“One more,” I said into the phone.
“Huh?”
“One more authentic adventure with Noah tomorrow, then I’ll tell him it would be best if we went our separate ways. I’ll stick to the resort for the rest of my trip. Shove pictures of spa treatments and gourmet meals down people’s throats until they want to hurl.”
Parker was quiet for a long time. For a moment, I thought maybe he had hung up. “Are you sure about this, Sam?”
“Yes.”No.“I’m sure.”Not sure. “Positive.”Not even a little bit.
“You might be able to do both?”
“Look, Parker, it’s getting late, and I need to think. I’ll ping you tomorrow.” I disconnected the call before my conscience could stop me.
Victoria was right about one thing for sure, though. I’d been hired to do a job. A job that, if I did it successfully, would not only catapult my career but save Noah’s too.
A couple of days ago, it would have been a no-brainer. Enjoy the luxurious experiences of an all expenses paid trip to a world-class resort. Take pictures of myself doing it. Post to my feeds. Then rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. Had things really changed that much?
The answer was no.
Reality check, Sam. Put your big-girl panties on and woman up.
Setting my phone aside, I settled into the plush armchair by the window, staring out at the sky full of stars. Back in LA, you could barely see anything through the smog and the light pollution. Here, the stars blanketed the sky like diamonds scattered across black velvet.
Followers. Like. Shares. Subscribers. Those numbers used to mean something to me. Used to make me feel important, powerful even. Mom and Dad thought I would always struggle to make ends meet with my “little internet hobby.” They had no idea. The LuxeLife contract made me more money in a week than their restaurant did in an entire month.
But staring up at that vast expanse of sky, those countless points of light, I felt microscopic. What was the point of it all? Pretending to eat a fancy dinner for people I’d never meet. Wearing clothes I didn’t actually shop for and could never afford on my own. Creating perfect moments for strangers who didn’t know me. The real me.
When was the last time I’d shared a real meal with someone? Not for content, not for networking, just ... because?
It was breakfast.
On top of a mountain.
With Noah Barrett.
The mountains loomed dark and massive beyond my window, ancient and unmoved by all my carefully curated posts and stories. They’d been here long before social media existed, and they’d be here long after it was gone.
A shooting star streaked across the sky. In LA, I would have immediately grabbed my phone to capture it. Instead, I just watched it fade away, feeling smaller than ever.
The next morning, I walked into the Adventure Center and once again heard the strummed melody of an acoustic guitar. This time, instead of letting the bell ring when the door slammed shut, I closed the door gently so it wouldn’t make a noise.
“Anybody home?” My whisper echoed through the empty space. Noah, Diego, and Jenn were nowhere to be seen.
The wall of climbing gear stood untouched, ropes coiled neatly on their hooks. Yesterday’s chalk marks still dusted the practice wall.
Behind the desk, next to a laminated map, there was a large day calendar tacked to the wall. A thick red Sharpie circled the last day of the month. I didn’t need anyone to tell me why. The end of the lease. The day LuxeLife closed the Adventure Center for good.
Unless, of course, Noah and I were successful. Prove that authenticity was still a suitable business model. Show Victoria and the entire world that authentic Colorado adventures were worth taking.
The guitar continued playing, joined by a burst of laughter, which drifted in through an open window facing out back. I followed the sound, weaving past the desk with its scattered trail maps, then down a hallway and out a screen door onto the deck.
The morning sun hit me full force as I stepped outside. Diego and Jenn lounged in Adirondack chairs around a cozy fire pit, coffee mugs in hand. Yeti looked up and smiled, tail thumping against the deck boards.
Noah’s fingers screeched to a hard stop on the strings of the guitar as soon as he saw me. The instrument made a sound equivalent to a grand piano being dropped out of a seven-story window.
“You do play the guitar,” I said from the doorway.
“No. I don’t.” He set the guitar aside as if he’d never seen it before in his life.
