The thing is, it’s not about Drew. He didn’t tell me to leave. He didn’t look at me on the ridge and say “you could do more” to push me toward something. He said it because he saw it, the same way he sees everything, clearly and without agenda. And today he told me his own story and let me hear whatever I was going to hear.
What I heard is that I’m afraid.
Two years of “I’m building my case” and “the timing isn’t right” and “I need more savings” and “corporate might come around.” Two years of rearranging the excuses like I rearrange the display wall, making them look intentional when they’re just fear in a presentable layout.
I know this mountain better than anyone. Drew knows it after one morning with me. Holt knows it. Customers know it. Everyone sees it except the person who needs to act on it.
I pull out my phone and open my contacts. Corporate’s regional number is right there. I’ve called it dozens of times. Inventory issues, staffing requests, the partnership pitches that went nowhere. I know the extension for my regional manager and I know the hold music and I know the careful, grateful tone I use when I’m asking for permission to do something I shouldn’t need permission for.
My thumb hovers over the number.
I could call right now. Tell them I’m done. Two weeks’ notice, starting today, thank you for the opportunity.
My thumb doesn’t move.
Because the fear isn’t about corporate. The fear is about what happens after. What if I go out on my own and it doesn’t work?What if the terrain consulting isn’t enough to build a business on? What if I pour everything into something with my name on it and it fails, and everyone who ever looked at me like a kid playing store gets to say they were right?
Drew’s voice again. I knew what staying felt like, and I couldn’t do another year of it.
I close my eyes.
The cabin on the mountain comes first. His flannel on the stone floor and his hands in my hair and the way he looked at me after, like I was the most certain thing in his uncertain world. Then the ridge—the wind pulling strands from my braid, the whole valley spread below me like something I’d earned. And underneath all of it, quieter but just as clear, the trail maps I designed that are better than anything corporate has ever sent me. The hazard profiles I built from years on this mountain, season after season, mile after mile.
And then something that hasn’t happened yet. My hand on a key. My name on a door. A shop that’s mine.
I can see it so clearly it scares me.
I open my eyes. The valley is spread out below the turnout, gold and green in the afternoon light. Copper Peak is down there. My mountain. My life that’s been waiting for me to stop being afraid of it.
I put the phone away. I’m not calling corporate today.
I’m calling a commercial real estate agent on Monday.
I pull back onto the road and drive home. My hands have stopped shaking.
When I get home, I text Drew.
Monday. I’m calling about a lease.
Three dots. Then,I’ll be at your door at seven with coffee.
I set the phone down and stand in my kitchen and breathe. The fear is still there. I don’t think it’s going anywhere. Butunderneath it, for the first time in two years, something else is louder.
I’m jumping.
EPILOGUE
KENDALL: 5 YEARS LATER
The sign arrived yesterday.
It’s leaning against the front window of the shop, waiting for Drew to mount it this afternoon. Hand-painted wood, dark green letters on a cream background.Cross Country Outfitting. Terrain Consulting. Guided Adventures. Copper Peak, CO.
My shop. My name. Mine.
I run my fingers along the edge of the frame and feel the grin spread across my face before I can stop it. Four years in business, and I still get this way about the sign. The first one was a laminated printout taped to the window. The second was a vinyl banner that blew off during a November storm.
This one is permanent. Drew had it commissioned from the woodworker in Ridgway without telling me, and when he brought it home last night, I cried into his shoulder for ten minutes while our daughter ate crackers on the kitchen floor and watched us like we’d lost our minds.
