Yes, the wood logs look polished and fake. Plus, that wall-hanging bearskin that came with the cabin is ridiculous. But none of that matters, since I fucking love it here.

I love the drive down, I love taking my rifles out for hunting, and I love sitting on the lake for hours with just a fishing line, some live bait, and a cooler full of beer. When I need to get away from the city, my place in the Sierra Nevada never disappoints.

I’m just getting back from another marathon day of tranquility at the lake. The sky is turning lilac, and the crickets are starting up. It’s officially my third night here.

I know that it’s getting to that point: I need to start thinking about what drove me here.

I’d love to stay for weeks, enjoying the quiet and supplying myself with all the food I need. I don’t have to check emails, respond to texts, or talk on the phone. With no internet or cell phone signals, I couldn’t even if I wanted to—it’s fucking paradise.

As refreshing as it is, I know I can’t keep being a coward. Three or four days is what I gave myself to figure shit out.

One day, when I have everything in my life figured out and taken care of, I’ll drive out here and just fucking stay as long as I want. Today, that’s not a luxury I have.

I stride through the unlocked cabin door, all my supplies slung over my left shoulder. I caught my limit for the day, not that they ever enforce that shit. I take my time to put everything away properly—tacklebox, poles, bucket, oars, cooler, freezer packs, fish—it takes a good ten minutes, which I try to use to think, to deliberate.

After everything is done right, I look in the fridge for a real beer. The cheap stuff is good for fishing, but it’s time to get serious. I have a couple decent stouts, but those are too heavy right now, a few IPAs, but fuck those, a four-pack of canned chardonnay…

One reason I can’t stay up here for too long are my bars. They still need me. They are built on my acumen and my taste, but it’s not an empire yet.

I pull a can of wine out of its plastic ring. Canned wine’s an obvious trend, but they still need me to point this shit out before it’s months or years too late.

It’s barely starting to get dark. I formulate a plan: find a glass for the wine, bring the rest of the four-pack with me and maybe a decent bottle, go sit on the deck to drink, look at the sequoias, and think.

Sounds like a sold plan to me.

I put down the wine can and see a stray gray tabby sitting outside the window and staring at me. I don’t even know which fucking cabinet has the glasses. I open a random door and see a set of pint glasses.

Why did this have to happen with Emily?

Fuck.

I close the cabinet and pop open the can to start drinking. Fuck going outside and getting contemplative. I need to figure this shit out.

The problem is, it feels like it’s already figured out.

The barbecue did nothing to change how I feel. During this trip to the cabin, thinking about her only brings up positive feelings—feelings like optimism, and excitement, and…

Happiness.

There’s no other way to describe it. I just don’t know if I’m thinking clearly. Feeling this away about anyone is new to me.

I’m fucking clueless about all of it.

I take my wine can to the faded brown leather armchair. The chair and the whole living area usually sees no use from me.

I sink into the worn leather seat and sip from the can. I stay there, sipping until it’s inky-black nighttime outside and what’s left of the wine is room temperature. I stand up to turn on more lights and get another drink.

On my way to the fridge, I see the same stray cat through the window. Fuck, I’m not figuring out anything tonight. I need a couple more days.

I take out a pint glass and grab one of the stouts from the fridge.

If Emily wants to find me, she knows where I am. Clarissa has instructions to fill Emily in on my little retreat if she asks. I don’t expect to see her here, but I do want to wipe the barbecue slate clean and, if Emily’s still into it, give the whole thing another chance.

I methodically pour the double-chocolate stout and give the window cat a slight nod. I still need to sleep on the Emily situation to be sure that I’m sure about it, and to think about the other issues…like my father.

I don’t have the internet here, but I do have downloads of the latest financial statements from my businesses. I’m thrilled to walk over to the rolltop desk and turn on the Oxford desk lamp, which bathes the cabin in a light that’s soothing and classy as fuck.

I always bring the latest statements with me, just in case. This might be the first time I’m really looking at them here, though. I fire up my laptop and open the folder, checking out the first file and looking immediately at the revenues.

I look at revenues, costs, and profits, looking over each line item again and again. I take big quaffs of beer, drinking it much faster than the wine. I keep checking everything, making sure I’m reading it right.

I open up some past statements, look them over, and look over some even older statements I still have. I’m glad I have all this, because I’m seeing patterns now that weren’t that obvious before. Good patterns.

Things are climbing steadily, as they should be, and even more steeply than I realized. There’s no reason to worry about my place in the family business, at least not financially. I just need to keep doing what I’m doing and putting more away in high-yield accounts for safety.

I turn off the lamp. I need a couple more days to be certain, but the numbers don’t lie.

Staying with Emily looks like the right decision.