31 FORREST

Two Months Later

February in Alaska is about as unpleasant as you’d think, but not for the reasons you might guess. It’s not the marrow-penetrating cold that can freeze a spilled cup of hot coffee before it hits the ground, or the sun’s reluctance to rise above the horizon for more than a few pale hours each day. It’s not the mournful keening of the wind in the pines or the invisible black ice that turns every road into a game of Russian roulette. No, the worst thing about Alaska in February is the loneliness.

In the dead of winter, it’s not just the bears who hibernate. People in the backcountry settle in too. Without new faces to see or stories to hear, conversations with familiar voices become circular, repeating the same worn paths, until eventually, everyone runs out of things to say. So we retreat into books and become isolated even from the people we live with. But in our solitude, the stories we read can miraculously transport us from the cold, deep quiet of the snow and into worlds of spring green, thrumming with life and new growth. Or in my case, right into the heart and mind of a person whose absence I feel every moment of the long days and even longer nights.

I know it isn’t healthy. I know that reading and rereading Margot’s books covers my mind in her fingerprints until I can’t see anything but the lack of her. She’s everywhere and nowhere in the cool, uncreased pillow on the left side of my bed. She’s missing from the lodge’s stiff, neglected office chair tucked beneath the desk. Worst of all, she’s gone in the dark windows of her cabin that watch me like judgmental eyes as I pass by every day.

“Need a little Beethoven with that scowl?”

I look up from the old copy of Scientific American I’ve been pretending to read while I drink my mediocre morning coffee and see my dad smiling at me. Or almost smiling. None of us has been doing much of that lately.

“I’m not scowling, I’m reading,” I reply as he and Scout approach me at what I’ve come to think of as Margot’s Desk.

He smirks. “Tell that to your magazine before it bursts into flame.”

“We could use a little more warmth around here,” I grumble.

My dad chuckles. “I know exactly the kind of warmth you’re missing, and I’m sorry to say it won’t come from setting things on fire with your glare, son,” he says matter of factly.

He’s not wrong , I think. With a sigh, I set the magazine down as Scout noses his head onto my lap for a scratch. “I’m going to help Jo in the greenhouse. I’ll be back for our PT at eleven.”

I’ve pushed back from the desk and started clearing my plate when he says, “Actually, you won’t be.”

I stop. He spoke softly enough that I might have misunderstood. “Excuse me?”

Dad pins me with a look that tells me to sit right back down. He might be folded up like a wounded bird in that chair, but he can still put me in my place with one lift of his craggy brow. I sit down.

“Actually,” he repeats, more firmly this time, “you won’t be.”

“Of course I will,” I say, just as firmly. Lately, he’s been more and more resistant to our PT sessions, and I know why. The candle of hope he’s carried ever since his accident has burned down to a barely glowing stub in the wake of his seizure. It’s only made me more vigilant about keeping up with his exercises, but maybe I’ve been pushing him too hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to—

“Son, you’re fired.”

My head jerks up. This time I have no doubt what he’s said. “Fired?”

He nods. “Fired.”

We stare at each other, and after a long moment, I can’t help it—I laugh. It feels strange against my vocal cords, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I found something funny. But the idea of my dad firing me is so completely ridiculous in our situation that he has to be joking.

“Sure, okay,” I say, still chuckling. “I’ll just go polish up my résumé, then.”

But there’s no telltale twitch of his mustache or crease of crow’s-feet. He’s looking at me with a gravity that’s almost apologetic. “I mean it, Forrest,” he says. “You’re no longer my caretaker. I’ve hired someone else, and he’ll be here at eleven.”

For what feels like a long time, all I can do is let my somatic nervous system take over to perform its many jobs. It absorbs my father’s serious expression. It registers the stale aftertaste of subpar coffee while my mouth goes dry as a cotton ball. It processes what I’ve just heard. Except I’m having a little trouble with this last function. Usually, the way humans process and interpret meaning from sound is a miraculous phenomenon. I know, for instance, that my father’s words have hit my ears as sound waves, which set off an intricate, almost infinitesimal dance of movement inside my inner ears, which my brain somehow perceived as recognizable neural signals. I can understand what he’s told me, but allowing it to register as fact isn’t something I seem capable of. That’s probably why the only thing that comes out of my mouth is “Nope.”

I stand up, my body ready to vacate the premises as quickly as possible before it’s hit with any more indigestible information. Scout wags his tail hopefully, and suddenly, a run in negative-twenty-degree weather seems like a great idea.

“Yes, Forrest,” my dad says patiently, like he knows I’m having trouble keeping up. “His name is Joshua, and he’ll be here at eleven.”

“Joshua,” I repeat.

“You got it. He’s a registered nurse and knows my whole case.”

The unreality of the situation has me scrambling for words like they’re a bunch of marbles that got dumped on a floor.

“But… but we’re nowhere ,” I stammer stupidly. “You need someone to live here with you during the busy season at the very least. It’s too much work for Jo.”

“He is going to live with me. Joshua, his wife, Ana, and their two little girls. They’re all very fond of the great outdoors. Ana can’t wait to lead wilderness excursions. She’s got her pilot’s license, too, so we might even be able to start doing those flight tours we always talked about.”

“How did you—”

“Jo and I have been making phone calls ever since we got back.” He shrugs his good shoulder as Scout comes to lie down beside him. “Turns out a solid salary, free room and board, and a slower way of life appeals to a lot of young folks these days.” He rubs his chin stubble thoughtfully. “Had to beat a lot of ’em off with a stick, honestly. But Joshua and his family are the perfect fit.”

“Can the lodge even afford to hire two full-time employees?” I ask.

“Son, look around. The cost of living here is about as low as it gets. We can afford it.”

“So—” I begin uncertainly. I press a fingertip to the rough- hewn desk between us. “So Joshua and his family are… coming here. At eleven. To live here. At North Star Lodge.”

“Glad you’re keeping up.”

I shake my head as my heartbeat picks up, then picks up again, until I can feel it throbbing in my neck. “There’s no need for this. This is my job. It’s my job to take care of you,” I say as strands of fear, protectiveness, rejection, elation, disbelief, skepticism, and general overwhelm snarl together like an unsalvageable knot of fishing line at the bottom of a tackle box.

“ Was your job,” he corrects me. “You’re fired, remember?” At whatever my face is doing, his own softens. “But not for lack of skill or dedication. You’re the most—” He pauses, mustache bristling up like a porcupine as he presses his lips together. When he speaks again, his voice is tight. “No one’s ever gonna fill your boots, Forrest.”

It’s like someone’s shoved an apple straight into my esophagus. “But why would you do this?” I manage around it. “There’s no point now! You know they gave the grant to someone else. You know…” I swallow. “You know Margot hasn’t returned my calls since she left.”

At this, my dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot on purpose. You can still work without the grant. As for Margot, you read her letter to her readers. She might be hurt, but you know how she feels.”

I bite my lips together, studying the deep wood grain of the table. Call me a coward, but no. I haven’t been able to read the letter she wrote. Just thinking about it brings me right back to the hope-filled moment when we were delusional enough to think we could make a relationship work.

“Oh, good grief,” Dad mutters. Taking his phone out, he taps it a few times and slides it over to me. “Read it. And you better be grateful I saved it for you in Anchorage. I had a feeling you were being obtuse.”

Slowly, I sit back down and see that he’s saved screenshots of an Instagram post to his photos app. I tap the first one, bracing myself for a fresh hammer swing to the heart, but it’s impossible to stop myself from sinking into her words.

Dear readers,

At the risk of digging the hole I currently occupy a little deeper, I’d like to tell you about a woman who lost her faith in love. (It’s me. I’m the woman.) Like every good villain, I have an origin story, and in the name of being as bravely vulnerable as you have always been with me, I’d like to share it with you.

Becoming this jaded didn’t happen overnight or even over one too many Tinder dates gone wrong. Like so many others who find it difficult to entrust their heart to someone, I had my own heart broken when I was little. Far too little to understand or deserve the carelessness of someone I depended on (don’t worry, Mom, it wasn’t you). But like all children, I still craved the unconditional love I was missing. As I got older, I even began writing tales of true love that eventually inspired people to find their own Happily Ever Afters.

But time and time again, I gave my cautious heart to men who only ever broke it. Eventually, the pieces were so small and sharp, I had no choice but to sweep them up and lock them in a safe. But still, I had YOU. My incredible readers who loved me more than any would-be hero. You sought my stories for comfort and guidance, and I couldn’t bear to let you down, even if it hurt to write the happy endings I no longer believed in. And so my Happily Never After diary was born.

It was never meant to be seen by the world. It was my private place to vent, worry, and virtually pillow-scream. But now that it has been exposed, I honestly couldn’t be more grateful. I’ve learned that sometimes the worst things that happen to us end up being exactly what we needed in the first place. In my case, being canceled for not believing in love led me to remote Alaska, where I’d hoped to escape my life and all the romance tropes I never wanted to write again.

Instead, I met a man who embodies them all.

It was a classic enemies-to-lovers arc—I’m sure you know how it goes. Two people resisting each other because they have a unique ability to shine a glaring light on exactly what needs to be healed in one another. More important, they have a unique ability to give each other hope. Hope that, against all odds, Happily Ever After is possible.

There will never be words to adequately apologize for how I’ve hurt you, but I hope you might find it in your hearts to forgive me. Because while the fledgling spark of hope I carry for my own HEA shines bright, it would be incandescent if it included you.

x, MB

When I finish reading the last photo of her letter, there’s a desperate part of me that doesn’t want it to ever end. My shaking thumb swipes left, vainly hoping for a postscript, and what I see is a thousand times better. A thousand times worse. It’s a photo of Margot. Her beautiful face is nestled over my wet shoulder in the hot tub, her luminous brown eyes staring directly at the camera. They’re filled with such happiness—such hope—that I’m almost convinced I can still fix this. Almost. Until I remember those same eyes filled with the pain of promises that I broke.

“You shouldn’t have shown me this.” I hand the phone back to my dad, barely checking my self-disgust. “What was the fucking point?”

My dad has the nerve to chuckle. “I’m not done. There’s something else.”

I start pushing my chair back, not really in the mood to have my chewed-up heart spit back out. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Not on this you won’t,” he says with a goddamn twinkle in his eye. “I’ve got Margot’s new book.”

My ass, which was hovering slightly over the chair, lands like it’s been yanked back down.

“What? Where is it? How the hell did you get it?” I ask, looking around like I’ve missed it sitting in plain sight. I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit tracking my Google Alerts about her next book, which won’t be published until next year.

My dad shrugs a shoulder. “I emailed Margot and asked her for it. Her editor sent me a bound copy of the latest draft, and if the dedication’s anything to go by, I don’t think I’m the only one who was meant to see it.”

“Dedication?” I repeat, mouth going dry.

My dad reaches down to his wheelchair side-satchel, pulls out a book, and slides it across the desk. “Go on, then,” he says when he sees my hesitation. “Don’t make me read it to you.”

I pick up the book, tracing my hands over the spine, and force myself to breathe slowly as I read the cover.

HEART OF THE WOODS

Margot Bradley

Folio Publishing

I flip to the nearly blank dedication page, focusing on the words centered there.

To Forrest.

Thank you for helping me believe in Happily Ever After again, even if we couldn’t have our own. Every moment with you was better than fiction.

Finally, I know how Margot must have felt with every letter she got from Savannah. The bittersweet elation of having communication from the one person you need most, even if their words cut you to the quick. I reread her dedication—words for me that she plans on baring to the whole world—and hardly know whether to be grateful or miserable. It’s the final farewell she never had the chance to give me.

“You’re only half of yourself without her,” my dad says gently, pulling my gaze up.

“You’re right,” I manage, because truer words were never uttered. “But this is her goodbye, Dad. It’s closure.”

“Read between the goddamn lines, son. This isn’t goodbye unless you let it be. Haven’t you ever read a romance novel? You need to go to her, and you need to go now .” The way he says this last sentence is heavy with experience. He knows exactly what it feels like to be torn from the person who balances out the scales of your life.

“But I can’t leave you,” I argue shakily, and this time it’s not coming from a place of rational thinking. “Not after Mom.”

He tilts his head, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Come on, now. Do you think for one second that Sheila Marie Wakefield would’ve tolerated you moping around here like goddamn Eeyore when you could be chasing down your soulmate and continuing your life’s work?”

Up until now, I’ve managed to keep my eyes dry. But hearing my mother’s name is like hitting a release valve. I think of her standing tall and straight in the kitchen, her clean white apron tied around her like armor. I remember the flash of her knife, as sharp and beautiful as her smile. I remember her embrace, as firm and sure as the way she always said “I love you.” She wouldn’t have put up with any of my shit. She never did.

“No,” I say, my voice like a rusty hinge swinging open. “She wouldn’t have.”

“Your mom left us when she had to, on her terms. There’s nothing you could’ve done differently that she would have allowed,” my dad says, his tone brooking no argument. “Every moment I had with her was one I’ll always cherish, and no, it wasn’t long enough. But do you think if I’d known we’d lose her, I would’ve let her go ? Lost even one more second with her?”

I shake my head, pressing a hand to my eyes as my breath starts coming in stutters. “No,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t have.”

“Then my question is—would you ?”

I drop my hand to look at him. For the first time in two months, I see a spark of hope in his eyes that I thought had been snuffed out for good. I blamed its loss on the seizure and his physical setbacks, but as it rekindles now, I see that it hasn’t been about his health at all. I realize I’ve done the one thing he never would have—I’ve willingly given up the love of my life for another, when all along, he knew I could have both.

“No,” I finally answer him, bracing my hands against the desk. “I wouldn’t.”

He nods, and when he smiles, it looks broader than Alaska itself. “Then I guess you’d better start packing. The flight I booked you leaves this afternoon.”

I stare at my father, who, despite his new challenges, has taken charge of the situation and reversed our roles. I realize I’m no longer taking care of him—he’s taking care of me. And at long last, I’m going to see her. At long last, I’m going home.

If she’ll have me.