The final stretch is dreamlike. The trail flattens and smooths. Signs of human passage return—a faded trail marker, an old fire ring. Then, through the trees, it appears: the sprawling log structure of the main lodge, smoke curling from its stone chimney.Home. For now.
The crew lets out a collective whoop. Packs are dropped,shoulders are slapped. Elliott beams, talking into his satellite phone, reporting our triumphant return to the network. I stand apart, taking it all in—the solid reality of the lodge, the manicured path leading to the door, the waiting Polaris parked nearby. It looks the same as when we left, what feels like a lifetime ago. But I’m different. Everything is.
Finn walks past me without a word, without so much as a glance in my direction, heading for the lodge entrance. His face is grim, his limp more pronounced now that the adrenaline of the hike has clearly worn off. He doesn’t turn back. And just like that, it’s over. Whatever ‘it’ was. Part of me, the stupid, hopeful part, wilts.
Nash comes out of the lodge, wiping his hands on a rag. A broad smile spreads across his face when he sees the crew, but when his eyes land on me, they soften with something like sympathy. “Welcome back, Hollywood. Heard you had quite the adventure.”
“You could say that,” I reply, managing a weak smile. He watches Finn disappear into the lodge, brow furrowing at the stiffness in his brother’s stride. Then he looks back at me. “Is he moving okay? Looked like he was favoring that side pretty bad.”
“He took a fall,” I say, the words flat, stripped of the worry churning inside. “But he says he’s fine. You’re his brother—you know how stubborn he is.”
Nash nods, something settling behind his eyes. “Sounds about right. That brand of idiocy runs in the family.” He gestures toward Cabin Three. “Your cabin’s ready. Figured you’d want some privacy after roughing it.”
“Thanks, Nash.” I shoulder my pack, desperate to be alone. To breathe. To process the chaos of the past few weeks.
Walking the familiar path to the cabin is like slipping through a doorway into another life. Inside, everything is as I left it. My suitcases rest against the wall, silent testaments tothe woman who arrived here expecting a curated photo shoot, armed with designer clothes and overpriced skincare. I stare at the luggage. Several large suitcases, packed with outfits for every conceivable rustic chic scenario. Cashmere joggers I wore once. Silk blouses I never touched. Louboutin heels sacrificed to the dock. It all seems absurd now—relics from a different life, a different woman. Who was that person? What did she think she needed all this for? A hollow laugh escapes me. After days in the same two pairs of hiking pants and borrowed thermals, the sheer volume of stuff is almost obscene.
But first, a shower. The thought alone is heavenly. I turn the handle in the tiny bathroom, and the rush of steaming water hits like a miracle. I stand under the spray, letting the heat sink into sore muscles, scrubbing away layers of trail dirt, sweat, and campfire smoke. The grime runs off in streaks, revealing skin pale from lack of sun, dotted with scratches and bruises I don’t remember earning. I wash my hair, savoring the scent of real shampoo, teasing out knots with generous handfuls of conditioner. Stepping onto the bathmat, wrapped in a towel that felt cheap and thin a week ago but seems like pure luxury now, is like shedding an entire version of myself. I'm lighter. Cleaner. But also exposed. The wilderness grime was a kind of armor.
Now, without it, I’m raw. Unfinished.
Back in the main room, I unzip one of the smaller suitcases, the one dedicated to skincare and makeup. Bottles, jars, tubes, and palettes gleam up at me—an arsenal designed to perfect, protect, and project the image of Lena Kensington. Hesitantly, then with growing autopilot familiarity, I begin the ritual. Double cleanse—first the oil to dissolve grime and sunscreen, then the foaming cleanser. Pat dry with a soft microfiber cloth reserved for my face. The toner, applied with a specific organic cotton pad. Essence patted into the skin. Then the serums—Vitamin C for brightness, hyaluronic acidfor hydration, a peptide complex for firmness, each applied in a precise order, allowed moments to absorb. Eye cream tapped around the orbital bone with my ring finger. Finally, the moisturizer massaged in with upward strokes. It takes nearly twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of patting, smoothing, waiting. A ritual I’ve performed twice a day, for years. It used to feel crucial—a non-negotiable part of maintaining the brand. Now, standing back and looking at the array of expensive glass bottles cluttering the small cabin counter, it strikes me as excessive. Ridiculous.
I think of the past week. After losing my supplies in the flood, my entire skincare routine comprised whatever I could beg, borrow, or steal—lip balm when someone had it, and Finn's questionable hand lotion when my knuckles cracked from the cold. And yet … my skin hadn’t imploded. It had survived the wind, the sun, the dirt, and the stress. Checking my reflection in the mirror now, after the elaborate routine, do I look dramatically different from the way I did this morning? Perhaps less tired, marginally more ‘glowy,’ but was it worth the hundreds, the thousands, sitting here? Worth the hours? My God, how much had I poured into this chase for flawless perfection? This serum alone cost more than a month’s groceries. Was it truly for ‘skin health,’ or was it fuel for the Hollywood machine, a desperate attempt to stay eternally camera-ready, always younger, smoother?
The simplicity of the wilderness—using what was necessary, letting the rest go—feels more appealing than this bag full of expensive promises. The face in the mirror resembles Lena more, yes, but the thought leaves a bitter taste.
Feeling restless, displaced, I wander into the bedroom, towel-drying my hair. My eyes land on the bedside table. My cell phone lies there, plugged into the wall where I left it over a week ago. Picking it up, I see the screen light up—two bars of service, flickering now that I’m back near the mainlodge. And messages. A cascade of missed texts and voicemail notifications that must have trickled in whenever the signal momentarily connected. Most are junk or updates from friends I haven’t had the headspace to think about. However, one notification stands out, marked as urgent, and time stamped several days ago.
It’s a text from David.Lena, urgent. Call me ASAP. Big news.
David. My agent. Big news usually means one thing: a role. A project. A lifeline thrown from the world I thought I might be ready to leave behind. My stomach clenches. The timing lands like a cruel joke, arriving moments after I started questioning the very world this call represents.
I peer out the cabin window. Across the clearing, near the main lodge, I spot Finn and Nash by the Polaris. Nash claps his brother on the shoulder, says something that makes Finn shake his head, then they both turn and go inside. He didn’t come over. Didn’t ask how I was after the hike. Retreated into his world, his pain, his pride. The ache in my chest isn't sharp—it's the slow, hollow kind.
I look down at the glowing screen in my hand, David’s message demanding attention. Hollywood is calling. Opportunity, fame, the life I fought for—it’s all waiting for me.
But first ... the compass. I get dressed and slip it into my pocket, where it sits heavy—a tangible link to Finn, to the trust he placed in me, however briefly. I need to return it. Close the loop. It’s the right thing to do, a necessary ending to a story he already walked away from.
Steeling myself, I grab my phone and head for the lodge. Afterward, I'll go to the east deck—the one place I know gets a strong enough signal—and make the call that might pull me back to my old life for good.
I reach the wide porch of the main lodge. The door is closed. Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock, thecompass cool against my palm. Before my knuckles connect with the wood, I hear Finn’s voice from inside, low and strained, talking to Nash. Curiosity, stronger than my resolve to keep my distance, prompts me to pause and listen.
“...don’t know, Nash,” Finn is saying, his voice tight with frustration I recognize. “The bank ... and this whole production. If I don't complete the full contract, if I don't get that final payment...”
My heart sinks. He’s still worried about the money, about the lodge. I should knock. Interrupt. Give him back the compass and walk away. But then Nash speaks, his voice carrying through the door.
“Forget the money for a second, Finn. What about her? Are you gonna let her walk away after everything?”
A long pause. Then Finn’s voice, rougher now, laced with something that sounds like regret. “What choice do I have? She’s Hollywood. I’m ... this.” The words, muffled through the door, land like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.No, Finn, you’re wrong. That’s not … that’s not all I am. Not anymore.But he believes it. Believes we’re too different, that I’ll inevitably leave, that what happened between us—what felt so intensely, terrifyingly real to me—was circumstantial for him. A wilderness fling. Is that all it was? Is that all I am to him? Perhaps he’s right. Falling for someone this quickly, under these circumstances, is reckless. The stuff of fairytales, or the movies I star in. Who does that work out for in real life?
The hurt from our argument hits again, sharp and raw. It twists in my gut, settles into something cold and cynical. Returning the compass can wait. So can clearing the air. He’s made up his mind. It may be time for me to make up mine.
Clutching the compass tight in my hand, I turn away from the lodge door. David’s message burns in my pocket. The east deck has the best reception.Okay, David. Let’s hear your big news.
I walk around the side of the lodge, finding the wide wooden deck that overlooks the creek and the mountains beyond. The signal bars on my phone jump from three to four. Solid. Taking another deep breath, steeling myself against the emotions warring inside, I dial David’s number. It rings once, twice...
“Lena! Finally! Thank God, I was thinking a bear actually ate you. Listen, you are not going to believe this...”
