I walked into the master bedroom I had paid for, and there it was: my suitcase tossed in a corner, my expensive face cream used, and a stranger’s yapping dog curled up on my pillow.
This was my girls’ trip. The one I planned and paid for to escape the stress of my life.
But my best friend, Jenna, decided to invite more people without asking. Then she gave my room to her influencer niece, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “You won’t mind the couch, right?”
Little did they know a historic blizzard was about to snow them in without power, and I’d be watching it all unfold from a luxury spa down the road, deciding whether or not to answer their desperate calls for rescue.
The Promise of a Break: A Price for Peace
The cursor blinked at me from the center of a half-written project proposal. Synergize forward-facing paradigms. I closed my eyes, and the meaningless corporate words swarmed behind my eyelids like gnats. It was a Tuesday, but it felt like the fifth Monday of the week. At home, my husband, Tom, was holding down the fort with our ten-year-old, Leo, but the maternal guilt was a low-grade hum beneath the fluorescent lights of the office. I was failing on all fronts, spreading myself so thin I was transparent.
I minimized the document and opened a browser window I kept for emergencies. Escapes. Fantasies. A cabin rental site popped up, filled with pictures of crackling fires and snow-dusted pines. My finger twitched over the mouse.
There it was. “The Aspen Hollow.” Two bedrooms, a stone fireplace, a wraparound porch with a view of the mountains that looked like a Bob Ross painting. It was perfect. It was also seven hundred and fifty dollars for a weekend. I thought of Leo’s upcoming orthodontist bills and the new tires Tom said we needed for the SUV. I winced.
Then I thought of the blinking cursor again, of the hollow feeling in my chest when I kissed a sleeping Leo goodbye in the morning. I clicked “Book Now.” The confirmation email felt like a shot of adrenaline. A weekend. Just one weekend of quiet.
My first call was to Jenna. We’d been best friends since we were dorm-mates in college, a twenty-year tapestry of terrible boyfriends, cheap wine, career changes, and weddings. She was the only person I could imagine sharing the sacred silence with.
“A cabin? In the mountains?” Her voice crackled with excitement over the phone. “Maya, you are a lifesaver. An absolute angel. Yes. A thousand times, yes!”
I smiled, the first genuine smile in weeks. The tension in my shoulders eased. “Just us,” I said. “Like old times. We’ll drink wine, do face masks, and speak to no one.”
“It sounds like heaven,” she breathed. And for a moment, I believed it was that simple.
Just One More
Two days later, my phone rang. It was Jenna. Her tone was bubbly, a little too bright. I knew that tone. It was the precursor to a favor.
“Hey! So, the weirdest thing,” she started, not pausing for breath. “You know my cousin Mark? He and Sarah just split up. Like, this morning. He’s an absolute wreck, poor thing.”
I made a sympathetic noise, my eyes drifting to the rental confirmation on my desk. Two bedrooms. One for me, one for her. A perfect, balanced equation.
“And I was just thinking,” she continued, her voice weaving a delicate, guilt-laced web, “it would be so good for him to get out of the city. Just to clear his head, you know? He’s such a great guy, he’d be no trouble at all. He’d probably just fish or something. We’d barely even see him.”
The silence stretched. I pictured a third person in our quiet cabin. A sad man. A sad, fishing man. It wasn’t part of the vision. The vision was a sacred space for two.
“Jenna, I don’t know,” I said slowly. “The place only has two beds.”
“Oh, that’s fine! He can take the couch!” she chirped, as if she’d already solved a problem I hadn’t even agreed to. “He won’t care. Please, Maya? You’re so good at this stuff. I feel so bad for him.”
There it was. The gentle pressure, the framing of me as the gracious, understanding one. To say no would be to brand myself as selfish and unkind. After twenty years, our dynamic had grooves worn into it, and this was one of them. My desire for peace felt petty when weighed against a man’s fresh heartbreak.
“Okay,” I sighed, the word tasting like defeat. “Okay, Jenna. He can come.”
“You’re the best! The absolute best!” she squealed. “He’s going to be so thrilled. This is going to be so much fun!”
I hung up the phone and looked at the picture of the cabin. The cozy, two-person retreat already felt a little more crowded.
The Unsolicited Upgrade
The text message arrived on Thursday morning. It wasn’t from Jenna, but to a new group chat she had created, titled “CABIN WEEKEND!!!!” with an excessive number of tree and snowflake emojis. The members were me, Jenna, Mark, and two names I didn’t recognize: Chloe and Liam.
“AMAZING NEWS, team!” Jenna’s text read. “My niece, Chloe—you know, the influencer?—is in the area and wants to join us! And she’s bringing her boyfriend, Liam, who’s a professional videographer! They can get some sick drone footage of the cabin and the mountains. She’s going to feature it on her page. That’s like, free publicity for the rental owner! It’s a total win-win!”
I stared at my phone, my blood turning to ice water. A cold dread, heavy and metallic, settled in my stomach. Influencer. Videographer. Drone footage. These were words from a language I did not want spoken on my quiet weekend. I was now a member of a “team” on a trip that was rapidly becoming a content creation opportunity.
Before I could even formulate a response, my phone buzzed with a notification from my banking app. Venmo: Jenna sent you $150. The note attached read: “For our share! Can’t wait! xoxo”
I did the math in my head, my mind numb. Seven hundred and fifty dollars. I had paid it all. There were now six people attending. Jenna, her cousin, her niece, and the niece’s boyfriend. Four of them were her guests. And she had sent me one hundred and fifty dollars. Less than the cost of one person’s share.
I felt a wave of nausea. This wasn’t a girl’s trip anymore. It wasn’t even a group trip. I had become the unwitting financier and host of a stranger’s social media project. I typed out a reply, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Jenna, can we talk about this? But I couldn’t send it. The group chat format was a trap. Protesting here, in front of strangers, would make me look like a shrew. She knew that.
I put my phone down on my desk, face down, as if it were radioactive. The silence I had paid for was gone. And I had a sinking feeling I had paid for a whole lot more than that.
The Long, Silent Drive
Friday afternoon, I pulled up to Jenna’s apartment building, the back of my SUV already loaded with groceries I’d bought for the weekend—good cheese, a few bottles of decent wine, steak for the grill. When she came out, she was wrestling two oversized suitcases and a tote bag.
“Ready for peace and quiet?” I asked, forcing a smile.
“Totally!” she said, not looking at me as she shoved her bags into the trunk. “I just have to send Chloe the wifi password. She needs to pre-schedule a post for tonight. Her engagement is highest around 8 PM.”
The two-hour drive was a masterclass in modern alienation. I tried, at first. I asked about her job. I told a funny story about Leo trying to explain TikTok dances to Tom. Jenna’s responses were monosyllabic, her attention captured by the glowing screen in her hand. Her thumbs moved in a furious blur, tapping out messages to the cabin group chat I was now pointedly ignoring.
“Chloe’s asking if the fireplace is gas or wood-burning. Liam needs to know for the lighting,” she said to the air.
“Wood-burning,” I said, my voice tight. “It said so in the description.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll let him know.” Tap, tap, tap.
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. It was filled with everything I wasn’t saying. I thought about the seven hundred and fifty dollars that had left my bank account. I thought about the single, pathetic Venmo payment sitting in my own. I thought about how I had wanted to reconnect with my oldest friend, and instead, I was chauffeuring her social media manager.
We wound our way up the mountain roads, the autumn scenery a breathtaking display of gold and crimson. It was beautiful, but I couldn’t feel it. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. I was driving toward my vacation, my expensive, curated escape. But it felt like I was driving into a storm. And I was the only one who could see the clouds gathering.
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