts the blanket, tucking it around us both. His arm remains around my shoulders, neither of us acknowledging this is no longer about survival.
“Can I ask you something personal?” he says after a while.
“More personal than sharing a tent in the wild?”
His amusement is audible in his voice. “Fair point. Why did you bury Magdalena? You didn't only change your name—you erased everything she was.”
No one has ever asked me this. The question pierces through layers of constructed defenses. In the darkness, with rain isolating us from the rest of the world, truth feels safer than usual.
“I was nineteen,” I begin, the memory sharp despite the years. “Fresh out of a community theater program with big dreams and a name no one could pronounce correctly. After my hundredth audition rejection, one casting director finally told me the truth. He said, 'You're talented, but with that name and that background, you'll only ever be cast as the maid or the gang member's girlfriend.’”
Finn's arm tightens around me. “Sounds like an ass.”
“He was,” I agree. “But he wasn't wrong. Hollywood has boxes, and I didn't fit in the ones that get leading roles. So, I created someone who would.”
“Lena Kensington.”
“Born in a small town in New England, daughter of academics who summered on the Cape. Prep school, a semester abroad in France for 'culture,' then straight to a prestigious drama program. Enough vague polish to be whoever they wanted.”
“And it worked.”
“It worked. Three months after the reinvention, I landed my first actual role. Six months later, a recurring part on a network show. Then the vampire series that made me famous.” I pause, remembering those early days of success. “The more Lena succeeded, the more Magdalena needed to stay buried.”
“And your family? Did they understand?” This question cuts, touching a wound I rarely examine.
“My mother encouraged it. She saw my transformation aspractical—maybe even redemptive after the choices she'd made. My father had left by then anyway, so his opinion didn't matter.”
“And your grandmother? The one who taught you about plants?”
