I leave Butterscotch behind for my walk since it’s further than she still likes. Moving briskly, I cross the field towards the back of the property. At the same time, I take long, slow, deep breaths, filling my lungs with damp fresh air. I exhale even more slowly, using yet another technique I’ve learned for dealing with stress and anxiety.

I might be channeling Theo, I think. Or I might be going crazy. Stress can do that to you. Whatever the case, I’m glad I’m heading towards the forest. What can I say? Some people love the beach. I’m drawn to trees. The Japanese are on to something with their forest bathing concept.

It’s very Lord of the Rings in this region—the ubiquitous dark towering fir trees, the undulating topography, the rain, and the occasional mist and fog. All of it is carved up by the blue-green Puget Sound, which makes this island-like peninsula look like a praying mantis on a map. No wonder so many Scandinavians came here. It must have felt just like home.

Whether it’s my Norwegian myth-loving blood calling or my epic fantasy-loving side, this land bewitches me. Sometimes, I sit in one of the oversized Adirondack chairs on the back deck and daydream. I imagine seeing one of my three favorite LOTR heroes at the forest's edge. They appear on horseback (of course) to invite me off on an exciting and romantic adventure. I’m not too picky; it could be Aragorn, Legolas, or Faramir (who, as I get older, I appreciate more and more). I could really use a hero right now.

My heart twists painfully. Book or daydreamed romances are the only kinds I’m likely to have in the near future, or maybe any future. This area isn’t a hotbed of single life, and I’m certainly not ready to try the active living singles site I met Jack through again yet. No. I need time to heal, regroup, and learn more from Vivienne first.

I hope the money Trident offers me isn’t significantly less than what I would be paid originally. Crap. It’s less expensive to live here than if I was paying rent, but Theo had left a bit of a financial mess to clean up. Syd and I are still paying off his debt against the property. Gunnar also warned me that we’ll need a new roof soon.

Chewing on my lower lip in concentration, I scroll through my phone for the right angry-girl-get-your-self-together music. Dua Lipa’s New Rules comes up. Perfect.

This song helped me finally get over my infatuated, mostly unrequited crush with another handsome photographer several years ago. Maybe it’ll help with this Trident fiasco and, of course, the Jack debacle. I really am cursed.

Ian McCallister. Whew. It’s good to remind myself I’m still standing after him. Like Vivienne, he took me under his wing when I first worked for Pamela. He’s brilliant, a tantalizing mix of outdoorsman who also loves fashion. He now spends his time working for top fashion brands and National Geographic.

To be fair, Ian was a great teacher. I owe most of my video editing skills to him. In the past, this was precisely the kind of topsy-turvy my life sucks moment that would compel me to reach out to Ian again. If he were between gigs and the models and actresses he usually dated, we’d be hiking in the Santa Monica mountains near his place in Malibu within a couple of hours. More often than not, I’d be staying the night at his place because he hates to sleep alone.

Fortunately, Ian’s still in L.A., and I’m up here. As Dua advises, if you’re still finding yourself sleeping with a man, you’re certainly not moving on. I sing along with her as I enter the path that will take me straight into the Port Gamble Forest.

The sad irony of this morning’s conversation with the publishing team is that I do want to take riding lessons again; it’s absolutely on my bucket list. I’d started taking dressage a few years ago at the very same stable I rode at as a kid (when I was all about jumping). But stopped when I came up here. I miss it. I need to get to a better place financially first.

Dressage is so much fun. It’s the ballet of riding, but the horse is the dancer. It’s an amazing feeling. At the heart of it, you’re learning to communicate, so the animal does an array of impressively athletic but natural moves (such as they do when running free and playing), all on your signal.

Maybe I can start lessons later this summer. And maybe next year…first things first. Maybe Lorelei and I really can get Gunner to fix his horse stalls. It would be so convenient (and much more affordable) if he’d let me stable a horse right next door. But then I’d need to figure out all the other long list of expenses accompanying a horse.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

You could crowdsource your original Horse Girls idea, Theo says in my head.

Crowdsource? I ask mentally, turning down the music.

No one answers. I probably am delusional. And I have no idea how to crowdsource anything. I have online illustrator contacts who’ve done it successfully, and I know others who use one of the subscription-based social media platforms to help support themselves. But I’m a total newbie to any of that.

Not long after I met him, Jack and another photographer friend tried to crowdsource a coffee table photo book on Kickstarter and failed. Remembering this makes my stomach lurch. But then I remember you don’t have to do a total gamble when raising money this way. This thought helps my shoulders come down from under my ears.

I do love my original Horse Girls concept. That’s the one bright spot in this horrible morning that Trident doesn’t care if I use the name. My original idea is about real women and horses from history who did remarkable things.

The challenge was the time each drawing took me to create. I wanted them to be well-researched so that I could capture the energy and essence of their remarkable stories. When I first pitched the idea to Dulari, I only had ten of them done. I’d need at least triple the number of illustrations to create a full coloring book.

What if I use the illustrations in another way? I wonder as I enter the official trail. I ponder this possibility as I walk quickly along, enjoying the mix of bird songs in the tree canopy above me and the spicy, rich scent of the trees around me.

From here, I can walk to Port Gamble, the charming historic logging town. Rune and I used to ride his aunt Sally’s lesson ponies to get ice cream on this trail in the summer. That’s farther than I want to go today. I’ll walk a three-mile loop I’ve been doing several times a week to keep in shape for hiking with Jack. Mostly, I walk, but I’ll do a good sprint at the end.

There’s no one else out right now. The birds and I have the forest to ourselves. I take out my phone again and pull up a mix my dad sent me last week. It’s some of his favorite old-school 70s and 80s funk and disco, perfect for walking, dancing, and ideating.

As the distinctive opening groove of Chaka Kahn’s Aint Nobody comes on, I pick up my pace and dance walk along. Could I really crowdsource the money to do my own project for Horse Girls? And if I did it, could I have something together by October for the holiday season?

If I decided to move forward with this crazy idea, I’d have four months to prepare. I can’t totally stop working freelance to focus just on this project right now, but not getting together with Jack to hike over most weekends will undoubtedly free up space. It sucks, but there it is.

Crap. This reminds me that I still need to figure out what to do about the fundraising party on Saturday night. It’s a stellar networking opportunity, but I hate the idea of going solo. I wouldn’t mind going alone normally since my friends and I have a table. However, knowing Jack will show up with Amy Pennington when my friends expect us to be there as a couple will be completely mortifying.

Crap. Crap. Crap. I pick up my pace as Earth Wind & Fire’s Boogie Wonderland comes on, which you must dance to.

What about Rune? Theo asks in my head just loud enough over the music I catch it.

Very funny, I think back, I’m sure Rune has a girlfriend.

Of course, he does; how could he not? Or maybe he’s just broken someone else’s heart, and he’s in between? No. Not going there.

Just ask him as a friend, Theo nudges.

No, I can’t do it, I think back tartly.

I don’t need any more rejection right now; thank you very much. If he couldn’t be seen with me at a Sundance party, why would he say yes to this kind of event?

What I need is to dance these finicky, fickle men that I’m not good enough for out of my system. Since I already bought both tickets, I’ll host another woman who can’t afford one. In my growing friend network, there has to be someone who would love to come.

I’m almost full-out dancing now, feeling the groove of this fantastic old-school music. Moving my arms and swaying my hips saucily, I start to do steps from all of those street dancing classes I took for years and years and what I’ve picked up from YouTube more recently.

Then the magic really happens. Stevie Wonder’s Don’t You Worry ‘Bout a Thing comes on. I stop in the middle of the trail and laugh out loud. It feels like a sign. I’ll not only survive these terrible two days, but somehow, I’ll come out better on the other side. It just might take a while.

This is the song my dad would play whenever anyone in my family was sad or in a challenging situation. We weren’t religious, but my parents fervently believed in the spiritual experience of great music. I start dancing even more earnestly in place, putting my whole body into it, feeling loose, free, and happier than I have in weeks.

I’ll cut my walk dance short. I’ll put the word out to my friends right now; that way, they’ll know Jack’s not coming as my date. I’ll run home to make up for cutting my walk short.

Turning on my heel, I launch myself into a run. One stride in, I crash right into the runner coming in the other direction.

Rune’s shocked surprise mirrors my own as I smack into his chest and tip him backward. We go down hard with a muffled thud on the damp, needle-cushioned trail.