“Tell you a secret?” he says.
I nod.
“Ten-year-old me would think that’s fucking awesome.”
“I don’t know many people at any age that would take a helicopter rescue from a snowed-in cabin for granted and not think it’s awesome on some level.”
He huffs out ahehlaugh. “Good point.”
“Nice to have friends who can afford a helicopterandstill like you enough to come for you.”
He’s smiling as he glances at me. “Who’s worrying about you?”
Isn’t that the question? My manager would probably worry. My agent. The producer Waverly introduced me to for my next album who’s been absolutely amazing. And I do have a few friends in LA that I check in with regularly.
But they all have their own traditions with their own families this time of the year, and I told them all I’d be with Waverly. “Anyone who would’ve needed me knew I’d be off-grid through the holidays, so probably no one.”
His brown-eyed gaze doesn’t waver. “Who’d you spend the holidays with last year?”
“Commander Crumpet.”
He watches me, his smile dipping away.
I turn my attention to the fire.
If it weren’t for the slight panic at the possibility that we’ll be trapped here for more days than we have enough food for, this would be nice.
Is there any better place to write out all of your frustrations and fears and hopes and dreams while scribbling lyrics and chords than in front of a fireplace in a snowy mountain cabin?
I could fall asleep here. Wake up, journal some, work some, and take another nap to compensate for not sleeping last night.
Naps have been in short supply in my life this past year. Not that I wanted or needed them before, but I’ve also never been this busy, even when I was working two or three jobs to stay afloat.
There’s more pressure here. More stress. Bigger stakes with more people involved than have ever been involved in my life before. And I like those people. They’ve been incredibly kind.
But I’ll see them againafterthe holidays.
Not now.
This cabin should’ve been exactly what I needed to rest, recuperate, connect with nature, and get back to my budding career, refreshed and ready in the new year.
Instead, I’m battling a lingering fear that we don’t have what we need to make it through this snowstorm.
And it doesn’t matter how much money either one of us has in our bank accounts.
Not when we can’t even get a text message out.
We really might be at the mercy of his friends and family realizing they can’t reach him and trying to get a helicopter up here when the storm blows over.
That’s beyond fathomable. Especially to ten-year-old me who learned the hard way over and over again that you can’t depend on people and you can’t count on miracles either.
Which suddenly makes me wonder if my career is real. My friendship with Waverly. My music—my escape, my love, my joy—paying my bills.
How long it will last.
What will ruin it.
“Is there any chance the bear will break into the cabin?” I whisper.
