Page 4 of The Quit List
“Thank you, Morris,” I say quietly. “Guess I can give my resignation now.”
I can hardly keep the nerves out of my voice. Because as excited as I am to have finally, finally, crossed this final hurdle, it also means that everything I’ve been working towards for so long is becoming… real.
Holy sh?—
“You still planning on starting your own guiding outfit, leading excursions out of that cabin you bought?” Morris asks, apparently reading my mind.
I swallow. Keep my voice firm. “Yessir. Got my business license last week, and the cabin is currently under renovation to host guests starting this summer.”
“Well, that all sounds great,” my mentor says warmly.
Morris has been doing this job for forty years. Forty. And, though he must have had this same conversation a million times with a million candidates, he sounds… proud. Proud of me.
It’s a new feeling—to have an older man talk to me with pride in his voice. My own father often uses a tone tinged with nothing short of disdain.
Disdain that’s likely to be amplified tenfold when he learns about my new career path.
The thought makes me smile even wider.
“Do you have any bookings for the summer?”
“No. Haven’t quite gotten that far yet,” I admit.
“You’ll probably want to start thinking about it soon,” Morris cautions. “Get a website going, and a booking system setup. Do some marketing. Put together a social media presence.”
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally. Truth is, setting up a booking system and a website and everything sounds like a complete nightmare. Never mind social media. Which is why, until now, I’d shuffled all that business-y stuff to the bottom of my to-do list.
“Hey, Jax!” a high-pitched voice suddenly sings from behind my right shoulder.
I turn to face three girls waving at me as they waltz towards the front door of the bar. I know them well—they’re regular Saturday nighters at Full Moon.
With my phone still pressed to my ear and Morris chatting about what my classmates are planning on doing with their new certifications, I nod at the girls and open the door for them. The first girl—pretty, with long black hair and olive skin—gives me a flirtatious look as she steps inside. “See you at the bar,” she mouths.
I nod again as the door swings shut behind them. Inside the bar, the lights are dim and glowy, the atmosphere bustling. People seem to love this place, flocking here in droves every weekend…
I’ve been at Full Moon for years. People know me as a staple around here. Part of the furniture.
It’s going to be a huge change when I leave this all behind. But I’m ready.
At least, I think I am.
Stepping into the unknown is something I do regularly as a wilderness enthusiast, but when I’m out there, on my own, I know I’m not going to fail. I’m confident. Self-assured in my survival skills.
Running a business, however? Dealing with people past a wink and a smile as I pour them a drink?
It’s all new to me.
I’ve always wanted to live off-grid in a cabin in the woods. And while this just fuels my dad’s “my son is a disappointment” fire, and my step-mom’s upset that I won’t find a woman to “settle down with ASAP” (living alone in the wilderness is not exactly conducive to a long-term relationship), I don’t really care what they think.
Because being out there, in the wild, is the place I feel happiest. Most at peace.
I bought the cabin a few months back after years of saving, with the intention of turning it into both my new home, and my way of making money by leading guided excursions. Welcome people to the backcountry who want to change their lives, push their limits, and experience the nitty-gritty, exquisitely beautiful, sometimes difficult days in the Georgia wilderness.
As I get lost in these thoughts of my future workplace in nature, I look through the window of Full Moon and lazily scan my soon-to-be-ex-workplace in this concrete jungle.
My eyes land on a familiar brunette among the dining crowd.
It’s hard not to recognize her, honestly. She’s here every single Saturday night, always with a different guy, and always wearing a look of concern on her face, like she’s not quite sure how she got here.
