“Don’t think too long,” Nash warns. “Hank’s plane leaves at nine.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
LENA
The finalityof zipping up the last suitcase lands like sealing a coffin. Maybe my own. Mags—the woman who surfaced in the Alaskan wilderness—was never built for the real world. Not with pride in the way. Not with two lives pulling in opposite directions.
I look around Cabin Three. It had become a sanctuary before the expedition. Now, it's a room. Impersonal. Empty. My hiking boots, scuffed and muddy, sit by the door. Out of place next to the sleek designer luggage, lined up for departure. Those boots carried me through terrain I never thought I'd survive, pushed me past limits I didn't know existed. Now they're relics. Souvenirs from an expedition that cracked me open and left me raw.
I run a hand over the smooth wood of the small table, remembering the spot where Finn's mother's compass sat yesterday before I returned it to him. That final, cold exchange on the deck replays in my mind—his flat acceptance, my brittle pride masking the shattering hurt. She's Hollywood. I'm ... this. His words to Nash, overheard through the lodge door, echo. He'd decided for both of us.
A honk outside signals Nash's arrival with the Polaris and the small trailer for my luggage. Time to go. Time to leave Crystal Creek, Finn, and the confusing tangle of emotions Alaska has unearthed. Time to step back into the role waiting for me, the one David's excited voice described yesterday—A-list director, guaranteed distribution, filming starts next week. A career resurrection, practically gift-wrapped. Everything I thought I wanted.
Dragging the suitcases outside is like hauling anchors. Nash helps me load them into the ATV's trailer, his usual easygoing charm muted by the concern in his eyes. He doesn't pry. Doesn't ask. Secures the bags with efficient movements that remind me so much of Finn it makes my chest ache.Stop it, Lena. It's done.
“All set?” he asks, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Ready as I'll ever be,” I say, forcing a lightness I can't reach.
I climb into the back seat of the Polaris, the engine rumbling to life beneath me. As we pull away from the cabin, heading toward Port Promise, I look back once at the main lodge. No sign of Finn. Of course not. Why would he come out? I'm another guest leaving. One less complication in a life stretched thin.
The ride is bumpy, jostling both body and heart. The landscape blurs—towering pines, dense undergrowth, flashes of the creek catching sunlight between branches. The same wilderness that felt wild and unforgiving when I arrived now feels known. Almost as if it belongs to me. The thought hits hard.
“Heard you faced down Grizzletoe while Finn was gone,” Nash yells over the engine's roar.
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “Made some noise. He seemed more curious than aggressive.”
Nash chuckles. “Curious grizzlies are still grizzlies, Hollywood.Takes nerve to stand your ground like that. Finn was impressed when Carlos showed him the footage.”
Finn viewed the footage? And he was impressed? The information comes as a strange and confusing counterpoint to his cold dismissal of me. Why wouldn't he say something? But then, why would he? We weren't talking.
“Speaking of Finn…” I begin, hesitant, needing to know, even though the answer will probably hurt. “Is he … did you see him this morning?”
Nash keeps his eyes on the road ahead. “Nope. I haven't seen him since he left yesterday. Headed toward town, looking like he was carrying the whole damn world.” He turns toward me. “He takes things hard, Lena. Especially when he thinks he's messed up. Which, trust me, he knows he did with you.”
“He made his choice clear,” I say, bitterness coating the words. “His lodge comes first. Always.”
“The lodge is important, yeah,” Nash concedes. “It's tied up with Mom, with his pride in building something himself. But don't mistake that for meaning you aren't important.” He navigates a rough patch. “Sometimes my brother's so afraid of failing the people he cares about, he pushes them away first. Stupid, I know. Runs in the family.”
His words offer a sliver of understanding, but they don't erase the hurt. Finn's fear might explain his actions, but it doesn't excuse the way he dismissed me, my offer, my world.
We lapse back into silence, the roar of the ATV filling the space between us. As we near Port Promise, the collection of old buildings coming into view around the harbor, a sudden, impulsive idea strikes me.
“Nash,” I say, leaning forward. “Is May's diner open? I've been craving those sourdough pancakes since the first time I tasted them.”
Nash turns back, surprised. “Should be. The plane's not due for another hour. Want to stop in for breakfast? Those pancakes are worth the detour.”
“I'd love to.” Anything to delay the inevitable departure, to grasp one last piece of this place. “Besides,” I add, trying for a joke, “once I get back to LA, it'll be nothing but kale smoothies and personal trainers judging my carb intake. Gotta fuel up while I can.”
Nash laughs, the sound genuine this time. “May's pancakes will fill you up. Might need a nap on the plane.”
He pulls the Polaris up outside the familiar, crooked building with the “May's Café” sign. Inside, the diner is warm and smells heavenly—coffee, frying bacon, and that distinct tangy scent of sourdough. May raises her head from behind the counter, her face breaking into a wide smile when she sees me.
"Well!" she says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Thought you'd be halfway to Anchorage by now, Lena."
"Couldn't leave without another plate of your legendary pancakes," I say, sliding into a worn vinyl booth. Nash follows, grabbing menus.
"Good choice," May approves. "Short stack or tall?"
