Come See About Me - C. K. Kelly Martin

Come See About Me by C. K. Kelly Martin

also by C. K. Kelly Martin I Know It’s Over One Lonely Degree The Lighter Side of Life and Death My Beating Teenage Heart Yesterday

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Text copyright 2012 by Carolyn Martin (C. K. Kelly Martin) Jacket photograph: Stock footage provided by BDS/Pond5.com All rights reserved. This book contains material protected under international copyright laws. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without express permission from the author.

Table of Contents One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen

Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven

One I can’t listen to music with lyrics anymore. I can’t read more than a couple of sentences from a newspaper or novel without losing focus. I’ve lost fifteen pounds since last January because I forget to eat, and even when I remember, I don’t have much of an appetite. The first thing I do when I get up these days is shuffle out of the spare bedroom and into the bath because otherwise I’m liable to forget that too. I drop my skinny white body into the empty tub and let the warm water fill up around me so that Abigail, during the couple of weeks she spends here every few months, won’t think she made a mistake in letting me stay and change her mind. I can’t have that. I don’t want to go. It was bad enough having to leave the apartment Bastien and I shared in Toronto. I should’ve figured out a way to stay and hang on to that little piece of the life we had together, but I didn’t. I couldn’t focus enough to solve that problem either. So I’ve been living in Oakville, at Abigail’s house, a fifteen-minute walk from the lake, for just over two months now. She swooped in and saved me when I didn’t know what to do—only

that I didn’t want to fly home to B.C. and move back in with my parents like they were convinced was best, and that I couldn’t humor any of my Toronto friends who’d offered to squeeze me into their shared apartments/houses either. People expect you to talk to them, even the ones who tell you they understand. They want energy you don’t have. They want you to care about something and I don’t. Alone is what’s easier. Everyone else would prefer that I pretend my life hasn’t been hollowed out. They believe their expectations should carry some weight with me. Only Bastien truly carries any weight and people try to use that fact against me too and tell me what he would want for me. Some of the things they say about that might be right, but since he’s not here he doesn’t get to decide how I should handle his absence. I dip my head back into the bath water to rinse the conditioner from my hair. It’s always the last thing I do before I pull the plug. I was never the kind of girl to devote a lot of energy to my appearance, but I used to at least take the time to properly rinse the conditioner out of my hair. I’m clean, though; presentable. Abigail’s house is too—mainly because I’ve been living light. I never have people over and have barely turned on the oven. My daily menu consists of cereal, fruit, bread, and microwavable items like

noodle bowls. That considered, my grocery bill shouldn’t be much more than a small domestic pet’s, but too often I stop into the nearest corner store and stock up there. They don’t carry bread or fruit but they have the other things, at inflated prices. When I do make it all the way over to the grocery store or fruit market it’s actually because of Armstrong. Hamsters need a small amount of fruit and vegetables every day and no matter how I feel I can’t let anything happen to Armstrong. I guess that means I care about something after all. Taking care of Armstrong is my biggest daily priority, and because hamsters are nocturnal, the first time I look in on him he’s usually asleep, burrowed in his bedding or occasionally, if I’ve forgotten to take it out, his wheel. If I leave it in overnight he tends to run on it until he makes himself sick. Bastien was the first one to notice that. One night he was camped out on the couch composing a Chaucer essay for English class while I was fast asleep in the bedroom. The noise from the spinning hamster wheel kept breaking his concentration, so Bastien tugged on earphones and cranked up the tunes—classical music, which he always used to say was the only kind of music he could listen to while working. When he took off the earphones hours later the wheel was still

squeaking away, propelled by a worn-out-looking but obviously compulsive Armstrong. It’s as though he can’t help himself. He craves the wheel like some humans crave heroin or sex. So we started rationing Armstrong’s wheel time for his own good, taking it out before we went to sleep ourselves. Sometimes now I forget to take the wheel out at night and wake up to the sound of Armstrong engaged in an endless marathon. His cage is in the spare room with me because I don’t want Abigail to feel like I’m taking over her house, but I don’t mind having him there anyway because he reminds me of Bastien. Our landlord said no cats or dogs, but he never said no hamsters and Bastien wanted a pet. In the evening, after Armstrong’s woken up and gorged himself on whatever’s in his food bowl, I’ll replace his wheel for him and he’ll race around inside it like a junkie. In the meantime I drag my comb through my hair and head for the kitchen. Just coffee for now because I’m not hungry. I drink it with one sugar but no milk because there isn’t any. I should go to the store today. Walk into town and hit the fruit market. First, I curl up on the couch in front of the television and click on the remote. Abigail has a really crappy cable package, which makes sense since she’s never here to watch it. I didn’t used to watch much TV either, but now I need the

background hum and keep it on for the majority of the day. They say TV induces a trance state and that the longer you watch the deeper the trance gets. I know it’s true because I live that most days. Faces morph into other faces. Two women in bridesmaid’s dresses screech at each other. Another woman is found dead in bed with her bathrobe on backwards. Gordon Ramsey acts outraged and then makes crab cakes. A taxi careens into the side of a van in the pouring rain. Doctor Phil makes a tepid joke and waits for his studio audience to laugh. Sometimes, when I’ve had enough of that, I watch the news all day instead. Or sports. It could be anything really. As long as it’s noise and moving pictures. Something to park my skinny, white, freshly-rinsed body in front of. Other days I can’t stand the pixels and talking heads anymore and walk down to the lake to watch geese and sailboats bob along the waves. An outdoor trance rather than an indoor one. About ten days ago, two boys who appeared to be ten or eleven years old were throwing rocks at the crowd of geese and ducks gathered in the water, and I envisioned lifting a boulder effortlessly above my head, like Wonder Woman, hurling it in the boys’ direction and flattening them dead. Why not? Weren’t they

demonstrating that they’re destined to be serial killers or the future CEOs of soulless oil companies? No respect, no conscience. The trouble is there are so many psychopathic kids (and parents) around that snuffing them out could be Wonder Woman’s full-time job. In the old days I would have given the boys the evil eye and told them to stop—or if Bastien was with me he’d have lit into them before I’d even had a chance to open my mouth. He couldn’t stand to see anything or anyone being hurt. It’s hard to rouse myself to say or do anything now that Bastien’s gone. It’s like fighting my way through a fog or trying to scream in one of those dreams where it’s struggle enough to whisper. So I didn’t say a word to them, just hated the boys silently from within my impermeable fog. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who disapproved. A woman clutching hands with a little girl in a sailor hat crossed towards the boys and said, “Hey there, stop bothering the birds, guys.” Her tone was dismay mingled with impatience and the boys’ stunned glares made it clear she was a stranger to them. “You can’t tell us what to do,” the shorter one with the pinched face complained.

The woman was even more taken aback than the boys had been seconds earlier, and in the silent pause between them I broke through my murk with an unexpected flash of energy, shouting, from my place on the boulder fifteen feet behind them, “Do your parents let you throw rocks at birds?” The taller boy’s head sagged on his shoulders. He glanced guardedly at his friend as if to say, let’s go. They dropped the rocks clenched in their fists and headed away from the water and up to the grass. The little girl with the sailor hat turned to stare at the geese and ducks while her mother and I swapped looks of solidarity. Who needs Wonder Woman? My lips stuck to my front teeth as I began to smile, but the woman’s gaze had already shifted towards the lake. Today I don’t want to deal with kids throwing rocks at geese, but since I have to venture further than the corner store I know I’ll end up at the lake. Once I’m far enough from Abigail’s house the water has a habit of pulling me towards it, like it wants me in its orbit. When you don’t have a car and don’t live in Toronto anymore, the distance between places proves much longer than you’d ever realized, but Abigail’s Oakville neighborhood is a pleasant place to walk: well-landscaped yards attached to

equally picturesque houses. There’s little traffic and little noise but lots of money and political influence. In an alternate life I might want to settle down here with Bastien in our late twenties, have the kids I’d never really stopped to think about before Bastien died because the future felt both distant and so certain that it didn’t seem to require any consideration. I force myself to turn off the TV, blow dry my hair and pull on a rumpled pair of jeans and pink T-shirt. As soon as I get outdoors I’m reminded, by the strength of an early September sun which feels more like August, that I should buy sunscreen. My nose is still peeling from my last burn. It doesn’t matter except that when Abigail gets here next week I want her to believe I’m keeping my head above water enough for this arrangement to be a good idea. For that, I should look the part. In control of basic health and hygiene. Having lost her husband, Abigail understands about needing time and space more than most people, but even then there’s likely a line between accepting my sadness and rejecting it as something crossing the border into clinical. There’s a cultural level of acceptable grief that I’m on the wrong side of. Sometimes I wonder how Bastien would’ve lived with my loss. Maybe he’d be better at losing

me than I am at losing him. Or maybe he’d be ensconced here at his aunt Abigail’s house along with Armstrong, in hiding from a life that had taken a permanent wrong turn. I just think all the time. About him. Us. The days and nights we shared in our old apartment. The smell of soap on his skin and how still, peaceful and self-contained he appeared when he didn’t realize anyone was watching him. I was amazed, when I’d see that expression of perfect calm slip over his features, that I was the one sharing his life. How could I possibly be that lucky? And then it would strike me as utterly ridiculous that I’d failed to truly notice him in all the years we were in high school together in Burnaby. We could’ve had more years together, even if there was a fixed end date. I should’ve noticed him sooner. The sun beats down on my flaking nose as I head down Douglas Avenue, squinting against the white-hot glare because, as well as forgetting sunscreen, I’ve left my sunglasses behind. My cloth shopping bags too. By the time I reach Lakeshore Road my forehead is beaded with sweat. It’s even more humid than I’d realized and if I don’t cool down within the next thirty seconds my armpits will be wet too. Closer to the square, there’s a café I’ve popped into a few times over the summer. A place to sit down and

soak up the air conditioning. Downtown Oakville is littered with restaurants, cafés, coffee shops and ice cream parlors, but I keep gravitating to the same few places: the lake, the fruit market, and The Cunning Café. On a couple of occasions, when I’ve needed to use the bathroom, I’ve dropped into the library too. In the past I could have spent hours there, but now it seems about as useful as your average cat might find a symphony, filled as it is with materials I’m unable to concentrate on. I slip past the fruit market in favor of cool air and head for The Cunning Café. The décor is vaguely Mediterranean but not trying too hard to be hip. The first time I walked through the door I wondered if Bastien had ever been inside. I thought he would’ve appreciated the homey atmosphere, and began to construct a narrative in which I’d met up with him here after one of his classes at Sheridan College. I imagined what he would order—the meat cannelloni maybe, or veal Parmigiana. A curry chicken wrap if he wasn’t too hungry. The only things I’ve ordered here have been sandwiches or bagels. I could order one now since I still haven’t eaten but my stomach isn’t interested. You should have something, I lecture silently. Between the heat and not having bitten into any calories yet today, you don’t want to

pass out. I don’t feel faint but one evening at the end of July everything started to go dark for me while in the cleaning products aisle of the supermarket. Only a moment earlier I’d been steady on my feet. I remember thinking, when I fell against the shelving unit and sent a jug of laundry detergent flying, that Bastien would’ve been angry at me for neglecting myself. He made me twinge with guilt from the grave. I can’t keep going on with my life as though it doesn’t matter that he’s gone, but I can stay alive for him. That I can do. Eat and drink every day. Sleep. Breathe. Watch TV. Watch the waves. I pick up a tray and select a bottle of lime soda from the fridge beside the counter. Then I peer over the head of the blond woman behind the counter to read the menu. There’s only one guy in front of me in line and he’s biting his lip as he scans the menu too, the blond woman smiling patiently at an indecision she must witness a hundred times a day. “Is the chicken curry wrap very spicy?” he ventures. I’m not good with accents but I can detect a jaunty sort of twang in his voice that I assume is English or Scottish, because Abigail mentioned, when she first came to pick me up and get me settled in Oakville, that there were a

lot of English and Scottish people in the area. “Medium-spicy,” the woman clarifies, raising her hand in a so-so motion. “If you’re looking for super-hot it won’t qualify, but it’s tasty.” I’ve decided on the egg salad but the guy’s still perusing his menu options, thinking it all over, and the woman’s eyes flick over to me. “I like your shirt,” she says. I glance automatically down to remind myself what I threw on before leaving the house. At the end of last summer I snapped up a bunch of T-shirts on sale at the Yonge Eglinton Centre. Bastien and I’d been living together for three and a half months and were having a stupid fight about his mother not liking me because every time she phoned and I picked up instead she sounded like someone who’d just discovered a fingernail sliver amongst her nachos. Meanwhile Bastien refused to admit his mother had anything against me. He kept repeating that she was just a naturally aloof person and that I shouldn’t take it personally. I’d only met his mother three times in person then and didn’t know what she was like with people aside from her family and closest friends. Later I learned he was right—his mother had a cold exterior that it took time to chip through—but I didn’t happen to believe that at

the end of last August when we stopped by the Yonge Eglinton Centre to pick up fresh bedding and food for Armstrong. Bastien couldn’t handle relationship tension well and wanted me to drop the subject. When it became obvious that I wasn’t going to oblige he stuffed his hands down into his pockets, rolled his eyes and said, with a finality that kicked my irritation up another notch, “You know what, why don’t you take some time to cool down and I’ll catch up with you later.” He stepped away from me and I let him. My heart was beating fast from being angry with him and I stomped off in the opposite direction, wondering which of us was supposed to buy Armstrong’s supplies and deciding Bastien should be the one, since he’d ditched me. Then I’d prowled the mall and ended up with my arms full of T-shirts I didn’t need, one of which I’m wearing today—emblazoned with the phrase “One Tough Cookie” under a cartoonish image of an outraged cookie (minus a single bite), shaking its two tiny cookie fists in the air. The guy ahead of me in line follows the blond woman’s gaze to ogle my T-shirt and then looks swiftly back at the menu as he realizes my chest probably isn’t the most politically correct place for his eyes to settle. “Thanks,” I tell her after what I realize has

been an uncomfortably long pause following her compliment. Like I said, I think about Bastien and us constantly. Part of my brain still exists in a reality in which he’s alive and we’re living in a basement apartment together in Toronto. “Better make it the corn beef and cheese on Italian bread,” the man says, returning us all to the matter at hand. The blond woman nods. “Toasted?” “Toasted,” he confirms, flashing the briefest of smiles. The woman slices into a loaf of Italian bread. “I love your accent,” she says. “What part of Ireland are you from?” “Dublin.” The man’s smile reappears, seeming more genuine this time, and their conversation ambles forward. With nothing further required from me, I drift back behind a curtain of fog until it’s time to place my order. Once I have my egg salad sandwich I take a seat near the back door. There aren’t many tables left; I’d forgotten that it was the weekend. Chew. Swallow. Sip lime soda. Think. Neither Bastien nor I really knew how to cook. We lived on frozen/packaged food and cheap takeout. I had this idea we could learn to cook together and bought a book of basic recipes. We tackled chicken quesadillas, teriyaki pork, sweet potatoes, sticky buns and cabbage rolls and

then got bored and rotated the homemade quesadillas and buns into our diet of otherwise packaged food and takeout. Bastien was more of a natural in the kitchen than I was and I began to lose interest first, but the sticky buns were delicious. I can taste the memory of cinnamon and walnuts even as I swallow bits of egg salad. The sandwich itself is fine. Good even. But I can’t finish it. Two-thirds of the way through digesting another bite becomes impossible so, having cooled off like I’d intended, I wander down to the lake and sit on a shaded bench. Supervised children play in the park behind me, shrieking and laughing, but no one’s bothering the geese. In fact, the geese themselves seem almost militant—not at all like creatures in need of human protection—as they march out of the lake and spread strategically out along the grass for a midday snack. Even in the shade, the heat begins to get to me again after about an hour and I stroll back up to Lakeshore Road to visit the fruit market and buy bananas and berries for Armstrong and milk for myself. On the way to the market an old woman in a medical scooter whizzes by me on the sidewalk, stopping abruptly a few feet in front of me. She tugs gently at the long gold pashmina draped around her shoulders. It’s too warm for a shawl—I don’t know how she can

stand it—but as I catch up to her I spy the reason she’s come to a halt. One end of her pashmina is wedged under the scooter’s rear left wheel. I stop next to the woman and attempt to soften my expression as I glance down into her eyes. “Do you need some help?” She smiles ruefully up at me. “I don’t want to roll forward in case I tear it. Do you think you could try to slip it out?” I crouch to examine the situation more closely and begin to work the delicate fabric out from underneath the wheel, slowly and carefully. At first I suspect it won’t all come free and that she’ll have to move forward and risk ruining her pretty pashmina. “Is there anything I can do?” a male voice says from above me. My fingers reclaim the final section of trapped fabric. “Oh, thank you!” the woman exclaims, beaming at me. Now that I’m really looking at her I notice she has arresting green eyes; it’s like staring into the Caribbean ocean and having it stare back. “You’re welcome,” I say, returning her smile. As I stand, I switch my gaze to the man who’d stopped to help, the very same one who wasn’t interested in a medium-spicy chicken curry wrap at The Cunning Café earlier in the afternoon.

“She’s got it,” the woman announces gratefully, and for a fraction of a second I actually feel something other than loss: a tiny seed of pride. “But thank you both.” She knots the pashmina around her chest and I turn to continue my journey to the fruit market. Three seconds later the woman’s speeding ahead of me again on the sidewalk, waving as she passes. “Excuse me,” the man says, sidling up to me. “Could you tell me if there’s a post office around here?” I pause to digest the question. Someone else could probably answer in a snap but it takes me a moment to remember whether I’m in possession of the information he’s looking for. “It won’t be open today,” I tell him. “Right, Sunday,” the guy says, mostly to himself. “I’ll have to go tomorrow then. Can you point me in the right direction?” The street name’s slipped my mind but I tell him about the shop with the post office counter where I’ve purchased stamps from time to time. It’s only a couple blocks west from where we’re currently standing—on the north side of one of the little side streets running just off Lakeshore. “You’ll see a butcher’s on the corner and there’s an ice cream place down the same street,” I add, pointing in the general direction.

“Thanks,” he says, the same brief but polite smile on his lips that I spotted there earlier. He sets off down the road as though he intends to locate the post office now, despite me mentioning that it would be closed. Maybe he just wants to scout out the location for tomorrow. Just to know. I used to be like that; always checking Google Maps and the TTC schedule before going someplace new. I’d never been to Oakville before Bastien died. I was majoring in anthropology at the University of Toronto’s downtown campus while Bastien’s design program was split between classes at York University in Toronto and Oakville’s Sheridan College. The only thing I remember him saying about the place is, “It looks like a nice town—especially near to the lake. Kinda sleepy but with some breathing room.” I would never have thought to come here if it weren’t for Bastien’s aunt Abigail, but when she offered me someplace to stay and I learned her house was in Oakville, moving here, at least temporarily, made perfect sense. This was a place Bastien knew, a place he’d walked and ate and painted and sketched. A place where I could live inside a trance as much as was humanly possible while still having to give directions to the local post office and consider necessities like bananas,

berries and milk. I feel for the twenty dollar bill I hope is in my pocket (and not another thing that I’ve failed to remember) and then step from the sticky air hovering over the sidewalk into the relative coolness of the fruit market.

Two My best friend throughout most of high school was Iliana Lazaroy. She was the vice president of the student council and passionate about politics. In one of the candid yearbook photos of Iliana she’s sitting next to the mayor of Burnaby in our high school auditorium, the two of them in mid-conversation and a magnanimous smile plastered across Iliana’s face, her keen gaze demonstrating that she’s listening intently to every word the mayor says. The yearbook committee captioned the picture “Most Likely to Rule the World,” and they weren’t talking about the mayor. When we’d first gotten close at the end of ninth grade, Iliana and I were both honor roll students without specific career aspirations. For a long time I thought that I’d pick up a BA and then, if I still hadn’t figured anything else out, try for teacher’s college. Iliana hit on what she wanted to do before I did and at first she tried to guide me in the same direction. I helped her design posters and buttons for her election campaign at the end of eleventh grade, but the thought of having to do typical student council things, like organize funding drives and plan pep

rallies, bored me to tears. If Iliana and I both weren’t such loyal people we probably would’ve drifted apart in twelfth grade. People change, especially during high school. But we hung on. Busy as Iliana was, we still hung out together, and every once in a while I put my name down for council led initiatives, like the time I signed up to do the student volunteer day at our local food bank. Bastien, one of the few black students at our school, was volunteering at the food bank that day too. We sorted dried and canned goods next to each for over an hour, until someone asked him and a couple of the other guys from school to help unload a truck of donations in the warehouse out back. That hour was the most interaction Bastien and I ever had during high school. We’d shared a couple of classes over the years but moved in different circles and had never really gotten to know each other. Bastien’s grades were as good as mine but he was one of the kids you’d always see carrying around a sketchpad, stubby piece of charcoal and some manga novel or comic book. Our first real conversation happened at the Operation Foodshare bank. This was back when the Winter Olympics were being held in Vancouver, so all of B.C. was wild with Olympic fever. Jon Montgomery had won the gold in

men’s skeleton for us only the night before and Bastien and I talked about watching his final fast-as-lightning run down the track. When Shaun White and the halfpipe came up, Bastien’s eyes popped and he switched the topic to Torah Bright. Her name was on the lips of practically every guy at school the day after she won gold, so that wasn’t anything new, but I teased Bastien about it before admitting that she was hot, the kind of girl who’d be hot walking down the street in an old sweatshirt but was extra hot because she had super hero powers on a snowboard. Bastien grinned at me. “You know, you sound like you might have a thing for her too.” “Everybody can tell when someone’s beautiful,” I said. “Whether they like him or her or not. Guys can tell about other guys too. They just don’t like to admit it.” Bastien, still smiling, shook his head like he wasn’t going to entertain the idea. I started naming male athletes anyway, and then actors and rappers, which was when things got interesting because Bastien said he didn’t listen to pop music and hip hop much anymore and didn’t even know some of the people I’d mentioned. “I mean, I hear it around, you know, because it’s everywhere,” he added. “And some of it’s all right but I prefer, like, jazz, blues and

classical.” “So you’re an intellectual,” I kidded. Bastien squinted at me, his smile biting deeper into his face. “Yeah, look who’s talking, Little Miss Honor Roll with her best friend in student council.” “By honor roll standards I’m a slacker,” I countered, my hand wrapped around of a can of mandarin oranges that I’d pulled out of the sac between us. “But Iliana makes me look good. Besides, aren’t you Mr. Honor Roll yourself?” “True,” he conceded just seconds before he was called away to unload the truck. And that was pretty much it for Bastien and me in high school. I had no clue which universities he was applying to—would barely have given him a second thought if he hadn’t popped up in my life again eight months later clear across the country. Iliana got into McGill University in Montreal while I’d been accepted at the University of Toronto (I still didn’t really know what I wanted to do but was curious to see what east coast life was like). We’d sworn we’d take the train out to see each other whenever we could but lost track of each other fairly quickly. My classes were okay, especially anthropology, which I later decided I wanted to major in, but all through September my roommate Marissa made my life hell by sneaking a guy she was hooking

up with into our room while she thought I was asleep. On the first occasion the sex was so swift and rudimentary—before they passed out and then both started to snore—that I pretended I was still sleeping, but that got tougher and tougher to do as they grew rowdier on each subsequent occasion until I felt like was part of a psychological experiment designed to chart people’s reactions to unwanted exposure to live pornography. Watching their sloppy sex made me want to hold on to my virginity until I was least thirty. When I complained to Marissa for the third time she acted like I was a stuck up prude and said, with a sullen expression, that they’d try to be quieter. “Quieter isn’t going to cut it,” I said bluntly. Even sexiling me would’ve been a step up, but she’d never even tried to knock out a workable arrangement with me. “I’ve had enough. You need to go someplace else. I would think you’d want to anyway—unless you get off on being watched.” Marissa folded her arms rapidly in front of her and scrunched up her eyebrows. “You’re just jealous. Not like you’re getting any action, is it?” “Jealous? Please. More like totally grossed out, Marissa.” That’s not something I would normally say, even though it was the truth, but I was so sick of Marissa and her ridiculous fake

orgasm noises (because even without any practical experience of my own I was certain there was no way that Trev, with his jackhammer impersonation, was giving her any real ones) that I could barely look at her without my mouth dropping automatically into a frown. Several other unpleasant things were said by us both but Marissa didn’t bring Trev back to our room after that. She stopped talking to me entirely and the unspoken tension between us proved almost as toxic as being an unhappy witness to her sex life. When Yunhee Kang from my humanities class happened to mention that her own roommate had just dropped out and gone home to North Bay due to persistent health problems, I explained about my disastrous roommate experiences and begged her to let me move in. Thankfully, she didn’t like living alone and readily agreed. By Christmas Yunhee, who reminded me a little of Iliana before she’d discovered her interest in politics, and a girl named Katie she’d gone to high school with in Ottawa became my closest friends at university. None of us partied hard, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t like to have a good time. We joined the Asian Film Club, went to see bands together, and dressed up for the zombie walk near the end of October. As a zombie bride,

drenched in blood and with an eyeball dangling from her cheek, Yunhee had the best costume of the three of us. She clutched a dismembered prop arm and bared her teeth as the three of us lumbered through the park amid throngs of assorted zombies—cop zombies, pinup girl zombies in push-up bras, cross-dressing zombies, you name it and they were represented in the park that day. Katie and I felt almost underdressed in hoodies and jeans, our faces pale and trails of blood spilling from our mouths. Still, with my hair slicked back, a vacant look in my eyes and both my hands drenched in red, I would’ve thought I was fairly unrecognizable and anonymous. Trying to stay in character while simultaneously checking out everyone else’s costumes and zombie swagger was a big part of the fun. We lurched, growled and contorted our bodies, our faces fastened into blank expressions as we pretended to lunge at onlookers. But it was impossible to stay zombie for the entire duration of the walk and the three of us slipped periodically back into our regular selves to make small talk. We were ambling along, having temporarily returned to our human states, when a guy in broken glasses, green face paint and torn clothes fell into pace beside me. He bent his head to look into my face and said, “Leah Fischer, is

that you?” It took me a couple of seconds to get past his makeup job. “Bastien!” I exclaimed. There was dark red makeup smeared under his eyes and his tattered navy blazer flapped in the wind. “Hey, what’re you doing here?” His top teeth peeked out from between his lips as he smiled. “I’m taking a design program at York—living off campus with a few guys. What about you? I didn’t know you were going to school out here. You still see Iliana?” “She’s at McGill. We keep saying we have to get together. Hey.” I grabbed Yunhee’s shoulder. “This is my roommate, Yunhee, and my friend, Katie.” “Hey.” Bastien nodded at them. “This is the first time I’ve been introduced to zombies.” “We prefer the term undead,” Yunhee joked, both her arms reaching claw-like in front of her as she delved back into her performance. I spent the rest of the zombie walk talking to Bastien about our new lives in Toronto. It felt like catching up, which was funny considering we’d hardly ever spoken before. Bastien suggested that we should hang out sometime, and we exchanged cell phone numbers. Over the next couple of weeks we texted a little and then went for coffee twice. I thought we were just being friends until he dropped by my dorm room

on his way to a basketball game and casually happened to mention another girl he was hanging out with. Instantly I was jealous, which could only mean one thing: I was interested in Bastien Powell, a guy I’d gone to school with for four whole years and only really bothered to speak to once. When had his body changed from skinny to lean but well-muscled? When had he evolved from a comic book carrying dork into a creative, independent-minded person who had confident, interesting opinions? And did he like me back? I analyzed our hours together with Yunhee, feeling at a disadvantage because of my limited romantic experience. I’d only had one boyfriend in high school and that had lasted a grand total of two and a half short months before we’d mutually lost interest. Yunhee advised me to be bold and tell Bastien how I felt. At first I resisted, afraid my confession could change the dynamic between us in a negative way if he didn’t share my feelings. But after approximately ten days spent burning myself out with wondering whether Bastien could ever be with me or if we were just meant to be friends, I turned to him, right in the middle of the Oscar buzz movie we were watching at the Varsity theater together, and whispered, “I need

you to be absolutely truthful with me about something, okay?” He stared quizzically at me in the dark. “That sounds heavy, Leah. What’s up?” “I’m going to be okay with whatever you say but”—I focused on the screen and then back at him—“is there something going on with you and Tabatha?” She was the girl he’d been mentioning from time to time, a fellow York U student. My left eyelid pulsed as I continued. “Or do you wish there was?” Bastien tensed next to me. I felt that nearly as strongly as if it’d been my own body. Then he hunched over in his chair and said, “What do you want to hear?” “Just the truth.” He nodded soberly. “So it would mean something to you if there was something going on with Tabatha?” “It would mean…” I pulled my chin close to my chest and took a deep breath. “It would mean that I shouldn’t think about you in any way other than how we are right now.” I watched Bastien exhale. “I didn’t know you were,” he said. “I mean…I never got that feeling from you.” “I guess I’m a little slow at figuring myself out,” I admitted. My face was burning and I was grateful that it was dark so he wouldn’t see the

color in my cheeks. I could just about keep my voice steady, but I couldn’t control an embarrassed blush. “And now I think I should just shut up so we can get back to watching the movie.” “No, no, Leah.” Bastien’s voice spiked, competing with the movie dialogue. “I didn’t mean it like that.” A lady shushed him from several rows behind us. “I meant…” He dropped to a whisper. “We can’t talk here. Come with me.” He cocked his head in the direction of the exit and was already getting to his feet. I trailed him out of the theater and we stopped in front of the tropical fish tank in the lobby. A handful of spilt popcorn littered the ground between us. I dug my hands into my pockets and looked Bastien’s way, suspense building in the silence. “Tabatha’s strictly a friend,” he told me. “But you...” He tilted his head as he gazed back at me. “I’ve been thinking about you too. I would’ve said something sooner but…” He shrugged, a shyness creeping into his eyes that I’d never seen there before. “I read you wrong. I thought I was just picking up a friendship vibe from you.” Behind us a luminous yellow fish was looping around an equally colorful piece of coral. I shook my head and broke into a giddy smile. “Maybe in the very beginning,” I confessed, “but

not now.” Bastien smiled too. Neither of us could stop. Then he took a step closer to me and said, “So, hey, why are you still standing so far away?” He bent to kiss me and his mouth on mine felt right from the start. I threw my arms around his neck and leaned into him. We went straight back to his place, made out on top of his bed and then in it, the sound of his roommate’s music thumping through the dividing wall. We didn’t go all the way, though. We held back. It turned out that I wasn’t the only virgin in our relationship and we were both having too good a time exploring to rush things. It wasn’t until we were home in Burnaby for Christmas, curled up on a gray flannel blanket in front of my parents’ fireplace while they were at a friend’s dinner party, that we actually went ahead. And when it happened it was like a floodgate had opened up. We had sex so many times that night that we both started to feel raw and had to stop before we really wanted to. “Maybe we shouldn’t have waited,” Bastien kidded, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing me to him. “Just look what happens when we try to exercise some restraint.” I smiled into his chest. “So you think if we’d done it back when we were sixteen or something we’d be over sex by now?”

“I think if we did it when we were the sixteen the experience would’ve been over significantly faster,” Bastien admitted. “It probably would’ve been over if I saw you naked from across the room.” “Hah.” I eased myself away from him and propped my head up with my elbow so I could stare into his twinkling brown eyes. “But I guess you’re right; staring at each other from across the room would’ve been a lower impact activity.” I was pretty sore right then but mostly I was just joking around. Bastien’s face softened and then turned playful. “Show me where it hurts and I’ll kiss it better.” I swear he loved going down on me just as much as he loved sex itself. He told me once that he thought he could live down between my legs if I let him. We practically did live like that after we moved in together that May. In the back of my mind I think I’d previously believed sex would prove overrated—not specifically with Bastien but with anyone. It was funny to find out I was wrong about something I’d never consciously realized in the first place. I suddenly understood how people could become so obsessed with sex. If you were having a bad day it could be your pick-me-up, and on a good day it was gravy. But more than

that, sleeping with Bastien felt like speaking a secret language with your favorite person. Once we were living together hardly a day went by that we didn’t find time to be together. But the best thing about living with Bastien was plain and simple just being with Bastien, whatever we were doing. He was the person I wanted to speak to most every morning and every night, and even if I could, by some trick of the universe, still speak with him for just half an hour each day, I know that daily thirty minutes would be enough to make my entire life feel full. It wouldn’t matter if there was no sex or that he was lousy at coping with the minor amounts of relationship tension that surfaced between us from time to time. None of that would matter at all. It’s the essence of Bastien that I miss, the guy who spent as much time in his head coming up with comic book ideas to write and draw as he did with me, the guy who made me coffee as he told me about his day and was just as eager to hear about mine, the guy who always rooted for the underdog (except maybe in the case of Torah Bright), and the guy who named our hamster Armstrong after both musical genius Louis B and astronaut Neil, the first human to walk on the moon. “This hamster,” Bastien began jokingly as

he held seven-week-old Armstrong in his hands after we first got him home from the pet store, “should aspire to greatness.” In my opinion, we didn’t have to aspire to greatness. We were already there.

Three Maybe being that happy tempts fate. We only lived together for eight months but that was long enough for me to discover that most people aren’t anywhere near as happy with their husbands or boyfriends as I was with Bastien. I began to notice that women constantly told jokes featuring their significant others’ general cluelessness as the punch line. I heard it in movies and television and from friends’ lips. Men weren’t any more charitable. They often acted as if their wives or girlfriends were nags or spoiled princesses. Real examples of partnership were difficult to find. The happiest couple I knew, aside from us, was a man named Reid and his boyfriend Michael. In the summer between first and second year of university I’d taken a job at the Royal Ontario Museum, in the children’s gift shop up on the second floor. Reid worked for the museum as a graphic designer and I’d run into him in the cafeteria or hallways from time to time. By then I was becoming increasingly enthusiastic about my anthropology courses, particularly archaeology, and had decided that I wanted a career with the museum. There was so much to

learn, not so much in my gift shop job capacity but in the larger world of the museum, that I found myself making conversation with other employees—everyone from the web designers to the curators—at any opportunity. Reid was a chatty person. He’d talk to you about anything—recipes, right wing politics, the interview he’d caught on Craig Ferguson the night before—so we got pretty friendly at work. He and Michael had been together for seven years, but when I ran into them on Bloor Street one day after class, the spark between them gleamed as if they were still in the throes of first love. And the only negative thing I ever heard Reid say about Michael was that he had smelly feet. He didn’t even say that like he was complaining. Love is real and real love lasts. I used to feel sorry for people who didn’t believe in it—the people who were lonely with someone else or lonely alone. For a while I was one of the lucky ones. That ended when two police officers knocked at our door at ten after eight on January eleventh of this year. I sensed something had happened to Bastien even before they arrived. That sounds like a certainty people ascribe to events after the fact, because they feel they should recognize such a momentous change

without having it pointed out to them. But in my case it was the truth. I didn’t know that morning, when I left for class and Bastien was still in the shower, running late like he usually did, that he wouldn’t be coming back. I didn’t know that afternoon when it was pelting hail as I sprinted for the subway, my overstuffed knapsack making my shoulder ache. But forty minutes before the heavy knock at the door, I went cold and dizzy, couldn’t stop shivering. Our drafty basement apartment was always chilly and I told myself I was being paranoid. I went into the bedroom, dove under the duvet and forced myself to open my anthropology textbook and read the assigned chapter on prehistoric social organization. Gradually my fingers began to warm. I didn’t call anyone or make any sudden movements that could turn my suspicions into the truth. But deep down, I knew. Out there in the world something had gone wrong with Bastien. I didn’t cry when the police told me about the accident; I just froze deeper. The female officer, who didn’t look much older than me, smelled like strong coffee. The balding male cop went over the facts with an apologetic voice that was at odds with his piercing stare. Then he leaned forward on the couch, one hand wound

around the back of his pale neck, and asked if I understood what they were saying. The officer had a passing resemblance to my uncle Richard, and for an instant I thought about how very far away the older people, my family and Bastien’s, who would have a better idea how to handle this, were. But the next second was worse—the next second was freefall—because I realized it didn’t matter what would happen from that moment forward; no one could change the fact that Bastien was gone. An eighty-four-year-old woman had run into Bastien when he was stepping into a crosswalk on Bathurst Street near Finch Avenue. I found out later that she’d dragged him thirty feet into the intersection, pinning his body underneath the vehicle, but all the police said on the evening of January eleventh was that he was “pronounced dead at the scene.” They asked if I wanted them to make any calls for me and then proceeded to notify our parents and Yunhee, who caught a cab over and was at my door within twenty minutes. Yunhee welled up at the sight of me, made more calls (the first one to Bastien’s friend Etienne, whose house he’d left only minutes before he was hit) and slept on my couch that first night. I alternated between crying jags and numb silence. Some moments the loss didn’t feel

real and in others it seemed as though the world had collapsed and a hollow new one been hastily erected in its place. I didn’t want to accept that new world; while Yunhee slept I sat on top of my bed amongst Bastien’s things—the sweatpants he’d slept in last night, his Miles David and John Coltrane CDs, his manga novels and collection of sketchpads—and refused to close my eyes. I couldn’t stop poring over them, the things in our bathroom and closet too—old running shoes that he’d held on to despite the hole in the bottom that made them unwearable except on the driest of summer days, his denim shirt, two favorite pairs of jeans (which I couldn’t tell apart), the single tie he owned (plain black), his razor, shaving cream and toothbrush. The bristles on my toothbrush were always much more worn down than his. One night the previous week he’d picked up my toothbrush, waved it in the air and said, “What the hell do you do with this thing, Leah? Looks like you’ve been chomping on it like it’s a stick of bubble gum.” I reached out and picked up his toothbrush, the memory of him teasing me about mine reverberating in my head. The bristles were dry—the last time he’d brushed his teeth would’ve been early that morning. But if I hadn’t washed his dirty breakfast dishes when I’d gotten

home from class in the late afternoon they’d still be sitting in the sink. I should have left them untouched. But with so much other evidence of Bastien’s existence around me, how could he be gone forever? It should take more to be banished from this life than an eighty-four-year-old woman’s creaky reflexes or attention issues. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t think or sleep or eat. Time worked differently once he was gone. Light and darkness were different. Sounds, smells, colors. Other people were a pale imitation of who they’d been before Bastien had died. That was how it seemed. It wasn’t their fault—it was just that none of them were Bastien. I couldn’t imagine a future where day after day would contain no Bastien. I still can’t. But the hours and days keep rolling on. Bastien’s parents and my mother flew out to Toronto the day after the accident. Mr. and Mrs. Powell had his remains flown back to Burnaby, where the funeral was held. At home in B.C., my mother fed me antidepressants “to help you through this.” Our long-time family doctor prescribed them for me without even making me come into his office for an appointment. I stayed with my parents for a week and my mom pleaded with me to stay longer. But I felt further from

Bastien in Burnaby than I’d felt in our apartment. I went back to Toronto and shut down inside. In the beginning I showed up for classes but my head wasn’t in it. At the museum I screwed up—cashing out with too much money, or worse, too little. Boxes of stock went unpacked. Some days I slept late or forgot to show entirely. Armstrong was the only thing I didn’t completely neglect. I let Yunhee, Katie and Etienne’s calls go unanswered. Yunhee showed up in person, sometimes with Katie in tow. They’d drag me out to the movies or to eat and try to draw me into conversation. How are you doing? Have you called Professor Feingold for an extension on your paper? Do you need to go to the grocery store? It didn’t look like you had much in the fridge. Have you spoken to your parents lately? How’s work? How’s Hammy? (That’s how Yunhee always referred to Armstrong.) Is there anything we can do? My professors and TAs were sympathetic too, but couldn’t give me grades for work I wasn’t doing. I was warned I could fail and didn’t care. Bastien’s parents generously sent a couple of checks to help me cover the rent until I could find another roommate or decide what I wanted

to do. When Mrs. Powell phoned after the first one, to make sure I’d received it, I thanked her but didn’t decide anything. I couldn’t leave our place but I couldn’t think. It was difficult enough just to get through the day. In mid-March my boss, Pina, at the end of her rope after I’d missed two shifts without calling in and shown up hours late for numerous others, took me aside. “Here’s what I see,” she said in a gentle but definitive tone. “You say you’re sorry but then nothing changes.” She tapped my wrist as though we were friends. “I don’t blame you, Leah. I know it’s hard. So what I see is a girl who should go home and be with her family. Grieve with the ones who love you and will take care of you.” I shook my head: no. Being at home wouldn’t help me. I needed to remain here, the place Bastien and I had made a life together. “You can come back,” Pina continued. “Maybe in the fall to resume your studies. The city will be here and we’ll be here. Your job will be here for you.” Her eyes bore into mine and made me look away. “But you’re not able for it now. I can’t keep scrambling around to find people to cover your shifts, and even when you’re here…” She let her voice trail off. “I need someone I can depend on.”

“I know,” I said loudly. “And I know I haven’t been dependable, but like you said, it’s been very hard.” It wasn’t that I really cared about losing the museum at that point; it was the money plain and simple. I wouldn’t be able to cover expenses long on just my student loans. Bastien and I used to split the rent and grocery bills and his parents wouldn’t send checks forever. “I promise things will be different from now on. I need this job. I need to keep a routine and be out doing normal things.” Pina nodded, but we’d had versions of this conversation before and they’d made no discernible impact on me. The museum gift shop was easier to deal with than any of my classes— no tests, presentations or assignment deadlines— but sometimes I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t ever forget that Bastien was gone, but I couldn’t stand to have his absence thrown in my face by the outside world. Pina was doing it even now. Everyone did it, even if they’d never known Bastien and didn’t know me. If a cashier smiled at me when I went to buy groceries, they were doing it by dragging me into the here and now with them—a place and time where Bastien no longer existed. All I wanted was to be left alone, but instead Pina was forcing me to beg for a job I didn’t care about. “Do you really think this is what you want

right now?” Pina asked with a level gaze. “Yes,” I lied. “Just give me another chance. You won’t be sorry.” She sighed, her two front teeth gnawing on her bottom lip. “Okay, Leah.” Pina forced a smile, possibly aware that we were both only postponing the inevitable. I was on time for all my shifts for a week and then, on a Sunday afternoon, I stalled during breakfast and couldn’t get myself moving again. I turned the TV on to Coronation Street and lay on the couch. When the phone rang hours later I knew I was sealing my fate but didn’t pick up, forcing Pina to fire me over the answering machine. A few days later Reid called, having wrangled my number from her, but I didn’t call him back either. By then the only people receiving any return phone calls from me were my parents. I was vague with them, usually muttering about how busy and tired I was. Having no connections to any of the people I knew in Toronto, they accepted my version of events, a version in which I was understandably sad and uncommunicative but staying on top of things. “You really should think about coming home for the summer,” my mother pressed. “Why stay in Toronto and pay rent if you don’t have to?”

My parents hadn’t wanted me to stay in Toronto the previous summer either. It took them awhile to adjust to the reality that I was living with a member of the opposite sex, having a grown-up relationship. “There’s my job, Mom,” I countered. “If I gave that up I probably wouldn’t get it back in the fall.” I could hear my mother pouting over the phone line. “They’d take you back, I bet. And you’d find another job here. Besides, you won’t be able to afford to keep that apartment yourself.” “I know,” I told her. “I’ll look for a new one. Things are too hectic for me to worry about it right now but I’ll get on that after classes are finished. There are always people looking to share. It shouldn’t be hard to find somebody.” We all know the rights things to say, if we have to, but doing them is something else. I did nothing. Nothing. And then Bastien’s mother began pestering me about sending the rest of his things home. His parents had taken a few items of his clothing home with him in January but left the majority of his things undisturbed. “There’s no rush,” Bastien’s mother told me over the phone, “but I’ve priced a company that will ship some boxes. You keep what you want, Leah —whatever he would want you to have—but I

know you’ll be moving soon.” No, I wouldn’t. I kept buying time from everyone, avoiding the phone, slowly draining my bank account of what remained from my student loan. Yunhee smothered her frustration with me in concern and passed on the names of friends and acquaintances that were looking for roommates. She’d been sharing a small twobedroom condo near Front Street with a girl named Vishaya (whose parents had bought the place specifically to supply her with a decent place to live while she went to university) since the beginning of second year. Etienne called and left a message saying there was a room going in the house he shared and that I was the first person he’d thought of. When I didn’t call him back he got in touch with Yunhee and the two of them came to my apartment to confront me. Earlier that afternoon my grades had arrived in the mail along with a separate letter informing me that I’d been placed on academic probation, and Yunhee nosily grabbed both printouts from my coffee table. Somehow I’d scraped by with Ds in two classes— Abnormal Psychology and The Graphic Novel. The rest I’d outright failed. Yunhee flapped the papers in front of me and said, “You have to appeal this. You have extenuating circumstances. I’m sure they’d be able to do something.”

I’d never told Yunhee about losing my job; I knew she’d have lectured me about that too. “It doesn’t matter,” I insisted. “I’m not going back this fall.” “Not going back?” Her eyes bulged. “What are you going to do? Did your parents convince you to go home?” “No. I’m not going home either. I’m staying here.” Etienne, who’d just been watching and listening up to that point, said, “So you’re not moving?” “Not yet. Not now. I can’t.” I focused on Armstrong across the room, running a zillion miles an hour in his wheel. “I can’t leave this place.” “But…” Yunhee and Etienne swapped guarded looks. “Can you afford to stay here? I thought money was an issue.” “I’m going to work more hours at the museum,” I lied. “I’ve already fixed it up with Pina.” Yunhee couldn’t keep the surprise out of her face, but Etienne, after a moment, said maybe it was good for me to take a break after such a life-changing loss. I was already tired of talking to them and of the way they were making me lie, and when Yunhee asked me to go out to dinner with them I complained that I hadn’t slept

well last night and was too tired. “Okay, so we’ll just order pizza in then,” she said, not giving up. They stayed until David Letterman came on and then each of them hugged me goodbye. “We should do this again soon,” Yunhee said. “And you have to start picking up the damn phone.” “I know,” I told her. “I know.” Some people don’t let go easily. If I was in Yunhee’s place I probably would’ve been persistent too, but I wished she’d be more like Iliana and fade into the background. From then on I burrowed harder, letting knocks at my door go unanswered too. I went out for groceries from time to time, kept the apartment clean and played with Armstrong, but otherwise kept to myself. Bastien and I (mostly Bastien) had been working on a graphic novel when he died. With his heavy schoolwork load, he hadn’t been able to devote as much time to it as he would’ve liked. He’d planned to really put a push on it this summer and finish the story and at least ten sample pages, enough to put together submission packages for Dark Horse, Fantagraphics, Slave Labor, Top Shelf and Drawn and Quarterly Titled Johnny Yang, Merman at Large, the graphic novel was the comedic story of fifteen-

year-old Johnny Yang, who is struck by lightning while swimming in his backyard pool and subsequently turns into a merman every time it rains. For days on end I immersed myself in Bastien’s rough sketches and plot notes. The story itself was roughly half written (I’d made contributions here and there, suggesting, among other things, Johnny’s mortal embarrassment at becoming a merperson, which he thought of as a very feminine state of being) but Bastien had only finished inking the first four pages. I was leafing through the pages one afternoon, more in Bastien’s fantasy world than my own reality, when there was a rap at the door. I glanced slyly up through the tiny family room window and caught sight of a cab, and then my mother. My mother in Toronto, on my doorstep, without warning. My heart sank, then raced and sank afresh. I was wearing the plaid pajama bottoms I’d slept in, and my hair, which I hadn’t washed in three days (although it only took one to get oily), was lanker than my mother ever would have seen it. I sprinted for the shower, splashed soap and shampoo onto my body and dragged my razor across my legs and armpits with such velocity that my right ankle instantly begin to bleed. When I stepped out of the shower again, less than three minutes later, my phone was

ringing off the hook. I slapped a Band-Aid on my ankle, wrapped a towel around myself and headed up to the door. Mom was sitting on the front stoop, her cell phone pressed to her ear and her wheeled carry-on bag in front of her. She turned and saw me just as I opened my mouth to speak. “I was in the shower,” I told her. “I thought I heard the door. What are you doing here?” My mother frowned, probably afraid that I was constantly running for the door in a state of undress. Her dyed blond hair (mostly gray underneath) used to be the same shade of brownshot-through-with-auburn as mine. She thought the blond made her look younger, and it did, but it also made it hard to tell her apart from the thousands upon thousands of other middle-aged white woman who’d dyed their bobbed hair blond for the same reason. From a distance I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her as my mother. She could’ve just as easily been a professor from school or my local pharmacist. “I called on your birthday,” my mom said. “And so many times after. You never called back. Your father and I have been so worried. I even tried the museum and couldn’t catch you there.” Her chin was beginning to wobble, like this might end in tears, and I retreated inside, beckoning her to follow. “You never tell me what’s going on,” she continued. “I feel like I can

never reach you. Why haven’t you been in touch with us?” I didn’t realize I’d let my parents’ calls go unanswered for so long. I always meant to check messages but I’d procrastinate, promising myself I’d check them the next day. And the following day would turn into the day after that, which had now turned into my mother flying out from British Columbia to reassure herself that her only child was alive and well, not sprinting to the door in a towel, not pining for someone she’d never in this life see again. I’d forgotten all about my twentieth birthday too. The phone had been ringing more often than usual lately. I suppose that—along with my parents’ desperation—explained it. “What did they say at the museum?” I asked anxiously. I needed to find out how much my mother knew. She shook her head in bewilderment. “Nothing helpful. It sounded like a young girl on the phone. She said she’d just started there and didn’t know anyone else’s schedule. She told me I could call back and speak to her manager, but I didn’t want to cause any trouble for you at work, make it seem as though…” As though I was some kind of emergency situation. Unstable. Better to hop on a plane and check on me

in person. I nodded like she’d done the right thing and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was worrying you and Dad so much. I’ve been working a lot— forgetting to check messages.” A drop of water rolled down my neck as I led her downstairs. “And on my birthday, Yunhee, her roommate and I went out to an all-day dim sum place and then a movie.” I hadn’t seen Yunhee in weeks; I hadn’t seen anyone I knew in weeks. “Check your messages from this past week and you’ll hear an earful of worry,” my mom said, a layer of frost coating her voice and making me bow my head apologetically. “Leah.” She planted her hands on my shoulders. “You’re looking so thin. Are you eating?” She threw her arms around me, crunching my bones. My clothes had grown loose so I must’ve already lost weight, but Bastien and I didn’t own a scale. “I’m fine,” I rasped, hugging her back. “But what are you doing here?” I was repeating myself, panicking. “You didn’t need to come all this way.” “What am I supposed to do when we don’t hear from you?” my mom asked. “I should have come earlier. Every time we talked on the phone, I could hear in your voice how unhappy you were.” I winced and folded my arms in front of me, my fingers (nails bitten to the quick)

pinching at towel fibers. “Having to do your course work after what happened with Bastien— and now, locate a new apartment by yourself— it’s too much. I want to help. And I wanted to see you.” She was staying four days, she said, and during that time we’d do whatever I wanted. She told me she’d sleep on the couch and, of course, didn’t want to be any trouble. “I know you have to work at the museum,” she added. “I don’t want to interrupt your schedule. Just work around me.” Standing there in front of my mother, still dripping wet, I racked my brain for the appropriate way to handle her sudden appearance. I couldn’t tell her I wasn’t at the museum anymore. She’d see it as further evidence that I needed to go home with her. And I wasn’t going anywhere. But I didn’t want to fight about it; I didn’t want her to worry more than she had to. I said she was lucky that I happened to have the day off, and later I let her take me out for a pasta dinner, during which I listened to updates on my father, aunt, uncle and cousins. As a legal assistant my mother always has a collection of depressing tales of down and out people to trot out, yet they never seem to weigh her down. Those stories I heard over dinner too:

a woman with previous prostitution charges fighting for custody of her thirteen-year-old son, two brothers with gambling addictions who had taken to robbing banks together, an elderly man with a bad heart who had his house sold from under him as part of an identity theft scheme. I told my mother she should pick one of the more dramatic cases and write a book about it (a suggestion she never gets tired of hearing). “I should,” she agreed. “I really should. Legal fiction sells like hotcakes, doesn’t it?” Talkative as she was, I could feel her heavy stare on me, wanting me to be the Leah I used to be, or at least some kind of assurance that I would one day be that person again. I thought things would go easier if I obliged her and played the part the best I could, so the following day I pretended to go to work at the museum. For hours I sat in the Toronto Reference Library with Bastien’s iPod and Johnny Yang sketchbook. I intended to repeat my deceit the day after as well but couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed on time and then had to fake a case of stomach flu. My mother went out to the grocery store to buy me soup and by the time she’d returned I’d fallen asleep again, exhausted by my recent efforts to be Leah-like. While I was sleeping the phone rang and my mother answered it and had a

revealing conversation with Yunhee. When I crept into the kitchen an hour later my mom was stirring a pot of minestrone soup, looking a million miles away. She flinched when she saw me. “I spoke to your friend,” she said, turning the burner down and leaving the wooden spoon sitting in the pot. “When I mentioned about your birthday she seemed confused and said she hadn’t seen you in weeks.” I slumped against the counter and dropped my gaze, feeling genuinely nauseous. “Why would you lie?” my mom asked in a pained voice. “Yunhee says she’s been so worried about you—that you never return her calls, never see her or your other friends, and that you say you’re not going back to school in the fall.” I wondered if Yunhee had told my mother about my grades too. Thank God I’d never confided in her about being fired. “I’m not,” I whispered. My mother would know sooner or later anyway; I’d just hoped it would be later. “I need a break. I can’t…” I squeezed my eyelids together and thought of Bastien. I’d made him tomato soup last November when he’d had a vicious cold that made it impossible to breathe through his nose. He said everything tasted bland but that at least the hot soup felt good on his throat. The

congestion had made his voice deeper. I kind of liked the way it sounded—like a version of him I’d never met before, an alternate universe Bastien. “I can’t just go on like nothing’s changed.” My mother shook her head, a tiny bead of sweat on her chin from standing over the hot stove. “No one expects that. But you have to keep moving forward with your life. It doesn’t stop because he’s gone.” I smiled bitterly. It had stopped. For me, it had. This wasn’t real life anymore. It couldn’t be real life without him. “I don’t want to pretend for you,” I admitted, my fingers curving around the counter behind me. “I don’t want to pretend that I feel better than I do and that I’m like some battery operated toy that keeps doing what it was designed to do no matter what. Maybe that’s how you think life should be—this nonstop marathon where we all keep walking despite the people we love dropping next to us—but that’s not how I feel.” “Honey.” My mother’s face was long. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. You don’t have to pretend. I know you miss him. But you can’t push people away. We all care about you—your father and I and your friends. That hasn’t

changed. We still want to be part of your life.” “Mom…” I stopped, no words left on my tongue to protest. “I hate to think of you so far from us— thousands of miles away—living on your own this way, and now thinking of not returning to school in September. It doesn’t have to be this way. Come back home with me, Leah.” Her eyes were so earnest that the old Leah would’ve been swayed by them and gotten on the plane with her. “We can pack up your things, take what we can carry with us and have the rest of them shipped.” “No.” My voice was flat. “I’m not leaving. This is where we lived together. This is where he’d be if he was still alive.” “And he’s not, Leah,” she said. “Don’t you think he’d want you to be somewhere that you had a proper support system? Do you think he’d want you holed up in this apartment alone? Because that doesn’t sound like Bastien to me.” “Right,” I snapped. “Because you knew him so well. You never wanted me living with him in the first place—no wonder you don’t get it.” I clasped the counter tighter. “By support system you mean, what? Therapy? Drugs? Something to make me smile?” I tore into the word like it was profane. “You’re not thinking clearly,” my mother

countered. “No one’s saying you have to forget, but…” She dragged her fingers wearily into her hairline. “It doesn’t have to be this hard either, Leah. You can let people make it easier. There’s nothing wrong with that. Being with other people, talking to someone about your feelings, that doesn’t make the love you have for Bastien any less.” I shook my head like she didn’t know what she was talking about. “I’m going back to bed,” I muttered. “Forget the soup. Or eat it yourself, whatever.” She followed me out of the kitchen and along the hall to the bedroom. “Listen,” she began. “I don’t want to—” But I didn’t let her finish. I swung on my heel and said, “I’m not going home with you. If that’s why you’re here, to try to talk me into it, you might as well fly back now because it’s not going to happen.” Mom’s head drooped a little in defeat. “At least don’t make up your mind about going back to school yet. That’s three and a half months away. Who knows what frame of mind you might be in then. And this apartment…” She tossed up her hands to motion around her. “You’d be so much better off sharing with one of your friends rather than being alone this way.” “Alone is what I want,” I told her, and it

felt like this most truthful thing I’d said so far. “Why aren’t I allowed to want that? Why does what you and what everyone else wants get to be more important?” Because I was not myself. Because I was in too much pain to be objective. Because I didn’t go out anymore and didn’t talk anymore. Didn’t care whether the sun was shining or if the city was being flooded with rain. My mother debated with me on and off until the morning she left. Her arguments would’ve had even more strength if she knew I’d been fired and had flunked most of my classes, but I still wouldn’t have listened. What I was doing didn’t feel like a choice. In between debate periods (although the debate was mostly on my mother’s side—I refused to say much more on the subject) my mother would slip into nurturing mode, offering to make me soup or toast and bring me beverages. There were moments—when I was lying on the couch under a blanket (supposedly still suffering from stomach flu) and my mother was sitting quietly in the wingchair closest to it, the two of us focused on some mindless TV show —that having her in Toronto was some comfort. Why couldn’t she let me lie there as long as I wanted? Why was it okay for me to curl up in a ball with a physical sickness but not with a

broken heart? I thought my mother might make a scene on the morning she was due to leave, stand tearfully in my doorway and beg me to come with her as the cab driver stared determinedly in the opposite direction. I braced myself for the possibility, but it never happened. Having lost the argument I’d refused to fully engage in with her, my mother chose to tuck her deepest anxieties about me away and maintain outer calm. Only in the final few seconds in my driveway, once the driver had loaded her suitcase into the trunk, did she say, “Don’t keep me guessing about how you’re doing. I can’t stand it. And you know, if you change your mind about anything your father and I will be there.” “I know, Mom,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll be better about keeping in touch.” I hugged her fast, before she could really get a grip on me, and then jumped back. My mother had said, days earlier, that I didn’t have to pretend, but that was as much a lie as my stomach flu. She wanted me to be okay and even after the doses of truth I’d let spill during her visit, I humored her by smiling and telling her not to worry, that I’d be fine. And by the time she would’ve reached the Toronto airport I was back in bed, under layers of blankets, still in my clothes but with the blinds

pulled down to keep as much spring daylight out of the room as possible.

Four I tried to keep my promise to my mother. I had call display added to my telephone bill and when my parents’ number came up I answered often enough to keep them from panicking. My mother would often ask, “Are you seeing your friends?” and I would reply, “I don’t feel like going out much in the evenings—I have to interact with people all day when I’m at the museum.” The more my mother pestered me about socializing the quieter I became until she’d usually be forced to change topics. My father asked fewer questions but was also less capable of carrying the conversation, which meant I spent less time on the phone with him than with my mom. If there was a national news item— politics, sports or crime—that I’d happened to catch on TV I’d toss it into the conversation to give him something to mull over for a few minutes while I listened. Bastien and I could talk all day and never run out of things to say. But when we were quiet, that was all right too. There was no need to fill up the room with words just for the sake of it. Bastien has such a steadiness about him that he made a large percentage of the population

seem self-aggrandizing, superficial or like drama queens in comparison. He even made me feel like a drama queen at times and after he was gone I sometimes wondered if he would think that of me now. The thought would make me want to argue with his memory: Why don’t you try this, if you think it’s so damn easy? Then, in my mind, he would try to placate me. It’s okay, I’d imagine him replying, you don’t need to act any differently than you feel, Leah. You know I love you no matter what. It’s funny; he used to sing snatches of that Roy Orbison song for me: “Leah.” Mostly in a cheesy voice but sometimes sweet. “Here I go, back to sleep and my dreams. And I'll be with Leah, Leah, Leah.” But I was the one chasing down dreams. Maybe no one person should be that important that their absence drains life of meaning, but he was. Day after day and the loss didn’t get any lighter. At the beginning of June, after paying the rent, I realized, not for the first time but with increased dread, that I only had enough left in my bank account to fund rent and other expenses through the summer. Come September, when I’d failed to enroll in classes, making me ineligible for another student loan, I would be left

with only a few hundred dollars. If I was lucky my landlord, Mr. Magella, would apply my first month’s rent deposit to September and let me stay until October. And then what? I considered calling Pina at the museum to plead for my old job. I rehearsed the call in my mind but couldn’t, even in my head, force the conversation to go the way I wanted. She wouldn’t have me back. I was certain of that. Maybe someday, but not so soon after I’d disappointed her, and besides, given the chance I’d likely do it again. I couldn’t see how things would be any different now. I canceled my cell plan to save myself the monthly fee and reviewed my mental map of Leaside, considering all the nearby places I could look for employment—coffee chains, variety stores, drug stores, restaurants. The more I thought about it the more exhausted I became. Bastien’s mother phoned again to ask about his clothes and other things. Her first message, the one where she was mostly inquiring about my well-being, was cut off by the answering machine. The second, left only thirty seconds later as a continuation of the first, said, “I talked to your mother yesterday and realize packing up anything could still be too much for you to cope with right now, so I hope you don’t

feel this is too much of a nuisance but I thought I’d send my sister by to check in on you when she’s in town. And if you happen to have anything of Bastien’s that she can bring home, you only need to hand it over to her.” Neither of the messages mentioned when Bastien’s aunt Abigail would arrive. I listened to them twice to make sure I hadn’t missed the info but the entire matter slipped my mind shortly afterwards. There were times, when I’d fall halfasleep on the couch, that I’d believe Bastien was lying next to me. In the space between wakefulness and true sleep I could sometimes feel his legs brushing up against mine, his hand light on my waist, his breath at the back of my neck. I could even hear his voice but was unable to make out his words. Countless hours would slip by this way, with me on the couch or in bed, either thinking of him or dreaming him back into existence. When I left the apartment, mostly to buy groceries or other supplies, a tiny bit of me would imagine him waiting back there on the couch, sketching scenes from Johnny Yang. I would arrive home with my arms full of food and he’d race towards me to gather the cloth bags, turning the months since his death into a nightmare I’d finally woken up from. That’s what should have happened.

But didn’t. And then Abigail called me from Oakville. She and Bastien’s late uncle Alrick had a second home there. Bastien had gone to visit her a few times while she was in town, and on another occasion we’d had lunch with her in Toronto’s distillery district. But I’d actually only met her a total of three times (and one of those times was at Bastien’s funeral) and didn’t want to see her now. “I’m sorry,” I told her up front, “I’m not ready to part with any of Bastien’s things yet.” “I told Joyce I thought that’s how you might feel,” Abigail said in a matter-of-fact tone. “If you were ready it would be done already, wouldn’t it?” She didn’t give me an opportunity to answer. “Don’t you worry about that. We’ll just have a visit, Leah, you and I. Joyce had some copies of childhood photos of Bastien made for you that I want to give you.” I remembered staring at the memorial collage at the funeral home. There were so many photos of him that I’d never seen before. Baby Bastien biting into a plush teddy bear that was nearly the same size as him. Bastien on a twowheel bike, beaming with pride into the camera, making me wonder if the photo was a record of the day he’d learned to ride without training wheels. Skinny Bastien, all legs and arms, on the ferry from mainland British Columbia to

Vancouver Island. Young Bastien holding a calico kitten in someone’s dazzlingly yellow kitchen. Bold Bastien with his arm in a sling, raising it up like a badge of courage. A teenage Bastien I recognized from early high school days wearing a pinstriped suit and maroon tie on what must have been some formal occasion, his little brother Jeremy standing next to him with an impish smile. Thirteen now, Jeremy really only looked like Bastien around the eyes. At the funeral I couldn’t stop staring at him. “That was nice of her,” I told Abigail, my throat shrinking. I’d been entirely absorbed in my own loss, but news of the photos made me feel momentarily guilty about not packing up any of Bastien’s things for his parents. I could let them have some things he didn’t care about as much; maybe the clothes near the back of our closet. “How’s she doing?” “She’s a strong woman, as you no doubt know, but this is testing her.” Abigail paused. “Testing the whole family. Jeremy’s been so quiet. She worries about him.” Bastien has said more than once that his little brother was a tough kid. He said it with admiration—that Jeremy could break a leg and it’d be like your average kid stubbing his toe. According to Bastien, Jeremy was a complete

jock whose love of basketball was equaled only by his love of comic books—the biggest thing they had in common. “Is there a night this week that’s good for you?” Abigail continued. I didn’t know what day it was. They all felt the same. “How about the day after tomorrow?” I ventured. “Around seven-thirty?” Abigail agreed and the second I got off the phone I switched the TV over to the local news channel to check the date: Tuesday, June fifteenth. Two days later, on the Thursday of Abigail’s planned visit, I went shopping and made sure the fridge and cupboards were fully stocked. I dusted every surface and cleaned Armstrong’s cage with extra vigor while he roamed around the living room in his ball. For the first time since my mom’s visit, I put on blush and eyeliner in an attempt to revive my washed out complexion. I couldn’t risk Abigail reporting back to Bastien’s parents (which would inevitably then filter to my own) that I’d lost it. My mother would fly back across the country in a flash and next time she wouldn’t be able to ignore her instincts. There’d be a bigger confrontation and still I wouldn’t do what my parents wanted. I needed to hold myself together until Abigail had come and gone; that was the easier

thing. Only a few hours, I told myself. You can do it. Given that she probably wouldn’t stay long I sincerely believed I could swing it, despite my looming financial crisis and everything else. I was friendly and almost talkative when Abigail first stepped into the apartment. I made her chamomile tea and offered her a hot cross bun on a caramel-colored dessert plate. We sat on the couch together, drinking and nibbling at our buns, and I told her about Bastien naming Armstrong after the other two greats. “So what has this one accomplished?” Abigail joked, tilting her head to indicate hamster Armstrong across the room. “Does he have any special talents?” “I think he must be a late bloomer,” I replied with a smile. And then Abigail dug into her giant black leather purse and pulled out a floral gift bag. “This is for you,” she said, “from Joyce.” I’d assumed I could set the photographs aside to examine later on my own, but as I opened the bag I saw that Bastien’s mother had placed them inside a beveled glass keepsake box. Within the box, the pictures (numbering at least thirty) were tied together with satiny purple ribbon. I felt as though they were designed to remain that way forever, that it was somehow

wrong to disturb the ribbon, but my fingers disagreed. They began unfurling instantly. The first photograph was of Bastien in a bumper car, smiling but unaware of the camera. “I think he would be about twelve there,” Abigail told me. “At Playland?” I asked. Playland was the oldest amusement park in Canada. My parents used to take me at least once every summer. When I got older I went with Iliana; we’d always ride the Hellevator at least twice. Bastien and I never went to an amusement park together. We were supposed to go to Wonderland last September but a day-long thunderstorm broke out on the date we’d chosen. We got halfway to the park before the downpour and light show started and we had to come home. We got drenched to the skin running from the TTC to our door. I started peeling Bastien’s Tshirt off before we even got inside and he was running his hands across my breasts over my orange halter top. If there weren’t so much traffic on Eglinton, and if it had been dark, we would’ve done it there and then, against the side of the house in the thunder. “I would guess you’re right,” Abigail said as I flipped to the next picture, a baby photo of Bastien, the left side of his face in focus and an adult hand holding a children’s book open for

him. His eyes were wide with delight and his lips parted in a gregarious smile. “He was such a beautiful baby,” I pronounced, a tear beginning to snake its way down my cheek. I set the photos back in the keepsake box and closed the lid, fighting for control of my emotions. Bastien’s smile had never really changed. When he was really happy he lit up a like a little boy. “He was,” she agreed. She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “He was.” My throat ached. My nose filled up with tears. A sob escape from my chest, a wounded animal noise I usually only made when I was alone. It shocked me to hear it. I turned away from Abigail and cried into my free hand, but she held the other one tight. My ribs hurt from heaving, tears flooded my face, and Bastien’s aunt sat quietly by my side while I choked out the entire truth about failing my classes, losing my job and the necessity that I stay in the apartment that I wouldn’t be able to afford in just a few months’ time. I’d lost everything and didn’t care. All I wanted was to stay there, as close as I could to Bastien. And I couldn’t see how that would be possible. Soon my voice was in tatters and I released her hand and reached for my tea, my fingers

quivering as they looped around the cup. Abigail was looking at me with a stillness that reminded me a little of Bastien. She sipped at her own tea, her gaze steady on mine over the rim of the cup. “When Alrick passed I lost interest in the world too,” she said after a long moment. “People grieve differently. And the people closest to you worry about you, but many of them don’t know what to do with that worry.” “What happened to you?” I asked, setting my tea down and swiping at my tears. “After your husband died? I mean, how did you get from there to…” I pointed at her together state. She didn’t give off the aura of the kind of person who never wanted to leave the house, and I remembered Bastien mentioning that she had her own business, something to do with shoes. “It didn’t happen overnight. I turned inward when he died.” Abigail paused to glance at her plate. “I had someone else running our business for me for almost a year. I did a lot of the things it sounds like you’re doing— withdrawing from other people—but I was in a better place financially. I could afford to do it.” She stared thoughtfully back at me. “The experts say sudden death is the hardest. Bastien was such a young man. He should’ve had more time.” I hoped she wasn’t going to launch into one of those speeches about God working in

mysterious ways or heaven claiming Bastien as one of its angels. I wasn’t someone who believed death or destruction happened for a reason. It occurred to me that I was again being selfish—Abigail had lost Bastien too. I laid my hands in my lap, held my breath and nodded patiently. “Leah,” she continued, “you’re not my child and I can’t tell you what to do, but you’ve said yourself the situation here can’t continue on this way much longer. And you know, all of Bastien’s family is out in B.C. He lived there all his life except for the last few years. If you went back to your own parents there for a while it wouldn’t mean leaving him.” In a way she was right, but the parts of our lives that we’d shared had occurred almost entirely in Toronto. Moving back home to Burnaby would make me feel like those experiences had never really happened. It would mean losing the only little bit of Bastien that I felt I still had. And I knew I couldn’t cope with being around my parents while I was in this broken state either. Having my mother with me for four days was wearing enough; I’d slept for fourteen hours straight the day she’d left. At home I’d never get the emotional space I needed. The same would be true if I moved in with any of my friends. What they thought of as helping me

would only feel like crowding. I’d end up in a straitjacket, worse off than I was right now. My eyes began to leak again as desperation ripped through me. I massaged my temples and said nothing. Abigail fell quiet too. She continued drinking her tea in silence. Outside, a dog barked. First one and then two. The neighbor’s dogs were always setting each other off like that. If the barking went on for long Bastien would go and pet them through the fence and, having distracted them, they would often stop. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean to lay all that on you. Please don’t say anything to Bastien’s parents. Or mine. It would just make things worse.” Abigail slanted her chin up as though secrecy was too much to ask of her. “Do you have some plan you didn’t mention?” “I’ll come up with something,” I mumbled, knowing that I couldn’t and wouldn’t. I was like a paralyzed person. Maybe I really was going crazy, driving myself straight into a brick wall. “Leah…” Abigail sighed. I should have put the photographs aside without looking at them. We could have finished our tarts and tea. Then I could have offered to pack up some of Bastien’s things (textbooks and old clothes I’d hardly ever seen him wear) for

next time. “I just need more time,” I pleaded, the sinking feeling inside me plummeting deeper by the second. “I’m not ready to go.” Abigail shifted on the couch to face me more directly. “Do you think you could be ready in September?” she asked frankly. I willed myself to nod but couldn’t bring myself to follow through. Not when she was staring at me like she could see straight through me. “You need a little help,” she said. “There’s no shame in that. You call your parents and see what they can do.” They didn’t have enough money to allow me to keep the apartment on my own. My mom’s salary was decent but my father had only been able to work part-time, because of his fibromyalgia, for years. My parents paid for my yearly tuition and textbooks but couldn’t afford rent and expenses too. “It’s not your problem,” I told her. Somehow I needed to shift our visit back to the neutral territory where it had had begun. I couldn’t believe I’d all-out broken down on her like that. If I wasn’t down to the bone sad and lost I would have been mortified at my outburst. “I really didn’t mean to bring it up. It was just… seeing those photos.” I glanced down at the

keepsake box. “I’m sorry I didn’t get any of Bastien’s stuff ready for his parents. I meant to. At least a few things.” Abigail patted my leg. “They’re all here, being taken care of. Getting them together is something that can be resolved when you’ve decided what you’re going to do. You give your parents a call within the next few days, though, okay? Let them know what’s really going on with you.” This time I did nod. I didn’t have any other choice. I knew if I didn’t clue my parents in soon Abigail would do it for me. She kissed me on the cheek before she left, said she’d give me a call in a few days and that she hoped we could get together again before she flew back out west. I thanked her for coming and walked her to the door. Once she was gone, the unbearable reality of my situation pounded behind my eyes, threatening to steal any ounce of self-control I had left. Quickly, I surrounded myself with Bastien’s most comforting things—his charcoal cable-knit sweater, Johnny Yang sketchbook, and Armstrong (who I’d always felt was more Bastien’s than mine). Armstrong wouldn’t sit still for long. I let him walk from hand to hand, rotating one under the other for him like he was riding an endless escalator. I cupped him to my chest as I put one of Bastien’s Ella Fitzgerald CDs

on the stereo and turned on the TV, muting the sound so it wouldn’t compete with Ella. That was still the frame of mind I was in— clinging to avoidance with every weapon I had— when Abigail phoned me the very next night. “I have an idea for you,” she said with a spring in her voice. “I know you really don’t want to leave the apartment you have there—and I can understand why—but there are some things we just have to do and I hope you’ll at least consider what I’m about to say.” She told me about her house in Oakville, a residence she and Alrick had owned for six years before he’d died. They’d started their shoe business, named Bulla, out in Vancouver fifteen years ago and then expanded to open a second store in Oakville five years later. They’d lived out there for two years while getting it off the ground and then gone back and forth between Ontario and B.C. But since Alrick had died Abigail had been spending the majority of her time in Vancouver, only venturing over to Ontario four or five times a year. “So, you see, the house is empty the majority of the time,” she explained. “I stay here for two weeks or so every couple of months. The manager of the store here keeps an eye on it for me in between, picking up mail and flyers that come to the door, and I have landscapers to look

after the lawn. There’s certainly room for you to stay awhile”—she hesitated, sensing my building anxiety—“but maybe that’s something you’d like to discuss with your parents first. I thought it through last night and I’d be happy to have you for a while. I just wanted you to know it was an option.” If I did what she was suggesting, it would mean Bastien was really gone, but there was never going to be a better option. In real life this was as close as a person could come to being rescued by a fairy godmother. I began blinking in double-time, swallowing like there was a stubborn pill stuck in the back of my throat. Leave our place and move to Oakville. Pack all of our things into cardboard boxes and never come back to this apartment again. It was either that or let myself be absorbed back into my parents’ house at the end of summer, or October at the latest. Step sideways or walk headlong into the twenty-foot wall I’d been staring at for months. “Thank you,” I croaked, my throat in splinters. “Are you sure?” “Now…I don’t know,” Abigail said in level voice, “could be that the very best thing for you would be to get yourself back to your parents and see some kind of grief therapist. I certainly don’t want to stand in the way of anything that would

be good for you, but last night I kept thinking to myself that if I hadn’t had some money behind me when Alrick died, I would have been in a very similar situation to the one you are now. And I wouldn’t like to be without options.” My mind was racing with thoughts of leaving, a wave of nausea gripping me, flipping my stomach upside down. “Leah?” she ventured. “Have you spoken to your parents?” “Not yet. I will. If you’re sure…” She’d already said she wasn’t but that she’d give me the chance anyway. “I mean, if it’s okay with you. But…I need to bring Armstrong.” I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without him; I couldn’t give him away. He had to stay with me, wherever I ended up. “The hamster? That’s fine. I’d expect that you would.” “I can keep him in my room,” I stammered. The worst thing in the world had already happened to me. I had to trust in something— that living at Bastien’s aunt’s house in Oakville, forty kilometers from our Leaside apartment, would keep me closer to him than anything else it was within my power to do. “I won’t be any trouble,” I added. “You’ll hardly know I’m there.” And with that I staggered around the brick wall I’d been staring

at for months and towards someplace new.

Five During the moving process I was numb like a robot—doing without any thought beyond the task at hand. I kept Bastien’s laptop, most of his sketchbooks and his very favorite CDs and clothes, but folded the rest of his things into his suitcase and gave them to Abigail to pass on to his parents. Yunhee went to Home Depot with me to buy storage containers for the rest of our stuff. I threw out a fair amount of my own clothes, just so I could hold on to more of Bastien’s. It was lucky that we’d lived in a furnished apartment, otherwise there’d have been much more to pack—probably too much to fit into Abigail’s home. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Yunhee said numerous times as she helped me pack. “It’s like moving to the outer reaches of the universe.” “But it’s rent free,” I countered. By then I’d told Yunhee that I’d been fired from work, although I’d made it sound like something that had only happened recently. The numbness had made my confession come easier. “The only thing I’ll need money for is groceries.” “Yeah, it’s rent free and you can be a

complete hermit, but, Leah”—Yunhee crouched to add my makeup bag and hand lotion pump to the storage container she was loading—“how is that going to make you feel any better?” It seemed I’d never be able to make her understand. That was part of what was so tiring about being around other people. But at least she’d come to help me pack, despite being frustrated with me for avoiding her for so long. “I’m not trying to be a bitch about this,” Yunhee said apologetically. “I’m just worried you’ll end up feeling even worse. I can’t believe your parents are letting you do this.” They weren’t happy about the news of my move either. Probably the only thing that had stopped my parents from planning a full-scale intervention was that I’d be staying with Bastien’s aunt. Like with Yunhee, I’d offered my parents the closest version of the truth that would suit my purpose, which was that I’d only stopped working at the museum recently. That was enough information to put them on edge, so I didn’t explain about flunking most of my classes. They already knew that I didn’t plan to go back to school in the fall—there was no point in upsetting them further. For once my father had more to say than my mother. “I don’t understand why you’d want to stay out east, doing nothing, rather than come

home to be with your family. If you’re depressed you need to see a doctor, not become a shut-in enabled by Bastien’s aunt.” My first instinct was to shout into the phone that Abigail was the only person who remotely understood what I was going through. I caught myself just in time and repeated, with a calm that channeled Oprah, what Abigail had said to me days earlier: “People grieve differently. And maybe I need more time and space than most people, but I don’t see why that automatically makes what I’m doing wrong.” In the end I promised my father I would go to a doctor if my depression worsened. I wasn’t sure if I meant to it or not. My father asked for Abigail’s phone numbers (both in Oakville and Vancouver) and said he and my mother would continue to call me every few days after the move. “If you need to come home—anytime—let us know and we’ll arrange a ticket,” he said. Meanwhile my mom secretly wired me three hundred dollars to help with moving expenses and said she’d try to send more the following month. I apologized to Mr. Magella, the landlord, about the late moving notice and he said he was sorry too but he’d have to keep our deposit. “If I find someone to rent the apartment soon I’ll mail you a partial refund,” he said. “You were a good tenant—good tenants.” He shook my

hand, the sad puppy-dog look in his eyes making me look away. Etienne borrowed a van from a friend and he, Yunhee and I hauled what was left of mine and Bastien’s things to Oakville. Abigail was at work when we arrived but she’d left keys for me in the mailbox along with a note that explained, “The spare room (yours) is the first on the left upstairs. Anything that doesn’t fit there can be stored in the back room or the garage, where there’s plenty of space. I’ve cleared some of the kitchen cupboards for you too. Please make yourself at home and I’ll see you later this evening. Welcome!” Yunhee and Etienne stayed for about three hours, Yunhee helping me unpack in the spare room and Etienne arranging boxes on the ground floor and in the garage. When they were leaving Yunhee said, “Don’t be a stranger. There’s a train to Toronto every hour. You can spend a day in the city and still be a hermit at night, you know.” “I wish we could stay longer,” Etienne told me. “But I should get the van back. Anytime you’re going to be downtown, give me a shout and we can get together.” I thanked them both, knowing that I hadn’t been much of a friend to either of them since Bastien had died. I had no clue what was going

on in their lives. Couldn’t remember the last time Yunhee had mentioned fighting with her mother over the phone or expressed an interest in the Mr. Fix-It tool-belt-wearing-with-a-hint-ofthe-bad-boy about him type of guy that she usually lusted after. Etienne had always been much more Bastien’s friend than mine but he’d been there for me whenever I needed him. If I was better I’m sure there were a lot of things we could have said to each other. Once Yunhee and Etienne had gone I sat in my new room surrounded by three beige walls and a single orange accent one (which matched the top half of the two-tone drapes covering the window) and tried to imagine Bastien there with me. I was terrified that his presence would be missing from my midway between sleep and wakefulness state from then on but he’d visited his aunt’s house in the past; I wasn’t entirely disconnected from him. Bastien had attended classes in Oakville as well as Toronto. This was the town he’d called “kinda sleepy but with some breathing room.” There was no reason I couldn’t feel him in this place. We could be in this leafy, quiet place together. I tried to tell myself I’d done the right thing and that anyway, there was no other choice, but the gloom clung to me like a layer of sweat that wouldn’t be cried away.

I wished Abigail had already returned to Vancouver and that I wouldn’t have to face her that evening. I wished I was back in Toronto with the dogs barking and all our things hanging in the closet together, Bastien’s dirty dishes still in the kitchen sink. By the time Abigail arrived home I had a hardcore headache from wishing so hard and she fetched me the Tylenol from her private bathroom and then drove me around Oakville, pointing out the village-like downtown area, the train and bus station, local shopping mall and nearby supermarkets. Abigail didn’t keep a car in Oakville anymore, instead renting a sedan whenever she was in town; she’d warned me beforehand that one of my biggest challenges would be transportation. Since I didn’t really plan on going anywhere that didn’t strike me as a major problem, but Abigail had thought of everything and even had a bus schedule and map for me. Emergency numbers too. The home alarm code (to be set at night) and telephone number for the security company. Contact info for countless restaurants that delivered. A current waste management guide detailing garbage and recycle pick-up days. Phone numbers for her neighbors and the manager of the Oakville Bulla store, should I ever need them. Abigail’s email address.

Thank you, I told her. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. She was so good to me. And still I couldn’t wait to be left alone in her house. Just me, Armstrong and the TV. That was all I could handle. All I can handle. Those things in themselves feel like a lot. Often I don’t leave the house, and often I don’t eat how I should, but I nibble, I sleep, I answer my parents’ calls, I clean Armstrong’s cage and take in the flyers that pile up in Abigail’s mailbox so her assistant won’t have to. I drink coffee. Walk in the sun (sometimes). Take out the garbage. Do laundry. Stand at the shore of Lake Ontario and stare. And always and forever, I’m thinking of Bastien—the boy I’m glad I finally noticed, even though it meant he broke my heart —and how I would give anything to wake up and hear him in the shower, running late for class.

Six With Abigail back in town for eleven days starting September thirteenth, the house that I’ve had the luxury of thinking of as mine for the past couple of months becomes a stranger. Abigail says I shouldn’t mind her and just do what I normally do, but her presence makes what I usually do seem like not nearly enough. On her first full day back, while she’s at Bulla, I walk to the supermarket and buy three shopping bags full of human food. At five o’clock I cook two chicken breasts (slathered in a store-bought marinade) and leave one in the fridge for her with a container of Greek salad. I only finish half of my own chicken but eat more of the salad. When Abigail gets home after seven she says she ate on the run while at a work and that I didn’t need to go to the trouble but that she appreciates it. She’s phoned from Vancouver from time to time so we’re already caught up (not that there’s much news on my side) but we chat further about how I’m settling into Oakville. The topic makes me nervous, because I still don’t know what her original offer that I could stay “awhile” means, just that I’m not ready for it to end.

I miss our old apartment, every room crammed with Bastien memories, but I appreciate not having to worry about money so much. Being responsible for just food costs means my savings are draining at a dramatically slower rate, and on top of that my mother has been sending a couple of hundred dollars every month. There’s a certain calm that accompanies this financial freedom, even though it doesn’t take any of the pain of Bastien’s absence away. I do imagine him here. Feel him here. Even though we were never in Oakville together. Maybe it would’ve been the same in Burnaby, but for now I’m glad I didn’t stray far from the place he lived and went to school. And the next several days aside, Abigail’s home gives me the solitary time I need. With her in town, though, I feel both in need of space and like I have something to prove. I stay home while she’s at the store but spend more time out—by the lake, the library (where I flip through comic books but never check any out), and in various coffee shops—when she returns in the evenings. Sometimes Julie, the woman who manages the Oakville location of Bulla, or another friend comes over in the evenings. I’m polite but brief and stay out of their way. Having remembered that Bastien was in the middle of reading The Handmaid’s Tale

for an English class when he died, I begin carrying it with me everywhere, like a security blanket. Sometimes I open random pages and read a sentence or two, which is as much as I can absorb. Tonight my eyes land on the sentence: “She said: Because they won’t want things they can’t have.” The words mock me. I don’t know much about the Aunt Lydia person who’s saying them, but I’ve decided she’s cruel. With Abigail due home soon I walk to the lake with the book tucked under my arm. It’s grown a little colder during the past couple of weeks and I’m wearing a light cardigan and black cargo pants, which used to fit without a belt but now require one to prevent them from slumping down past my hips in a wardrobe malfunction. At a glance I can see that all the nearest benches are taken, but as I wind along the path near the lake a man happens to get up from his seat. He nods almost imperceptibly at me as he passes and I realize it’s the Irish guy who was looking for directions to the post office a couple of weeks ago. I plop down on his vacated bit of bench, next to a woman of about forty who is busy texting on her phone and chewing her lip. She seems aggravated, sad maybe. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, throwing a dappled golden light in

the space between shadows. Tonight there are no geese in the water, only seagulls. I watch them bob along the dark blue waves as people parade by on the path with their dogs. A skittish Chihuahua glances anxiously in my direction as it passes. Bastien used to point out the sort of dog he hoped to have one day (he singled out so many different sizes and varieties that I can’t remember them all) and when I see the shivering Chihuahua I think, Not one of those, Bastien, too fragile for the outside world. A gust of wind could carry that dog away and it knows it. No wonder girls carry them in purses; you’d be afraid to set it down lest a squirrel pick a fight with it. Being near the water sometimes makes me think of Johnny Yang, who gets a swooshy feeling in his stomach whenever it’s about to rain and then knows he must find water to immerse himself in straight away. At the point where Bastien left the story, Johnny, who has learned to carry an extra stash of clothes with him everywhere in a waterproof bag, is emerging from a neighbor’s above-ground pool (the closest water source he could locate near his school) following a brief drizzle. If I could concentrate, maybe I could do something about finishing the story. The words, at least. But who am I kidding; the longest thing

I’ve written in months is three paragraphs to Bastien’s mother to thank her for the photographs. She struck me as the kind of person who would appreciate a note rather than an email (and anyway, I don’t have the patience to deal with the Internet anymore) and I suppose I was right about that because she wrote me back and said she was glad to hear I’d be staying with Abigail and that she wanted me to keep in touch and come see her when I’m home at Christmas. I refuse to think about Christmas the same way I refuse to think about a lot of things. Better to think about Johnny Yang and the past, when Bastien was still with me. I open Bastien’s copy of The Handmaid’s Tale again and can’t help feeling that either it, or Bastien, wherever he is, is reading my mind because the first thing I see is: “I said there was more than one way of living with your head in the sand…” I laugh out loud and the bearded old man next to me (the woman had moved on without me noticing) glances surreptitiously my way, like he doesn’t want to provoke me if I’m in the process of become unhinged. I wish there was someone to share my private joke with. Yunhee would understand but I’ve only called her once since moving and getting in touch with her again would mean facing inquiries about when we can get together.

At dusk I begin to walk back home again, and when I arrive I find Abigail sitting on the neighbor’s porch with them. Though they have wicker chairs and a small oval table out front I’ve never noticed them sitting there, only spotted one or the other of them coming and going or opening their rear sliding door to let their cat in. “Here she is now,” one of the neighbor ladies announces as I near the house. The two of them look a bit alike so I assume they’re related; either mother and daughter or possibly sisters. “Hi.” I wave at them and Abigail. “Nice night, huh?” The older neighbor nods warmly. “Early fall is my favorite time of year.” Abigail points to an unoccupied fourth chair. “Have a seat if you like.” I hesitate, wondering how long they’ll expect me to stay and whether there will be many questions. “This is Leah,” Abigail adds for the neighbors’ benefit before focusing her attention on me again. “Leah, this is Deirdre and Marta.” I extend my right hand to both of them in turn. “Nice to meet you.” The brevity of the introduction signals that Deirdre and Marta already know who I am and makes me wonder precisely what Abigail’s told them. “Please join us,” Marta, the younger of the neighbors, prompts. “We were just talking about

how there didn’t seem to have been as great a variety of birds in the area this summer. I only saw one goldfinch at our feeder all summer.” I pull up a chair, feeling like I’ve waited too long to excuse myself; I don’t want to be rude to anyone Abigail is friendly with. “I don’t know much about birds,” I say. I’d recognize robins, blue jays, cardinals and sparrows, but beyond that I have no idea. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a goldfinch.” “I have a book,” Marta announces. “Let me show you what they look like.” As Marta excuses herself to get the bird book, Deirdre leans across the oval table towards me and says, “You don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for now. You could be poring over pictures all night.” I smile but I hope not. Marta emerges from the house half a minute later with a windbreaker and a guide book thicker than The Holy Bible. “You were looking cold,” Marta says, handing Deirdre the windbreaker and me the book. “Oh, let me find a goldfinch photo for you,” she adds absently. “They’re the prettiest things.” I surrender the book again as Deirdre comments, “They’re her favorite.” Marta presents the book to me open on a page displaying the goldfinch. The bird’s sitting

on a branch in profile, most of its body a strikingly brilliant yellow but its wing and the portion of its head nearest the beak as black as a country night. “It’s lovely,” I say truthfully. “That’s the male,” Marta explains. “The female’s more of a yellowish green. But their appearance varies during the year.” “You mean the male and female birds don’t look the same?” Marta gives me a patient look, like a teacher often gives a child. “Mostly males are brighter and more colorful—especially during breeding season—to attract the females. But the females are often larger.” She sounds like a teacher too, a good one. I begin to feel nearly enthusiastic as she flips through the guide book pointing out male and female examples of different types of birds. “I’m just showing you ones you might see in Southern Ontario,” she tells me. “That way you can look for live examples.” I have no inkling what Abigail and Deirdre are talking about—I spend all my time listening to Marta impart her knowledge of birds. When I tell her I’ve been watching the geese down at the lake she tells me that by the early twentieth century the Canada Goose had almost completely disappeared from Southern Ontario. “The government and conservationists successfully

reintroduced them and now there are so many that some people consider them pests.” “Pests?” How can something that flies with such grace be considered a pest? “They can be pretty aggressive at times but mostly I think people don’t like the geese droppings and the bacteria that comes along with them. Personally, I think the Canada Goose is beautiful.” “Me too,” I agree. Marta says I can borrow her book if I’m interested in learning more about birds. I thank her but say that I haven’t been reading much lately. I motion to The Handmaid’s Tale on the table. “I think I’ll still be reading that for a while.” “One of my favorites,” Marta says approvingly. “Yeah, I know it’s, like, a modern classic. I just haven’t had a head for concentrating lately.” I suppose I’m still yearning to share my private joke with someone and I poke one of my fingers through a buttonhole on my cardigan and debate how much to confide. “I keep picking it up and reading little bits at a time, and it’s weird; some of the things I’m coming across seem like personal messages.” “That’s probably true of all the best books,” Marta declares. “And Margaret, she’s a genius.”

I nod. You can’t make it through high school without reading at least one Margaret Atwood novel. “Like today,” I continue breathlessly, “today I read this part about there being more than one way of living with your head in the sand and it felt like it was put there just for me. I hadn’t even read the paragraphs that came before that. Those words, they were just so specific.” Marta’s unblinking eyes shimmer in the moonlight. “A bit ironic. If you were really living with your head in the sand, would that really resonate with you?” I see what she means. I’m unsuccessfully living with my head in the sand. Maybe I shouldn’t find that funny, but I do. A bitter smile jumps to my lips. “I won’t tell you my favorite part until I know you’ve finished the book,” she adds. A few minutes later Abigail and I excuse ourselves. She has to get up early for work and I’m tired, but I’ve decided I like Marta. I used to really like learning things. Bastien and I were both nerds that way. If Bastien were here I’d ask him if he knew what a goldfinch looks like and what happens next in Johnny Yang, Merman at Large. I can’t stop asking him questions, hoping for answers that will never come: Bastien, is it really wrong

to want to live with your head in the sand?

Seven The night before Abigail leaves we go to a movie, a thriller where no one’s telling the truth and a string of beautiful people end up dead. It’s the first movie I’ve been to in months, and I jump in my seat a lot but manage to follow most of the plot twists. In the morning Abigail returns her rental car and then catches a cab to the airport. I’m relieved to have the place to myself again and stay inside curled up in front of the TV for the entire day. When I find myself falling asleep on the couch I figure it’s time for me to take Armstrong’s wheel out of his cage again and crawl into bed, but as soon as I get there I’m wide awake. When we moved in together it took me at least a month to get used to sleeping with Bastien beside me every night, but learning to sleep without him has been trickier. Often I’m so exhausted that I drop off with no trouble and then sleep with such profound depth that it feels more like a coma than rest. Other times, like now, there’s no point in continuing to try because panic’s sparking through my body, making my mind speed. You’d think I’d just found out he was dead.

It’s like my cells are in shock all over again. I go out to the back room, where Etienne stacked some of the boxes of Bastien’s things, and tear one open. Bastien’s charcoal spring jacket is at the top. With the kind of weather we’re having lately I could almost start wearing it out. His frame wasn’t really that much bigger than mine—it wouldn’t look so weird on me—but I wouldn’t want it to lose any of its Bastien-ness. For that reason, I don’t wear any of his clothes, not even the T-shirts or hoodies I used to borrow from him before he died. Underneath the jacket are a bundle of sealed “Engraving Art” kits which I don’t remember seeing, let alone putting in the box. Maybe Yunhee packed them, or maybe I was in such a daze at the time that they slipped my mind. “For ages 8 to 88,” the packages declare. Attached to them is a yellow post-it note on which Bastien has scrawled, “Mr. D’s.” Bastien was doing volunteer stints at the school near our apartment every couple of weeks, teaching kids stuff like papier-mâché, origami and printmaking. “Mr. D” would be a reference to Mr. Dubonnet, the teacher Bastien was coordinating with on the afterschool program. I slice into one of the kits with my fingernail and examine the faint illustration on the black preprinted board—a hummingbird

pointing its long beak into a flower. There’s a scraping tool along with the board and it seems all you have to do to achieve a shimmering copper foil image of the hummingbird is scrape along the guide lines. I take a handful of the kits (each of them picturing a different animal) into the kitchen with me and begin scraping to reveal the shining silver, copper or gold foil images beneath. It takes me until dawn to finish the first two—the hummingbird and then a panda. I’m no artist but they look pretty enough, just like the pictures on the covers. The effort wears me out enough to sleep and I lie on the living room couch for just over four hours before waking up and realizing I never put Armstrong’s wheel back and he must have been driven insane with desire for it all night long. There’s not a lot he can do to distract himself—no engraving art kits designed for rodents, no hamster soap operas, sports or reality TV to help him kill time. But it’s too late now. He’ll be fast asleep and it’s best not to disturb him. I go upstairs and stare at him in his cage, wishing he were awake so I could pick him up and handle him a little. He really is a sweet little thing that rarely bites, even in the beginning before he was tamed. I wish we’d bought a dog too, before Bastien died. He wanted one so badly and believed there’d be lots

of time for that later. I imagine walking the dog we never had down by the lake. In my head it’s brown and vaguely terrier-like, sort of like one of the ones that lived next door in Toronto. My mind’s starting to race again like it did last night. I’m spiky and sad at the same time. The two emotions don’t work well together. It feels like walking around with lit sparklers poked underneath my skin. It hurts, burns, buzzes like electricity and won’t stop because every bit of me knows how much I need him, and still he’s never coming back. I need to exhaust the energy somehow. Run. Climb. Fight. Something. I can’t sit here with the feeling a minute longer. I turn my back to Armstrong’s cage, jump into my clothes and running shoes and scramble outside. I start out jogging but that’s not enough to dim the sparklers; soon I’m all-out running the same as if I was being chased. My lungs aren’t used to the level of activity; it’s not long before I’m gasping for breath, but that only makes me run harder. Why not push myself past the limit? What’s the worst thing that could happen? I sprint down Allan Street and head for the lake, turning on to Robinson, zigzagging my way

south to avoid foot traffic as much as possible. I don’t want to slow down but I’m out of oxygen. Struggling like a fish out of water. I fly off the curb near a stop sign and come down hard on the road, my right ankle flipping underneath me and toppling the rest of my body. With the wind knocked out of me, I go to pieces, my lungs screaming for air and tears leaking out of my eyes in response. It’s not that my ankle hurts that much—it’s the panic anyone feels when they have their breath stolen from them, only my panic’s worse because I was already losing grip. For several seconds I sit motionless, waiting for my body to remember how to breathe. Once my lungs start working again I plant my hands on the cement under me and propel myself slowly upwards, testing the weight on my right ankle. It’s sore but it will take a bit of weight. I stand, my eyes draining like they haven’t realized the physical emergency’s over with, and having started crying, I can’t stop. The endless longing for Bastien shakes in my chest as I limp along the sidewalk. It doesn’t matter that I’m outside and anyone could see. It doesn’t really feel as though anyone else exists anyway. I keep moving towards the lake because I don’t have it in my head to do anything else, and just steps from the

path along the water the first person to lay eyes on me does a double take and then looks past me as though he’s decided not to notice, which is sensible because there’s no point in noticing— and anyway, from my point of view he doesn’t really exist. “Hey,” he says, defying my thoughts by suddenly coming closer. “Are you all right?” I massage my eyelids with my thumb and forefinger. “I…fell. I’m okay. Just got the wind knocked out of me.” My chest hasn’t stopped vibrating and I don’t sound nearly okay. Through my tear streaked vision I see that the guy’s the Irish one I first noticed at The Cunning Café and then spotted again near this very spot over a week ago. “Do you want to put your weight on me?” he offers, looking concerned. “We can walk you over to the bench.” He motions to the nearest one, which, thankfully, is currently unoccupied. “Okay,” I say in a soggy voice. “Thanks.” He bends so I can swing my right arm around his shoulders and then winds his left around me. We inch over to the bench together, where I plop down with a sniffle. “Thanks,” I say again. “Do you think it could be broken?” he asks. “You might want to get it X-rayed.”

I shake my head. “I doubt it. It doesn’t really hurt that bad. It’s probably just a little sprain.” The guy nods like this makes sense, although he must be wondering why I’m crying so hard over something that doesn’t hurt much. I press the heel of my palms against my eyes and will myself to stop crying. I’ve already attracted more attention than I want. “I’ll be okay,” I say. “Really.” The guy’s standing in front of me, watching my breakdown and probably silently debating whether he can discreetly excuse himself. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to your car?” he says, motioning to the bench. “I don’t want to leave you stuck here.” “I’m not stuck.” I stand to demonstrate, only wincing a little. “And I don’t have a car. I ran down here and flipped along the way.” I plop down on the bench again. “It’s not really my foot.” I wrap my arms around my stomach and fold in on myself. “I’m…you know…I’m just not having a good day.” “I know the feeling,” he says with a measure of sullenness in his tone. “I don’t mean this,” he adds hastily. “Just about not having good days in general.” His lips form a grim line. I taste the salt of my tears on my lips but they’ve listened to me and slowed their pace. The

last time I cried like this in front of someone I barely knew I ended up moving in with her, but mostly people don’t want to know what’s wrong with me and I don’t want to tell them. This guy doesn’t want to know either, and I don’t blame him because I couldn’t care less about his version of a bad day. I glance past the guy, who’s about twentyfive with short brown hair and the sort of cleancut-with-a-dash-of-urban-edge good looks that are hard not to notice, unless you’re oblivious to pretty much everything, like I’ve been for months. Down at the lake a lone goose is ducking its head into the water, unaware that anyone considers it a pest. It makes me think of Marta. “I hate shitty days,” I mumble, shifting my gaze back to the guy. “Yeah.” He squints as he turns to stare at the goose too. “I hope it gets better for you,” he says with a finality that means he’s going to leave me in peace. “You too,” I say generously. I can afford to be generous now that he’s going. My eyes are nearly dry. He lopes off in the general direction we came from. I stay put for an hour, until my ankle feels better and watching the waves has stabilized my emotions. The sadness never really stops but the explosive quality it had earlier

fades into a dull, tired gloom. I wish I’d thought to bring The Handmaid’s Tale with me as a kind of protection against further interaction. People don’t usually try to talk to you when you’re reading, and now that I’m feeling level I notice hunger’s gnawing at my stomach and my thirst is even more acute. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since last night. Didn’t take a bath this morning either. I’m not smelly or gross but I feel stale. I head for coffee, my ankle twinging slightly as I stumble towards The Cunning Café. Inside I order a latte and gnocchi in rose sauce and seek out a table near the back of the room. Someone’s wearing lavender—copious amounts of it—and I glance instinctively around to look for the source, but my eyes land on someone else instead: that same guy I keep seeing around town. He catches me staring and I tighten my grip on my tray and walk over to him, regretting my fall earlier because it means I can’t ignore him now. “Hi,” I say quickly. “Thanks for helping me out earlier.” I tap my right foot on the floor. “It’s much better.” “Good,” he says. “What about the rest of your day?” He points to the empty seat in front of him. “Do you want to sit down?” He sees the hesitation in my face and starts to smile. “You’re

allowed to say no. It’s just that there aren’t many empty tables.” I swivel to do a quick visual sweep of the room and find he’s right. The only table left is one near the front door and there are two people on their way over there who will definitely beat me to it. “Sorry,” I say as I set my tray down on his table, “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just very antisocial these days.” “Then why are you stalking me?” he deadpans. “Sorry.” He gives a quick shake of his head. “I’ll stop taking the piss. You don’t seem like you’re in the humor for it.” I shrug lightly and resolve to finish my food as quickly as possible. “If I were stalking you I guess I probably wouldn’t be an hour behind.” I smile just enough to make it seem like I could be joking. “True enough,” he says, fingers reaching for what’s left of his sandwich. “Glad to see your foot’s better anyway.” I nod and dig into my gnocchi. Bastien would love it. We used to say we should go to Italy after graduation and cultivate some serious love handles. “How about you?” I ask. “Is it a good or a bad day?” It never used to be so difficult to talk to people. Pretending to care what they say takes more energy than it’s worth. “I’d say…” He stares over my head as he

thinks it over. “Indifferent, really.” “Indifferent is okay.” I shovel more gnocchi into my mouth. He doesn’t seem any more inclined to talk than I am, which means maybe we don’t really have to say anything, but for some reason I go on. “So you’re from Ireland?” He nods. “Dublin. Have you ever been?” “No. Never been overseas at all. I wanted to.” “Wanted to?” he repeats. “Not anymore?” I loop my fingers through my coffee cup handle. Abigail never breaks when she speaks of Alrick, although I know she loved him. I try to imagine what she would say in my place. “My boyfriend died in January,” I tell him. Hot as it is, I gulp my coffee. The heat makes one of my top teeth throb. “I haven’t really wanted to do anything since.” So far I’m doing a good job of being dispassionate—it reminds me of how I felt during the move—but I don’t trust that it can last. The faster we can changes subjects, the better. “I’ve basically…crashed. Shut down. Cut myself off.” The Irish guy shifts in his chair. “I’m sorry.” His eyes are so blue that if he wasn’t Irish I’d bet they were contacts. He stares blinkingly down at the table like I’ve hit him with a conversation killer. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

If he keeps looking so downcast my veneer of calm won’t last until I finish my lunch. Impulsively, I rap on the table and say, “So what about you? Tell me something awful.” “Something awful?” he echoes in surprise. He shifts in his chair again, an uncomfortable look spreading across his features. I bet next time he sees me he won’t ask to me sit down. No, he’ll look away, even if I’m wiping out right in front of him. But I follow through with a nod because I need the spotlight off me in a hurry. I cross my legs under the table and go for my coffee. Every time I swallow a bit that same top tooth hurts. I’ve twisted my ankle and somehow ended up with a cavity. That’s some kind of special talent. Across from me, the guy sinks down in his chair, his head tipping back as he thinks it over. “There are so many things that’s it’s hard to pick just one.” The sullenness from earlier is back in his voice and I lean closer, so I suppose I do want to know what his version of a bad day is after all. I continue with my gnocchi as I wait for him to enlighten me. He pushes up his left sleeve with his right hand and fiddles with his leather watch strap. “Okay, how’s this then?” he begins, frowning deeply. “My fiancée cheated on me with someone I work with. And as if that wasn’t

horrible enough on its own, it was in all the papers back home.” “It was in the newspaper?” I set my fork down. “Yeah, well…” He motions with his hands. “I’m known a bit there.” “Known?” His lips are clamped shut like he doesn’t want to say another word about it. “I was on an Irish TV show,” he replies dismissively. “You wouldn’t have heard of it—it doesn’t air over here.” Somehow I’m not really surprised to hear that; he looks like someone who could be on a TV show—only a little more real, I guess. Maybe that’s the way Irish TV is. His version of bad days doesn’t trump mine, but I have to admit having your fiancée cheat on you isn’t pretty. “I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t marry her,” I say. “I mean, that’s terrible anyway, but marrying her would’ve been worse.” His forehead creases. “Believe me, it was bad enough. Bad enough that I came all the way over here to wait for the dust to settle.” I was wrong in thinking that he didn’t want to say more. He furrows his eyebrows and continues, “Me and the other bloke, we got into a fight when I found out. I lost the head—broke one of his arms and his nose. He almost pressed

charges.” The guy keeps on going, his words picking up speed as he describes the next time he’d raised his fists to someone—a fight he didn’t start and where no one was really hurt but the fact that it broke out late at night outside a bar didn’t look good in the media. Then there were additional women troubles in the aftermath of his breakup. On the rebound he slept with an actress co-star from the same TV show, a woman twelve years older than him, as well as a former close friend of his sister who had grown obsessed with him and then subsequently aired what little there was to their relationship online and to the press. All in all his life sounds like a story ripped from a tabloid—the only things missing are a sex tape and a bout in rehab—and I find myself looking at him the same way I might regard some kind of exotic zoo animal. Personally, I just don’t know people that have that kind of crazy drama in their lives. “I can’t believe I just told you all that,” he murmurs, driving his fingers into his short brown hair. His eyes look all the more stunned because of their shocking color. Clearly he wishes he could take the last few minutes back. I know how that feels—if it were up to me I’d rewind my life back to the day at the food bank

with Bastien in high school and attach myself to him like super glue. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.” I finished my coffee and food during the course of his story, nodding and reacting with appropriate amounts of dismay and sympathy during the telling, but faced with the end of the revelation I’m not sure what else to say. I grab my fork and flip it over on my empty plate a couple of times. Bastien used to be the restless one. I guess the sparkler energy isn’t completely dead yet, or maybe it’s just the strangeness of having a real conversation with someone that isn’t about birds or Bastien. “I hardly talk to anyone these days anyway. Besides, I don’t even know your name.” He smiles at the bizarreness of sharing the most embarrassing facts about his life with a total stranger. “It’s Liam,” he says. I wasn’t hinting for his name. I hope he doesn’t think I’ll run home and Google him. “I’m Leah,” I tell him. “And seriously, if I ever see you again I’ll pretend that’s all I know, okay? That your name is Liam.” “Okay.” He bobs his head and I notice that he’s finished his food too; we’ve both just been sitting here, talking. “Thanks. I better head now —before I tell you other things I probably shouldn’t.” His smile, as he gets up from the

table, is both wry and embarrassed. “But try to watch your step, Leah, okay? We don’t want to make a habit of these confessions, do we?” “I’ll be careful. Thanks again.” I return his smile. “It was nice talking to you.” He smiles the biggest grin I’ve spotted on his face yet. “Liar.” I watch him go for the second time today. Weird as the conversation was, I’ve decided running out of the house earlier was the right thing to do. I thought I was glad that Abigail had flown back to Vancouver but, tiring as it was having to speak to someone every day, now I wonder if I miss it a little.

Eight Hearing Liam’s story reminds me of what a bad friend I’ve been to Yunhee—that she could be going through something monumental and I’d never know it. After twenty-four hours of procrastinating I set aside my latest engraving kit creation and call her to ask if she wants to get together sometime soon. She says between classes and the crazy hours she’s doing at her library job this week it’s not a good time to meet up but that she has plans with Katie (who she doesn’t get to see as much anymore because they’re both so busy and never seem to be on campus at the same time) the following week. “So the three of us can get together then!” she enthuses. “Do you want to train it over here or do you want us to come to you?” I’ve gotten used to the suburban quiet during the past few months but Yunhee and Katie would probably be bored here. Then again, in Toronto we’ll probably just end up at a coffee shop, café or hanging out at Yunhee’s apartment —all of which, except the last part, we can do right here. “We can make up our minds later,” I say noncommittally. Then, because I don’t want her

to get the wrong idea and think I’m going to flake out on her, I add, “Just name the day that works best for you.” Yunhee thinks next Thursday and I write the date down on the back of my preprinted art board and circle it twice. I can’t explain why after all these months it feels important to reconnect with Yunhee, but my mind’s locked onto the idea like it’s critical. No matter how I feel come next Thursday, I promise myself I won’t cancel. Not unless there’s an alien invasion or I get hit by lightning. In the meantime I do my regular things— taking root in front of the TV (sometimes while looking over Johnny Yang and sometimes not), keeping Armstrong in fresh fruit and answering my parents’ phone calls. I also walk up to Shoppers Drug Mart to buy toothpaste for sensitive teeth in the hope that’s the only thing wrong with my irritable tooth. Soon it begins to hurt even when I’m not eating, which makes it impossible to pretend a tube of toothpaste’s a decent solution, and I make an appointment with a dentist’s office within walking distance at the corner of Trafalgar and Randall. I was never afraid of the dentist, but I’ve never had to worry about how much they charge before and when the dentist shows me the infection on my x-ray and says the words “root

canal” my heart sinks. “How much will that cost?” I ask him. “We don’t do them here,” he explains. “I’m going to give you a referral to an endodontist— we can set that up for you if you like—and they’ll discuss all the details with you there. However, we’ll need to see you back here afterwards for a crown.” “But, I mean, all this isn’t cheap, right?” I had braces for two and a half years when I was a kid without giving the cost of straight teeth a second thought. In the July following my final year of high school an oral surgeon removed my four impacted wisdom teeth. And up until recently I’d visited the dentist at least once a year to get my teeth cleaned and X-rayed and cavities filled. Over the years my parents and their medical insurance plan must have invested a small fortune in my teeth while I remained oblivious and carefree. “Do you have benefits?” the dentist asks. “No,” I reply in what sounds like an especially downtrodden voice. Why couldn’t this have happened months ago while I was still covered under my parents’ plan? The dentist’s eyes soften. “We can work out some kind of installment plan for the cost of the crown if it’s a problem for you, and I know this particular guy well and am fairly sure he will

too.” I nod gratefully. An installment plan will at least give me time to work something out. “So, should we go ahead and schedule an appointment for you?” I tell him yes and he writes out two prescriptions for me—one for pain and one for the infection. He says they’ll give me a call when they have an endodontic appointment set up for me and I pay him for the visit and walk down to a drugstore on Lakeshore Road with my prescriptions. They’re markedly more expensive than a tube of toothpaste. So far I’ve spent more money in one day than I usually do in seven. I imagine, with horror, the amount that the root canal will set me back and know that it will necessitate a call to my parents. There’s no question that they’ll pay for the procedure, but it could also easily inspire them to resurrect their bring Leah home campaign. Asking for money (my dad still doesn’t know about the extra bit that my mom’s been sending along from time to time) signifies that I can’t take care of myself, which in their minds will mean I should be living back in my old bedroom, with them hovering over me like I never had a life with Bastien. I shudder at the thought. What I need is the space and quiet to register Bastien’s absence. That hasn’t changed. I don’t want to move on. As it is, every day takes me a little further from the

time we shared together. I need to protect and preserve what I still have of him. I ramble along Lakeshore Road with my prescription in a paper bag and my head tangled with thoughts of Bastien on the one hand, and the money I desperately need from my parents on the other. I don’t want to ask them; I don’t want to hear what they’ll say. I’m beginning to get a headache, either from the financial stress or lack of caffeine, and my feet start taking me in the direction of The Cunning Café. What does spending a couple of dollars matter when I’ll soon likely need well over a thousand? I curse my tooth as I walk. The coffee will have to be warm rather than hot or my tooth will complain yet more bitterly. I’m almost at the crosswalk nearest the café when I see Abigail’s neighbor Marta straightening a display of cookies and assorted snack goodies in front of a shop I’ve never taken any notice of. Marta spots me mere seconds after I’ve seen her but she’s the first one to say hello. I say hello back as I glance at the store behind her—O’Keefe’s British and Irish Delights. I would’ve sworn Marta was a teacher, but I guess I had her pegged wrong. “You work here?” I ask. “Yes indeed,” she says cheerfully. “Took the running of it over from my mother a few

years ago. Expats like to have their goodies.” “Doesn’t everyone,” I say in agreement. There’s something about Marta that puts me in a better mood, and I begin to tell her about my tooth and the impending root canal. “They’re not as bad as people say they are,” Marta assures me. “I had one about five years ago and the pain beforehand was much worse than what I felt afterwards. I can never understand people who are reluctant to take pain killers.” She smiles. “I’m all in favor of modern medicine. Load me up with the pain killers, I say.” I hold up my paper bag. “Antibiotics and pain killer. I’m on my way to take them both.” I motion towards The Cunning Café—my planned coffee stop—across the street, and as I turn back to Marta I spy a help wanted sign in the window of O’Keefe’s British and Irish Delights. I squint at it briefly, my heart leaping at the opportunity as my head warns that it’s a bad idea. Look what happened at the museum. I don’t want to cause trouble with Abigail’s perfectly nice neighbors. Marta follows my gaze and alights on the sign just as I tear my eyes away. “I had a student helping me out,” she explains. “But she moved to Hamilton with her family and now Oakville’s too far for her to come for a part-time job. My nephew puts in hours sometimes, though.” “And your mom?” I ask. “Does she still

work here sometimes?” ‘Part-time help wanted,’ the sign reads. I wonder how many hours that means. And how many could I handle? “Oh, no. Mom lives in Florida.” So Deirdre’s not her mother and Marta’s not a schoolteacher. Obviously I’m no psychic. A gust of wind blows Marta’s bangs into her eyes. She sweeps her hair back behind her ears and adds, “Anyway, if you know of anyone looking for part-time work, do me a favor and send them my way.” “Uhm.” Don’t do this, Leah. If you get fired it will reflect badly on Abigail. “How many hours a week is the job?” Marta leans thoughtfully against the doorframe like she never bothered to add them up before. “About twelve, fifteen. Somewhere in there.” She flips her hand over and starts counting on her fingers. “Friday night from three or four until closing at eight, same on Saturday, and then the entire shift on Sunday, noon to five.” I nod. Could I handle fifteen hours? My job at the museum was three shifts a week too but back then I still had classes. The schedule Marta outlined would leave me four full days—and all my mornings—free. “Are you in the market for a job?” Marta asks. I can hear the uncertainty in her voice. No

doubt Abigail explained my situation but Marta is too tactful to spell out her doubts. She should be doubtful. I am too. But I’m already doing calculations in my head, estimating what the root canal and crown might set me back and how long it will take me to cover the cost working fifteen hours a week at O’Keefe’s. I can’t imagine a job like that would pay much (maybe even less than the museum), but on the plus side, it probably won’t be very demanding. “I’ve been thinking about it,” I say in a level voice. “Just, you know, something parttime and local.” The truth, about needing money for my root canal, wouldn’t exactly inspire confidence that I’m ready to return to work. I don’t want Marta to think I’ll disappear as soon as my budget balances; I have no intention of leaving town anytime soon. Actually, maybe if I have a job in Oakville Abigail will be inclined to let me stay longer—not that she’s ever mentioned any time frame for my stay. “This would definitely fit the bill,” Marta says. “Mainly it’s just tending to customers, some light stocking of shelves.” She ushers me inside the store with her. It’s a crowded but homey space. The shelves are filled with candies, chocolate bars and canned goods that I don’t recognize. Something that looks like detergent

even. You know you’re homesick when you’re buying imported detergent. Further inside, on the back wall, there are numerous DVDs and sports jerseys. I spot copies of Doctor Who, Midsomer Murders and various BBC Jane Austen adaptations amongst the otherwise unfamiliar offerings. “Mondays to Saturday I open around eleven,” Marta tells me. “Usually I stay until sixish but with Caroline gone I’ve been staying later. Kevin—the nephew I mentioned—has been coming in during the evenings on Friday and Saturday to help me out.” “So…the shifts would just be Friday to Sunday?” I heard her the first time but I want to make sure. I can just about wrap my head around the idea of coming in here three times a week. Anything more would just be setting myself up to fail. “Were you looking for more days?” Marta asks. I shake my head. “Fifteen hours sounds good. Fifteen hours sounds like what I’m looking for.” As we’re talking, a middle-aged couple wanders into the store and smiles at Marta. “Hi, Simon, Louise,” Marta greets. “Getting blustery out there,” Louise

remarks, the lilt in her voice sounding similar to Liam’s. “It is,” Marta confirms. “You know, I just set up the display outside. I wonder if I should bring it in.” “I’d say you’d be smart to,” Louise declares. “Wouldn’t want it to end up halfway down the road.” She chuckles at her own joke. Marta starts for the door, turning to me as she goes. “As far as I’m concerned the job is yours if you think it will suit you. Why don’t you come by the house later tonight and let me know.” I thank her and say I will. Then I hurry over to The Cunning Café, swallow my antibiotics and painkillers with lukewarm coffee and hope I’m not making a mistake. Things have gone as well as could be expected in Oakville so far and now I’m in danger of screwing it up. Things keep changing on me. No matter how hard I try to freeze myself in place, life pushes on. In the evening I place a collect call to my parents and test the waters about my new job and upcoming root canal. Right away my mother starts lamenting the fact that I’m no longer covered under her medical plan. “I know,” I agree, “it’s bad timing.” I make a mental note to plan future emergency dental work more

carefully. I don’t have to ask her for the money for the procedure—right off the bat my mother says she’ll send off checks to the endodontist and dentist once I know exactly how much the procedures will cost. I thank her twice and bring up my job at O’Keefe’s hot on the heels of news of my infected tooth. “So you won’t have to send me money anymore,” I whisper, as though my father can hear our secret from across the country. “After the root canal stuff, I mean.” “I’m glad you’ll have something to occupy you,” my mother says, “but, Leah, when are you coming home?” The wistfulness in her voice fills me with sadness for the gap between the way things should be and the way they are. “I’m doing okay here, Mom, all right? I’ll be home for a visit at Christmas.” It’s the first time I’ve specifically promised that. Every previous mention of this Christmas has come from my parents’ lips. “You should give me the dates you want to fly!” my mom exclaims, jumping on the opportunity. “We’ll get that booked for you as soon as we hear.” “Just give me a chance to talk to my new boss first, okay?” I say. “I’ll definitely come but I’m not sure how much time I’ll be able to take off.” I haven’t even started yet and this new job

is already proving useful. Not that I don’t want to see my parents, but I know the way they think: they’ll see a Christmas visit as an opportunity to wear me down with arguments about how I’d be so much better off in Burnaby. The job will give me a solid reason to be back in Oakville on a specific date. It turns out my father’s out at a work dinner with some friends, which is good news for me because it means I only have to field questions about when I’m coming home once today. After I get off the phone with my mother I go next door to talk to Marta. Deirdre answers the door but leaves me and Marta alone in the living room to discuss business. Inside the narrow living room a Victorian couch and chair set, which looks like the real thing although it must have been reupholstered, faces a brick fireplace. I opt for the chair next to a small circular wooden table. I glance at the table as I sit, digesting the contents of the picture frame balanced atop it: Marta and Deirdre tenderly holding hands as they face each other in front of an elegantly decorated wedding arch. My eyes flick immediately to the photograph beside it, the happy couple posed with their heads leaning together (Marta’s hair up and Deirdre’s down), their bodies flanked by family and friends. I instantly feel like an idiot—Marta and

Deirdre are indeed related, but not in the way I’d originally guessed. Thankfully I never outright said anything about them being mother and daughter and have avoided the need for an awkward apology; we’re free to concentrate on business. The O’Keefe’s wages aren’t impressive, but I wasn’t expecting them to be so that doesn’t change my mind. Marta says she’s ever so glad I’m taking the job and that I can start on Saturday or Sunday if I like. I almost choose Sunday, just because it’s a day further away, but remind myself that I need the money. So Saturday it is. I wake up at eleven-thirty on my first day at work and eat some yogurt while rereading Johnny Yang. At this point it’s quite possible that I might have read it more times than Bastien himself. I should probably photocopy it so I don’t destroy the original pages thumbing through them so often. One of the things that I really love about it, aside from the bizarre concept, is that Bastien’s sense of humor shines through on every page. Even as fifteen-year-old Johnny’s angsting about his tail and the mutation of his genitals (one of Bastien’s full-page sketches of Johnny show how he resembles a dolphin from the waist down while in his merman state. Bastien made a starred notation next to the drawing—which I

believe was just meant for him and not for publication—that a male dolphin’s genitals are hidden away inside a long slit when they’re not in use) he’s cracking jokes about his plummeting level of coolness. In one panel that Bastien already completed you see Johnny think to himself: “I mean it’s not like I was cool before, but you never see dudes with dorsal fins looking badass in rap videos. Even Aquaman doesn’t have a tail. It’s totally demoralizing swishing around like a frigging tuna. The only positive in my situation is that I live near a lake rather than the sea, otherwise some commercial fishing boat would probably scoop me up and try to sell my carcass as a delicacy.” I know for a fact that Bastien wasn’t sure where he was going with the story. He just wanted to let it evolve on the page. But lately when I leaf through Bastien’s sketches and dialogue I keep thinking about romance finding Johnny Yang, either via a mermaid or an understanding human girl. Bastien would hate for me to turn Johnny Yang into something cheesy, but there has to be a way to give Johnny a love interest without melting the story into mush. And the story needs some other element too—a murder or some other intrigue—because right now it’s in danger of being episodic.

Johnny needs to do more than struggle to keep his merman identity a secret. I need to think on it further but right now I have to get myself ready for work. I peek in at a dozing Armstrong and then change into freshly ironed striped pants and a long sleeve gingham shirt. My antibiotics and painkillers and copy of The Handmaid’s Tale travel with me as I walk down to Lakeshore Road imagining what Bastien would say about my new job. He’d approve, I think, for the same reasons anyone who knows me would approve. Being employed, even parttime, makes it look like I’m getting better. Less sad. I argue with him in my head: “I’m not better. I’m dysfunctional. I miss you so much that I can’t think clearly most of the time.” Bastien: “I miss you too. But I still think the job’s going to be a good thing. Don’t sweat it too much. It’s all going to work out just fine. Your boss seems like a nice lady and it’s not rocket science, right?” “I know.” Bastien (and this next part he’d say with a teasing smile): “Lot of chocolate and candy in that place. You might get some of your booty back.” Bastien preferred girls with curves. He never said as much but I could tell by the kind of girl he checked out when he thought I wasn’t

looking. I was on the skinny side for him, even before I lost weight. Before I had a chance to react he’d throw a sympathetic arm around me and cuddle me to him. “But damn, Leah, what’s this about a root canal?” Bastien isn’t a fan of doctors or dentists. He’d be more afraid for me than I’d be for myself and would baby me afterwards, slide Moulin Rouge into the DVD player for me, make me lie on the couch, and bring me my fluids. If Bastien were still alive that’s how this surgery would go for me. The root canal would have a positive side, offering moments of intimacy. It’s strange that such a minor event like an infected tooth is an inevitability that would’ve occurred whether Bastien was alive or dead, while the accident that ended his life could’ve just as easily been avoided had events played out ever so slightly differently than they had on the evening of January eleventh. If Bastien had left Etienne’s house thirty seconds earlier…If he’d walked with a slower gait…If he’d forgotten something and had to go back…If Etienne had canceled…If the woman who’d smashed into Bastien had driven marginally faster and made it past the crosswalk before he’d ventured into the street…The variations were infinite and any one of them would have resulted in a different reality than the one I’m currently

living without Bastien. Everything would be different, except my need for a root canal. But I shouldn’t think about what-ifs on my way to work. They’re like a poison; they’ll only make me worse. Bastien repeats that message for me, with added emphasis: “Get your head in the game, Leah. You’re supposed to be concentrating on getting your boobs back here.” “I thought it was my booty?” “Well, you know, you can aim for both.” Bastien smiles his boyish smile inside my mind. God, I miss that smile. Miss his sleepy halfawake kisses and bad morning breath. We could banter in my head all day and nothing real-life would compare. There’s no cure for that kind of missing, but I keep walking, getting my head in the game like he might advise if I didn’t have to make up his side of the dialogue. Right now this job is something that will help keep him close. That’s reason enough to do it.

Nine Over the weekend I work with Marta and her fifteen-year-old nephew Kevin. He’s red-haired and freckly and initially talks compulsively about things I know nothing about—videogames, skateboarding and ancient acid rock bands. His left arm’s bandaged because he snapped his wrist skateboarding down a playground slide and he keeps dipping his fingers into the bandage to scratch, but once he figures out we have absolutely nothing in common he nixes the other topics and sticks to passing on his knowledge of British and Irish biscuits, sauces, soups, jams, beverages, beans, potato chips, chocolates and the various meat pies and bakery items that we sell frozen. Because of his presence, Marta herself doesn’t have to explain much. Kevin even teaches me how to use the cash register. Bastien was right about the job not being rocket science, but the constant smiling at/making small talk with customers is draining. By the end of the weekend I’m ready to fall into a coma sleep. Monday I stay in bed until one o’clock and don’t leave the house all day. In the late afternoon the dentist’s office calls and says the

endodontist, Doctor Garmash, has had a cancelation and can squeeze me in for a consultation on Wednesday afternoon if I can make it. Since his office is in Mississauga I have to take two buses to get there and when I do the news is similar to the dentist’s. I not only require a root canal (which they schedule for two weeks’ time), I’ll have to go back to the dentist for a crown because, as Doctor Garmash explains it, afterwards the treated tooth will become brittle and prone to break. Together the root canal and crown will set my parents back approximately sixteen hundred dollars, which is four thousand less than they would’ve paid in tuition if I’d gone back to school this fall, but still no small sum for them. Unlike Bastien’s parents, they’ve never vacationed in Europe and their mortgage won’t be paid up for years. Neither of them has a university degree but they’ve diligently put what savings they could aside for my education. These days my father, in particular, is worried that I’ll never finish school—that I’ve been permanently derailed—and I can’t tell him that I’m A-Okay or point to a specific date when I will be, but one of the things that I can do, as a small badge of stability, is keep my new job at O’Keefe’s and not ask him or my mother for any more money. I can’t afford to do nothing anymore; I

never really could. Gratitude for all Abigail has done for me washes over me as I make the long bus journey back to Oakville. I’d probably be on my way back to my parents’ house any day now if it weren’t for Bastien’s aunt. Returning to B.C. was the last thing I wanted to do and at first I would’ve continued to resist, running through the rest of my savings and then probably sleeping on Yunhee’s uncomfortable orange IKEA couch until I either had a complete breakdown or Yunhee’s roommate, Vishaya, got fed up with me and forced Yunhee to offer some reluctant kind of ultimatum. Possibly Katie or even Etienne would’ve let me stay with them awhile too, but I wouldn’t have been able to couch surf forever. And even if I’d somehow managed to stay in Toronto this long, the root canal would be the final straw—a financial disaster that I’d have no hope of resolving without the space and calm that surround me at Abigail’s. Since January I’ve been both surprisingly fortunate and tragically unlucky. I would like to believe the lucky parts have had as much to do with Bastien as the unlucky part. In a way that’s obvious—Abigail is his aunt, after all—but what I mean is that I like to think of him pulling strings on the other side, trying to help me along when he can. I can’t convince myself—I’m skeptical—but

I’d like to. I try. And I focus on Bastien, remind myself what his living presence felt like, as I open his copy of The Handmaid’s Tale to an indiscriminate page and read, “I know where I am. I’ve been here before.” It doesn’t necessarily mean anything to me but somehow it’s comforting all the same. Sometime I should start from the beginning and read the book how it was meant to be read. Sometime. I’m not up to it now. My mind tends to wander after a few pages. Still, between the random pages and phrases I’ve digested, I’ve worked out the main characters’ motivations and general outlook, the multiple horrors of a fascist society. If I was in an old Leah frame of mind the novel would frighten me; I would read as quickly as possible to assure myself that Offred triumphs and be distraught if she doesn’t. I would care. Instead I set the book in my lap after four pages and stare out the window the same way I stare at the television or the birds down at the lake. When I arrive home, sleepy from the motion of the bus, the telephone’s ringing. I see Yunhee’s number on the display and snap up the cordless, wishing I could cancel on her, although I promised myself I wouldn’t. “Guess what?” I grumble. “I need a root canal. Just got back from the dentist.” I hastily

correct myself: “Not the dentist—an endodontist —and one of my teeth is infected.” “Nooooo!” Yunhee cries. “Aren’t root canals supposed to be a complete nightmare?” “Thanks,” I tell her. “That’s really comforting. It’s a good thing you decided not to become a doctor like your parents wanted.” “Oh, I know. Can you imagine? I’d constantly be grimacing at people and saying the wrong thing, like, ‘I hope that’s not as bad as it looks.’” I can imagine her saying that. Her automatic reaction to most medical info is a scrunched up face and recoiling posture. “Listen,” she continues, “Katie called me earlier to reschedule. Some psych assignment she forgot about is due tomorrow and her cousin offered her tickets to The Vintage Savages at Massey Hall next Tuesday, so she thought it would be cool if the three of us went.” The Vintage Savages are the latest grunge revival band (or maybe there’s been another one since I stopped paying attention) to hit it big. Katie’s cousin is a concert promoter and is always coming up with free tickets for her. “I know we said we’d get together tomorrow—and you and I can still do that if you want—but Katie made me promise that I’d try to talk you into coming to the concert with us.”

The three of us went to a lot of gigs together in first year, before I moved in with Bastien, but much fewer later on. Katie gets so hyper at concerts that she’s practically a different person. She argues with security, dances like a maniac and has been known to get carried away socializing with other fans of the band, giving her cell number to one guy who stalked her over the phone for two months, and making out with another who gave her a beard rash and then never called. It seems like a lot to be up for and I carefully weigh my options—the concert will be loud and high energy but is days away. If I say I’ll go I won’t have to do a thing all day tomorrow. “I guess I can go,” I say. “It’d be good to catch up with Katie too—I haven’t seen her in ages.” I can’t blame her for losing touch; not many people will continue calling someone who doesn’t call them back. “I just hope she doesn’t get too frenzied.” “I don’t think she’s a total diehard Vintage Savages fan or anything so she could be okay,” Yunhee offers. “But we can always spike her drink with Valium.” “Hmm, yeah.” It’s generally true that the more excited about a band Katie is the wilder she acts. “Seriously, though,” Yunhee says, “if

you’re not into the gig idea we can always meet up for lunch together tomorrow instead.” I tell Yunhee I’ll make Katie happy and hit the Vintage Savages concert with them both, and Yunhee says I can sleep over at her place that night along with Katie, if I like. Already I’m thinking that I’d prefer come to back here afterwards. I hope the train to Oakville runs late. With major upcoming dental work, future shifts at O’Keefe’s and a rock concert in the cards, I feel claustrophobic, like there’s not enough time to actively concentrate on Bastien, despite having a full day to myself on Thursday. As a result, I’m quiet at work on Friday and Marta asks if I’m all right. “I’m fine,” I say as I rip open a new box of Cadbury Flakes to put on the shelf. “Just tired. I was at the endodontist earlier and had my jaw open for so long that I thought it might lock.” A convenient lie. She has no way of knowing I went for the consultation on Wednesday. “Ah,” Marta says. She’s standing behind the counter, next to the cash register, and I watch her eyes drift over to the nook where I’ve laid The Handmaid’s Tale. “So when are they doing your root canal?” “Two weeks from this past Wednesday.” I wander back to the counter, straightening packages and boxes as I go. “Then I have to go

back to the dentist and get a crown.” Marta nods. “And how’s it going with Margaret?” she asks thoughtfully. I’m about to explain the bizarrely random way I’ve been reading the book when Kevin saunters into the store wearing his baseball hat cocked to one side. As far as I’m concerned that looks even more ridiculous than wearing it backwards, but at least Kevin is chatty, which means I don’t need to be. Today he tells me about the holiday he had in England with his parents last year and gives a rundown of the different lingo they use for things—handbag for purse, chemist for drugstore or pharmacy, Sellotape for Scotch tape, car park for parking lot and so on and so forth. His impression is that it’s a lot more fun on the other side of the pond and that young people have more freedom, but he doesn’t elaborate about that, possibly because Marta’s within earshot. Mostly Kevin reminds me how young fifteen really is. I sort of miss him the next day, though. Marta says he’ll still be doing occasional shifts, probably once a week or so, but not as many now that I’m here to take over. Simon and Louise, who I remember from the day I spotted the help wanted sign, drop in to buy salmon spread, mushy peas and something called ‘Chef Sauce.’ Simon seems to wants to wrestle my life

story out of me, asks what I did before, whether my parents are from Britain or Ireland and what I do when I’m not at work. Louise elbows Simon, sensing my discomfort, and says, “Don’t mind him, he loves poking his nose into other people’s business.” I smile, glad to have been saved, and drop Simon and Louise’s purchases into a paper bag. They depart knowing only that my grandmother on my mother’s side was from Birmingham but emigrated to Canada with her parents when she was six and that I’m “taking a break” from school for a while. This is the line I’ll offer everyone who asks from now on, I suppose. I don’t want Bastien’s death dragged into a conversation with people I’ve just met. If customers want to talk to me they’ll have to be content with the weather as our chief topic. After tomorrow I’ll be manning the store alone on Sundays and for several hours on Friday and Saturday evenings, so during a lull in business Marta says she might as well give me a chance to get used to it and disappears down to Second Cup for a coffee break. While she’s gone a teenage couple meanders through the store examining chocolate bars and crisps (the British and Irish version of potato chips). After a few minutes the girl dumps a collection of chocolate bars—Curly Wurly, Wispa, Lion, Double Decker—

and three packages of Walker’s cheese and onion crisps on the counter. “I really have to try these,” I comment as I slide the crisps into a bag for her. “They seem pretty popular.” “Are they?” the girl asks in an accent as North American as mine. “That’s cool. My sister moved back from London a couple of months ago and she keeps saying how much she misses all the English junk food so, hey, is there anything else that’s really popular I should get her?” My eyes scan the shelves as I try to recall items I’ve seen people buy. “Do you know if she likes Penguins or Club Bars? They’re, like, crunchy biscuit things covered in chocolate.” I edge out from behind the counter and pick a package of each of them up from the shelf so the girl can do a visual comparison. She wants to know which of them are better and I fib and say they’re both good, although I’ve never tried either of them. Her boyfriend says, “Get the orange ones. Orange and chocolate’s a good combo.” She takes his advice and buys the Club Orange bars along with the crisps and chocolate. Just as they’re leaving, Liam strides in. I don’t know why it surprises me to see him here; obviously he spends a lot of time in downtown Oakville and as an Irish person he clearly fits the

customer profile. Liam’s wearing a white shirt under an unzipped leather jacket, the blueness of his eyes muted by O’Keefe’s bland lighting in combination with a cloudy sky which isn’t lending the room much radiance, and when he notices me behind the counter I can tell he’s taken aback too, probably because of his information overshare the last time we ran into each other. He recovers quickly though—either flexing his acting muscles or deciding the slip doesn’t matter in the scheme of things—fixing a smile on his face as he approaches the counter. “Hey, Liam,” I say casually. I remember my promise not to bring up any of the details he confided at the café and intend to stick with it. Hopefully he’ll be as circumspect about what I told him. “Hiya, Leah,” he says in that lyrical voice of his. “I didn’t know you worked here.” “Only for the past week and a bit.” He plants both his hands on the counter and nods. “The foot’s grand, I see.” “Totally fine. But you wouldn’t believe it, now I need a root canal. So maybe the ankle would’ve been better. Cheaper at least.” Liam winces in sympathy. “Are you in a lot of pain then?” “Not since I filled the prescription,” I joke.

“So The Verve were wrong—the drugs do work,” he quips. I smile. “Temporarily, at least.” I really don’t know what else to say to him. The weather seems like a disingenuous topic considering what we revealed of ourselves last time. “Anyway…” Liam cocks his head at the shelves. “Better grab what I came for before I have to head off to the theater.” “The theater?” I lean over the counter in the same moment that he pulls back. “Ah, yeah, I’m doing a play while I’m over here.” His hands dive into his jacket pockets. “With a theater company in Toronto. An Irish play. It just opened this week.” “That’s great.” I nod approvingly. “Kind of a commute though.” Plenty of people travel to Toronto for work every day and it’s not a long drive; just kind of strange that after coming all the way from Ireland Liam would decide to stay in Oakville while working in the city. “It’s not too bad, but you know…” He shrugs with his hands still buried in his pockets. “This seemed like a better place to keep a low profile and a friend of a friend had a place I could rent.” “It’s quieter than Toronto, that’s for sure. Definitely a good place to keep a low profile.” I know that firsthand. “Anyway, I don’t want to

make you late. Just let me know if you need any help.” I grab my copy of The Handmaid’s Tale from the nook behind the counter and plop my ass down onto the tall wooden stool Marta keeps back there. It’s uncomfortable but better than standing for four or five hours at a time. A couple of minutes later Liam’s standing back in front of me, setting down a package each of Bourbon cream cookies and Barry’s tea for me to ring up. I put Offred’s story down and approach the counter. “Is it better than the tea we have over here?” I ask, holding up the package of Barry’s. Liam flashes me a comical what do you think? look. “I don’t want to mess with any of your national delusions, Leah, but I’m Irish, we take our tea very seriously. And these”—he scoops the cookies into his hand—“are the very best biscuits to go with the tea. The perfect combination while you’re reading the newspaper or sitting in front of the telly.” “I’m not a big tea person so I’ll have to take your word for it.” I ring up the items and quote his total. Liam hands me a crisp twenty dollar bill. As I hand over his change he says, “All the best with the root canal.” His eyes spark with a flash of inspiration. “Wait.” He turns, zips back to the

shelf and picks up a second package of Bourbon Creams. “Here.” He sets them on the counter along with a five dollar bill. “For when you’re better. Trust me, you’ll love them.” “O-kay.” I give Liam his change a second time, feeling oddly touched. Sure they’re only cookies, but people don’t buy you cookies out of the blue every day. No wonder his co-star and sister’s friend fell into bed with him. If he’s going to walk around looking like that and buy cookies for girls, a high percentage of them are bound to aspire to crawl between the sheets with him. An ocean away his fiancée must be kicking herself. “Thanks,” I add. “I can’t wait to try them.” At home later I’m tempted to rip into the package and not wait for my root canal. What keeps me from opening the cookies is that Liam said they were for when I was better. If Bastien were here I’d let him have one now, though, to prove the cookies don’t mean a thing…and they don’t. It’s only human to be happy when someone’s nice to you, and only human to notice attractive people too. I store the cookies in the cupboard next to my ground coffee and I wait.

Ten I haven’t been to Toronto in three months but it feels like longer when I arrive in Union Station on the GO Train late Tuesday afternoon to meet up with Yunhee and Katie. The crowd moves at the speed of light. Stand. Detrain. Downtairs. Left. Right. Full steam ahead. Everyone else seems as if they were born knowing which way to go, but while I used to take the TTC almost every day, I never needed to jump on the commuter train and feel like a novice amongst the suburban travelers who morph into urbanites the second their soles hit Toronto concrete. I feel more at home as I leave the station and turn onto Front Street. I imagine Bastien’s excitement at being back downtown, as though he’s been trapped in quiet, leafy Oakville with me since the end of June. If he were here we’d hop on the subway and get off at Bathurst station so he could stock up on graphic novels and comic books at The Beguiling. All the staff there knew him by name and it occurs to me, for the first time, that maybe they don’t know what happened to him, why he stopped coming in. Knowing how fond Bastien was of the place, I’d like to go there sometime, but I’m afraid. I don’t

want to be the one to break the bad news to the guys who work there. In my alternate universe day in the city with Bastien we’d probably wander through Honest Ed’s together after we’d finished at The Beguiling. An entire city block devoted to a single hulking discount shop, the mutant-sized Honest Ed’s horrified and fascinated us in equal amounts. We could never resist stopping in to buy cheap kitchen gadgets or packaged food from the basement level. Nearer to our old apartment we’d be similarly helpless to resist the cupcake shop for a snack, and later The Caribbean Bistro, where Bastien would devour the jerk chicken with cooked cabbage plus rice and beans on the side and I would order the mixed vegetable roti. I’d taste the flavor of his food on his tongue when we kissed, our mouths hot with spices. Lately I dream about us like that in my sleep. Sweet dreams as well as raunchy ones. I miss every inch of him but when I’m awake the longing’s more emotional than physical. In my sleep I become a wild thing. “I know what you want,” Bastien whispers suggestively inside my head. And that’s how my alternate universe day would end, with those words like sugar on his lips. Us alone somewhere, Bastien nimbly unbuttoning my jeans, sliding them down my legs. Panties too. Bastien burying

his face in me as I spread my legs for him. Bastien’s tongue filling me in. Bastien’s cock. His fingers in my mouth. Our rhythm fast…or slow… whatever we wanted it to be. I want to howl when I remember how we were. I want to bite my hand in frustration and pace the streets looking for him, because after all these months, I still don’t understand how he can be gone. Wanting someone this much should raise him from the dead. “I’m not gone,” Bastien assures me. “You know I’m not.” “I pretend you’re not,” I tell him. I knew him so well that I can be a convincing mimic. It comforts me to think about how he’d react to different situations; it keeps him near. But that’s more difficult to do when I’m around other people and I stop the patter in my head as I near Yunhee’s apartment. The day’s turned gray and drizzly and I didn’t bring an umbrella, so my hair’s damp when I arrive. Yunhee and Katie hug me and Yunhee sends me to the bathroom to use her hairdryer. When I emerge they’re lounging on Yunhee’s orange couch (most of the furniture in the apartment is her roommate Vishaya’s, but I was with Yunhee the day she picked out the deeply discounted couch at IKEA) and Katie wants to know all about Oakville and what I’m

doing with myself there. Yunhee shoots her a weary look as if to say, I told you not to do this. “What?” Katie asks loudly in response. “I haven’t seen her in six months. I’m not supposed to ask how she’s doing?” “Actually, I got a job,” I announce. “Just a part-time thing, but the owner of the store I’m working in, she’s really nice. She’s actually Abigail’s neighbor.” I assume Yunhee has already informed Katie about my arrangement with Abigail. “And actually, Oakville is really nice.” I cringe at the number of times I’ve just used the word actually. Katie’s my friend. Why do I feel like I have something to prove? “I didn’t know you had a new job,” Yunhee says. “That’s great.” Great’s an overstatement, but I appreciate the encouragement and smile at her for it. “I think I was too caught up in talking about the root canal the last time we spoke to mention the job, but yeah, it’s not bad. It’s pretty relaxed. Like I said, it’s my neighbor Marta’s store and it sells imported grocery and corner shop type items from the U.K. and Ireland. Tons of chocolate and cookies, but other things too.” “You always hear people say British chocolate is better,” Katie comments. Chastened by Yunhee, Katie drops any further questions about Oakville, which leaves

them discussing their busy school schedules and how hard third year is while I listen in and groan along with them. “And what about that old philosophy TA that you were hooking up with?” Katie wants to know. “Chas? Chad?” “Chas,” Yunhee confirms, glancing my way. “She doesn’t mean old old. Just that he was my TA last year. You and I ran into him in the library together that time last fall. Do you remember? He was talking about having to get his dog put down.” “The guy with the sideburns?” I ask. He didn’t seem like Yunhee’s type—too intellectual and pretentious, especially the sideburns. I bet he doesn’t even own a drill. Jealousy pinches at my neck: Katie knew about Chas before I did. “He shaved them off,” Yunhee says, “but yeah, that’s him.” She yawns like the topic is really boring and unimportant. “You know how it is; there’s just no decent boyfriend material around. The good guys, like Bastien, are never single for more than two seconds and I was seriously starting to climb the walls with sexual frustration.” She slouches down on the couch and kicks her feet up onto the coffee table. “Chas can be a really self-absorbed ass sometimes, but we promised each other we’d hook up exclusively and so far I think we’re both sticking to it. You know, it’s good just to be able to have

someone to call at those times when you really need to get laid.” Katie shakes her head, a high-pitched laugh escaping from her lips. “I wish I could be like that. I get too emotionally involved. It’s like the minute I start sleeping with someone I want him to be there for me, not just as a physical thing.” “Yeah, well, that would be ideal,” Yunhee says, shifting her feet on the coffee table. “But personally I begin to go slowly insane waiting for that.” Yunhee dated a guy named Keyon for a few months at the end of first year. He seemed really nice and down to earth, and when things didn’t work out Yunhee looked teary at the mention of his name for weeks, but would only say that that his life was complicated in a way that it wouldn’t be fair to discuss with anyone else. When she felt better again Yunhee told me she was swearing off guys for the foreseeable future because the bad ones weren’t worth the emotional turmoil and she wasn’t even sure if the good ones were. I’m remembering all that when Yunhee adds, “It was almost a year since Keyon. At least now I know the sexual part of my life is taken care of. Otherwise it’s sort of like wondering—obviously on a much lesser scale—where your next meal is coming from. It’s distracting.” “A vibrator would’ve taken care of that too,

you know,” I say, half-joking. But Yunhee can hear the other half in my voice. “Pfft.” She folds one of her legs over the other, her top foot restlessly pumping the air. “It’s not the same. It’s not just about sticking something inside you. It’s everything else too. Mouths and skin and just—” “Sharing yourself with another person,” Katie interrupts. I know that. I know that. Maybe I wouldn’t have disapproved of Yunhee hooking up with some guy she merely tolerates before Bastien died, but everything she and Katie have just said only stresses that there should be more to sex than slotting A into B. If you don’t care about the person you might as well be switching on a machine and taking care of yourself that way. Sharing yourself with somebody that doesn’t really care—the thought of that makes me feel so lonely for Bastien that my lip has begun to quiver. I bite down to stop it as Katie and Yunhee trade stricken looks. “I’m sorry,” Yunhee murmurs. “I should just shut up. I know it’s not a good situation— Chas and I—and it makes an even worse topic of conversation.” “It’s okay,” I lie. This time I’ve stopped the tears from starting, but Yunhee and Katie have sensed I’m upset anyway. “Everything just

makes me think of Bastien. It doesn’t help to think about how I was lucky now that he’s gone.” Katie stares at the knees of her jeans. “I want to know what’s going on with both you guys, though,” I continue, keeping my voice straight as a ruler. “I do. I want to know about Chas and whatever else there is.” Katie looks me in the eye. “I don’t have a Chas.” She cracks an impish smile. “But for the record, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with owning a vibrator.” Yunhee’s eyebrows jump. “Do you have one?” Katie does, it turns out, and that makes for a more entertaining, and less tear-inducing, topic of conversation. But soon Katie and I are craving caffeine and the three of us have to stroll out to the local Second Cup in the rain for proper coffee (Yunhee only has instant). Afterwards we go to the supermarket to buy pizza dough because Yunhee wants to bake pizza but can’t cook any better than I can. We start with the store-bought dough, spooning on canned tomato sauce, mozzarella and the asparagus, shrimp and mushroom leftovers Yunhee has in her fridge. I grate some Gouda and toss that on too. Katie decides bacon should be the final touch and fries a couple of slices, chops them into pieces and

throws them on to complete our semi-homemade pizza. At first it tastes like a discordant mix of flavors, but I keep chewing and by the second slice I’ve decided it’s not disastrously bad. We clean up slowly and once we’re done it’s time to walk up to Massey Hall for the concert. Aside from the odd drop or two, the rain’s stopped and I realize I’ve genuinely been enjoying my time with Yunhee and Katie. “You see,” Bastien would say as we stroll up Yonge Street, “it’s good to hang out with your friends.” But when I look over at Katie and Yunhee to tell them I’m having a good time, Yunhee’s hands are clutching her abdomen like she’s forty weeks pregnant and her water just broke. She rushes desperately over to the Flight Center travel agency and loses her pizza on the ground directly underneath the window where they have Caribbean seat sales posted. Katie and I follow as she continues to heave. I grab Yunhee’s hair and pull it back out of her way, and once her stomach’s empty I rummage around in my purse and pull out a wad of tissues for her. “Here.” I take one of the tissues and wipe a speck of yellow from her hair. “Fuck,” Yunhee mutters as we step away from the vomit puddle. She runs one of the

offered tissues around her lips and slides the rest into her back pocket. “Are you okay?” Katie asks. “Not really, no,” Yunhee replies, her eyes shimmering and her face gray and waxy. “I need to go back to the apartment.” “We’ll come with you,” I offer, grabbing her elbow to direct her. Katie frowns but turns with us. We’ve only taken six or seven steps when Yunhee stops and says, “I can make it okay. It’s only a few blocks. You guys should go to the concert.” “You’re sick,” I point out. “We’re not just going to leave you here. We can walk you back to your place and still get up to Massey Hall in time for The Vintage Savages. We’ll only miss a bit of the opening act.” When we reach Yunhee’s Front Street apartment I’m tempted to stay and take care of her, more because I don’t want to go the concert without her than out of worry, but I know neither Yunhee nor Katie will stand for that. I said I’d go to the concert and there’s no turning back. Katie rubs Yunhee’s shoulder as we say goodbye on her doorstep, and while the two of us are heading back to Yonge Street, Katie mutters, “I hope that’s not food poisoning from the shrimp we put on the pizza.” Me too. I don’t need a case of food

poisoning on top of my root canal, although it would be the perfect excuse not to go to the concert. Maybe I should’ve eaten more shrimp. Outside Massey Hall a few minutes later, we squeeze into the deluge of people filtering into the venue. For a multicultural city, the crowd is incredibly white, most of the ticket holders fitting comfortably in the eighteen to thirty age bracket. Because the opening band’s still on we head down to the bar in the basement and buy beer before sliding into our fifth row center seats. You have to hand it to Katie’s cousin—he never fails to produce good seats. I sit next to Yunhee’s empty chair. A couple with their hands glued together are on Katie’s other side, and for The Vintage Savage’s first three or four songs Katie is fairly restrained. Then the band launch into their second major radio hit “Never, Ever, Not” and she whips up out of her seat and tries to yank me up with her. It’s not really a song you can dance to but Katie achieves that regardless, her fist pumping the air as the band shouts out the lyrics: Never. Ever. Not. The girls behind us begin to get annoyed when Katie stays on her feet for the next number too, and I begin to dread the arrival of—and

subsequent debate with—security. I can see the nearest security guy, with beefy arms and a soul patch, eyeing us from his position near the front of the stage. He waits until the next song, a so melancholy you could slit your wrists number, has begun before trooping over to us. Then he steps in front of me, leaning over to whisper into Katie’s ear. She swivels to survey the sixth row girls, who have been getting an eyeful of her ass and not much else for the past ten minutes, and then cups her hand around the security guy’s ear and whispers back, pointing to the area in front of the stage. He shakes his head no. Katie continues talking, pointing and shrugging her shoulders as though everything she’s suggesting is completely within the realm of acceptable concert audience behavior. The security guy doesn’t buy it, is getting tired of arguing with her. Finally Katie rolls her eyes and takes her seat. Luckily it’s not long before lead singer Vince Burnett is urging fans to, “Come down to the front of the stage and kick things up a notch!” I don’t resist when Katie drags me along with her because it was inevitable, as inevitable as the skinny blond guy she starts making eyes at as she presses up against the stage. The guy’s more attractive than her other concert finds, but he looks young and will probably turn out to either be underage,

already have a girlfriend (in which case he shouldn’t be flirting back the way he is) or be the type who will want to film Katie giving him a blow job with his cell phone and then forward the clip to his friends. It bothers me that my kneejerk reaction to my friends’ involvement these days is matronly criticism. Maybe he’s a great guy, I lecture. Maybe he’s Katie’s next long term boyfriend or the future father of her children. Even if he’s not, is everyone supposed to be alone because I am? Is anything less than what Bastien and I had not worth possessing? That’s the way I think, obviously, but I shouldn’t be foisting that viewpoint onto my friends, and it’s because I feel guilty about my shortcomings in that area that I try to be nice to the skinny blond guy and his friend when Katie and I loiter around outside Massey Hall at the end of the show talking to them. They’re from Brampton and both nineteen, so technically only a year younger than us, but I feel much older than twenty now; I feel like a sour old widow with a shawl and corns on her feet. People get confused by my appearance, but that’s the true Leah. She tires easily, has bad teeth and no appetite and doesn’t want the door or phone to ring because she doesn’t want to have to get up to answer them.

The blond guy’s friend keeps checking me out from under his heavy eyelids, maybe figuring that if his friend has a chance with Katie he has a chance with me. I sense that Katie is aware of this also—and aware that I don’t like it but that I’m trying to be helpful for her. She steps closer to me so our hips are touching and squeezes my arm. “We need to go,” she tells the guys apologetically. “It’s late.” “It’s not so late,” the blond guy counters as he checks his watch. “I was hoping we could get some food or drinks or whatever. Talk about the show some more.” “We could go to Fran’s,” the guy with the heavy eyelids suggests. “Share some nachos.” Fran’s never closes. It’s the best place to go in the city if you don’t want to do much but at the same time aren’t ready to go home yet. The menu’s half decent, but even if I was hungry I wouldn’t want to share nachos with these guys like I’m some girl one of them could hook up with after a concert. “Our friend’s sick,” I say. “We should go check on her.” Katie backs me up. “We really should.” Her eyes zero in on the blond guy, edging me and his friend out of the picture. “But maybe next time you come into the city…” A look of disappointment flickers across

the guy’s face, a look that says he thought Katie would be easier. “Um, yeah, we can do that,” he says, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and slipping it into her hand. “Give me your number.” While she’s keying the digits in the other guy turns his attention to me. He takes one look at the aloofness that’s spread across my face like a second skin and sighs. He’s not even going home with a number tonight. After we say goodbye and begin our journey down Yonge Street, I half expect Katie to complain that she really wanted to go for nachos, but she doesn’t mention Fran’s or the guys. She talks about the new songs The Vintage Savages played and how she thought they started off too low-key but finished strong. I know the concert didn’t happen to me in the same engrossing way it happened to her— they never did and now even less so—but I thought the band sounded good and I tell her that and thank her for the ticket. “I’m glad you could come,” she says. “We shouldn’t wait so long to get together again.” “We shouldn’t,” I agree. It’s not precisely what I mean but if I tell her the truth—that it was nice to see her and Yunhee again but that it reminded me why I don’t fit in my old life anymore—she’ll probably feel like I’m pushing

her away. And that’s not my intent. The push occurred last January and it wasn’t anything I did. It’s just something that happened and will never stop, a domino effect cascading out ahead of me for the rest of my life.

Eleven Having caught the last train back to Oakville after checking on Yunhee, I sleep late again. When Abigail calls in the afternoon to check on the house, and me, I keep her on the phone for longer than usual, telling her about my job with Marta, my upcoming root canal and the work her neighbors across the street have been doing to their property. “You won’t recognize it when you see it next,” I say. “It looks like they’re pulling the entire house down.” I want to ask about Alrick and how she’s gone on with her life without him, but the right words don’t come. She’s never mentioned any other men. Maybe that door is closed for good. I’ve felt strange in my skin since the concert; not any more melancholy than usual, just different. The other times I was with Yunhee and Katie I was too deep inside a grief bubble to really notice anyone else, but this last time I could see more clearly, and that clarity of vision made me feel like Alice in Wonderland, out of step with the peculiar world around me. I don’t feel like that in Oakville as much, but maybe that’s because I never really go anywhere or speak to anyone my age. No one confides in me

about hook-ups or asks for my cell phone number when what they really want is something else. After I get off the phone with Abigail I don’t know what to do with my contemplative mood. There’s a restless edge to it that won’t let me be. While I’m deciding how to occupy myself, I pull some of Bastien’s boxes away from the wall in the back room to form an exercise rectangle for Armstrong. Fenced in by the boxes, he won’t need his plastic exercise ball. Bastien used to erect similar temporary enclosures for him from time to time so Armstrong could experience the world outside his cage or ball without us losing track of him. One evening Bastien even stacked boxes on a portion of our shared driveway and we sat outside in patio chairs to supervise the world’s greatest hamster. The second we saw a cat prowl onto the neighbor’s lawn we realized we’d put Armstrong at risk. Bastien was up and scooping Armstrong into his hands with super hero speed. With Armstrong safe, the two of us stared at each other in alarm, our expressions asking how could we have failed to foresee the obvious threats of the outside world? As soon as I’ve completed Armstrong’s exercise quad and he’s manically exploring his new turf, I disappear into the living room, turn

the TV on to a home makeover program, and begin a letter to Bastien’s mother. It’s not as if I’m her daughter-in-law, so maybe I’m overstepping some boundary in writing to tell her how I am, but I crave communication with someone who misses Bastien as much as I do, and that’s easier done on paper than over the phone, where I would feel awkward and likely cut the conversation short. I ruin the letter from the very beginning by writing “Dear Mrs. Powell” when Bastien’s mother asked me, the time she flew out to Toronto after the accident and again at the funeral, to call her Joyce. I rip up my lined page and start afresh. Dear Joyce, I know that we don’t know each other very well but I thought you might be interested to hear how things are going for me in Oakville. I still have some of Bastien’s things here and I hope you don’t mind. Not many things, mostly some clothes and a few old notebooks. I don’t know if you’re aware that he was working on a graphic novel when he died. He told me that he used to make his own short comic books when he was a kid and I wish I’d thought to ask you whether there were still any at

home with you that I could look at. The time wouldn’t have been right anyway. I just feel…

I stop and tap my pen against my thigh, thinking through rest of the sentence in my head because it might be too strange—obsessive—even for Bastien’s mother: …like there must be thousands of pieces of evidence of his existence scattered around here, Toronto, Burnaby and anywhere else he’s ever been that I want to gather up and hold on to. I press pen to paper again and continue: I just feel…Maybe when I’m home visiting my parents at Christmas you’d like to see the graphic novel pages he finished. I don’t intend to stay in Burnaby after Christmas. Oakville feels like the right place for me at the moment. Surprisingly even more so than Toronto. I’m so grateful to Abigail for giving me the opportunity to stay here and I hope that she allows me to continue to…

I cross off the last half of that final sentence. I don’t want my letter to come off sounding like a

thinly veiled plea that I hope she’ll pass on to her sister. What I want Bastien’s mother to know is that I haven’t stopped missing him and I won’t. I’m living that truth every day but can’t translate it into words in a way that won’t sound self-congratulatory and/or psychologically unsound. My hand lies motionless on the page. This isn’t working. I shouldn’t try to articulate important feelings while in an Alice in Wonderland frame of mind; I’ll only end up worrying people. I’ll have to write Bastien’s mother some other time, when my brain’s feeling more disciplined. But now what? I consider stepping next door, rapping on the door and asking to borrow Marta’s bird book in the hope that she or Deirdre is feeling chatty and will invite me in to sit on their restored Victorian furniture. I’m on my feet to do it, scooting into the back room to relocate Armstrong to his cage, when a lightning bolt strikes: Johnny Yang, Merman at Large. Maybe what Johnny needs is another world to tempt him. He already feels like he doesn’t belong in this one but right now he doesn’t have an alternative. I can offer him one. Make him choose in the end. I flip feverishly through Bastien’s Johnny Yang drawings, notes and completed pages, scrawling notes on my own paper. If I do this, it

will have to be in a way that’s true to Bastien’s original vision—more laughter and adventure than love story. What would make Bastien laugh? What if the undersea world Bastien discovers is full of merpeople who over the centuries have grown stupid and lazy and now do nothing but frolic, procreate and belch. Enchantingly beautiful and horrifyingly dumb, they want Johnny to stay with them, but only if he promises to forget his knowledge of the world. Day by day, as Johnny procrastinates about making a decision, they grow more indolent and so does he, all the science, geography and mathematics he learned at school beginning to slip away from him. I used to lose myself in essays on human evolution, primatology and linguistics, but for the next several days it’s adolescent, reluctant part-time mermaid Johnny Yang that absorbs my attention when I’m not working at O’Keefe’s. My drawing skills are non-existent so I use written descriptions or stick figures as placeholders. But for the most part I concentrate on the story and dialogue. I haven’t written a story since high school English class and possibly what I’m coming up with isn’t any good, but I like it. More importantly, I think Bastien would like it too. Because my Sunday shift at O’Keefe’s starts earlier than the Friday or Saturday ones, I

don’t have a chance to work on the story before I prepare to leave the house at eleven-twenty in the morning. No clean jeans or other casual pants either; I’ve fallen behind in washing my laundry. I rifle through my closet and pair my sleeveless black dress with a maroon knit tunic for warmth and added casualness. Then I slip on black tights, jam my feet into comfy black ankle boots, and fly out the door. This is the first time I’ll be working solo all day and I want to make sure everything’s in place before I open the shop to customers. It’s bound to be because Marta and I tidied the shelves and checked inventory levels just last night after closing, but I double check anyway. My copy of The Handmaid’s Tale is with me, as usual, and after I’ve counted the float money left in the cash register I unlock the door, set up the goody display outside and sit on the stool with my head buried between the pages. This time I begin on page one and try to read as if I mean it. Customers come and go. I recognize a few of the regulars now and one of them, a British South Asian woman in her late thirties, tells me, as she stands at the counter paying for a can of custard and package of frozen cheese and onion pasties, that, “The weather channel says the clouds are going to clear away, giving us a perfect autumn day. I hope you have

a chance to go outside and enjoy it.” “You too,” I say. It was overcast and a little on the chilly side when I walked to work earlier. “Maybe I should drag my stool outside. Get an October tan.” You can’t go wrong talking about the weather; there’s some twist to the story every day. It follows that the nicer the weather is the more people stroll downtown Oakville, dropping money in cafés and stores, and therefore I don’t have much time to read The Handmaid’s Tale, but I ring in quite a few sales for Marta. Only once do I temporarily lock the front door so I can nip out for coffee, and when I return a red-haired woman is waiting for me, eyeing the sign I stuck to the window: Back in 5. “Sorry,” I tell her as I unlock the door. “I’m the only one here today and my caffeine level was running low.” The woman smiles. “I know what that’s like. Half the time coffee’s the only thing that keeps me up and running around.” I digest another two pages of Offred’s story while the woman browses around the shop but am soon forced to give up on it again. So far I haven’t seen O’Keefe’s crowded the way the kids’ gift shop at the museum used to get on weekends, but the customers drift in at a steady pace. At four minutes to five o’clock, when I’m

preparing to close for the day, two women pushing strollers, and with a total of five young children between them, charge into the store. The two toddlers have arms like windmills, constantly in motion grabbing for chocolate bars and candies. One of them rips into a Cadbury Crunch, shoving half of it into his mouth before his mother can grab him and pull out the other half. “I told you not to touch!” the woman screams. “Give that to me.” She tosses the uneaten half on the ground and glares at me like the boy’s behavior is my fault for deigning to work in a shop full of tasty things. “How much is that?” she demands. I quote the price for her and she whistles through her teeth and combs one of her hands through her long blond hair. “That’s ludicrous,” she declares. “What a rip-off!” “It’s imported from England,” I explain. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and stamps over to the counter with her hand in her purse. “Did Will and Kate make it?” Naturally. When they’re not on tour the prince and his wife spend all their time in the Buckingham Palace kitchen, rolling their naked bodies in chocolate. It’s amazing the extra dimension of flavor that gives the chocolate. I smile at the woman with my mouth, but

my eyes aren’t amused. Two of the other kids have begun to wail and snatch items from the shelves. I try not to be angry at them and imagine that they’ve missed a crucial nap. Is it possible that if Bastien and I moved here after graduation and had a family that I’d be the one standing in O’Keefe’s with semi-feral toddlers? That’s a future alternate reality that my heart wholly rejects. Bastien and I would never raise brats. If the first child was a bad seed we’d hold at one and wear him or her down with reasoned discipline. Our child would never grow into a ten-year-old who would throw stones at geese. The blond woman clunks her heavy-as-aslab-of-concrete purse down on the counter and rummages for change. I thank her and point innocently to the uneaten half of the chocolate bar now littering the floor. “Do you think he wants to finish the other half?” I wish Kevin were working today so he could hear that line. I think he’d appreciate it. The woman stabs at me with her eyes. Her friend has begun to herd the kids towards the door. “I can just get it later then,” I add. But Will and Kate would be disappointed to see it wasted. I smile as wide as the Cheshire cat once they’ve all gone. I can’t remember the last time I smiled that hard.

Because of the mess, I’m late getting out of the store. First I take in the items from the outdoor display, collapsing the folding table and storing it in the back room. Then I count the day’s takings, lock the money in the safe and survey the rest of the shop. Many of the chocolate bars and candies on the lower shelves have been mixed up. In the corner there are several bars on the floor, one of which has been smushed under someone’s foot. I restore order to the shelves, mop the entire floor and then leave a note for Marta about the chocolate bar casualty. The Handmaid’s Tale tucked snugly under my arm, I activate the alarm, switch off the lights and lock the door behind me. The sun shines golden into my eyes, temporarily blinding me as I step out on the sidewalk and narrowly avoid colliding with Liam. “You’re closed,” he observes. I lift my hand to shade my eyes. “We shut at five on Sundays. Were you coming in?” “I was going to, but no worries.” He hooks his thumbs into his front pockets. “I made the mistake of bringing the Bourbons with me to the theater and that lot polished them off in no time. What did you think of them, by the way?” “I’m keeping them aside as an after the root canal treat, like you said.” “Oh right,” he says, his eyes twinkling in

the sun. “So that hasn’t happened yet?” “This coming Wednesday.” I feel my book slipping and adjust it under my arm. “How’s the play going?” “Good, good,” he says thoughtfully. “I hadn’t done any theater in awhile. It’s cool to have that direct line to the audience. You can feel their reaction in the moment. It’s really different from what I’m used to.” I nod, although I don’t really know what that’s like. I haven’t seen much theater—a couple of musicals and three Shakespeare productions (all of them comedies)—and I don’t remember feeling particularly emotionally invested. “So the Toronto audiences aren’t as disappointing as the tea,” I surmise with a smile. Liam grins back and I realize, with a heavy thump of my heart, that I like to see him smiling at me. It warms me up in a way that nothing else has lately. Guilt flips my smile into a frown. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I should go home, work on Johnny Yang and keep future interactions with Liam short. “The tea’s really not that bad either,” he admits. The longer I stare at him the better Liam looks—it’s as though I’m only really registering the contours of his face and his rugged six-footplus frame for the first time. His hoodie’s hanging open and he’s filling up a blue checked

shirt and black jeans in an effortlessly devastating way which makes my cheeks begin to blush crimson, and I know we’ve both gone too long without saying anything when he stares past me, down Lakeshore Road. “Well, have a good night,” I tell him, moving eagerly away. “Wait, Leah.” Liam steps away from O’Keefe’s along with me, his eyes seeking out mine. “If you don’t have any plans, do you want to get something to eat?” Some nachos or something? It didn’t sound like a good idea the night of the concert and it’s probably a worse one now. Liam’s expression reflects my indecision and discomfort. “I hope you didn’t think I meant anything by that,” he adds. “I understand your situation. It’s just that I haven’t eaten yet and since you just finished work…” I’m being ridiculous. Inserting drama where there doesn’t have to be any. I’ve entirely forgotten how to deal with people in normal social situations. There’s such a thing as casual dinners, casual friends, even when they look like Liam. I didn’t stop noticing attractive guys in the street or around school when Bastien and I moved in together, and feeling that visual pull to someone shouldn’t throw me now. “No, you’re right, I haven’t eaten either.” I

smile again to make up for my reticence, and instruct myself to relax. This isn’t like the nachos would’ve been the other night; Liam and I have eaten together before and the experience was closer to a Roman Catholic confession (minus the prayers) than anything resembling flirtation. Liam nods agreeably. “There’s a decent pub a couple of blocks from here. Maybe you’ve been there? The Rose and Crown.” I haven’t been there but I’ve passed by it. Liam and I walk to the pub, which is full of wooden paneling, old British WWII propaganda posters and classic prints from The London Underground. It’s more of a restaurant than pub really, with the majority of the space being taken up by the dining area, but there are two men, one who looks like an Alfred Hitchcock doppelganger, sitting at the bar. “We can sit wherever you like,” Liam says, throwing out his arms to indicate our choices. “They don’t do formal seating.” I point to a corner table for two and slide into the booth end while Liam lowers himself into the chair. Our wooden table reminds me of Deirdre and Marta’s living room furniture; it seems like a relic from a time gone by. I set The Handmaid’s Tale down on top of the heavily shellacked wood and Liam taps the cover. “You must read a lot. I always

seem to see you with a book.” “It’s actually the same book you keep seeing me with.” I grab the edge of the paperback and flip through the pages with a flick of my thumb like I’m shuffling a deck of cards. “Lately I’m reading at a snail’s pace.” Our waitress arrives with the menus and after perusing them Liam orders a steak and mushroom pie and a pint of Smithwick’s, and I ask for chicken fajitas and water. I’ve started to eat a bit more recently, but my appetite still isn’t what it was and I know I probably won’t be able to finish—pubs are usually generous with their servings. With its lack of natural light, The Rose and Crown seems womblike, and I feel my shoulders relax against the booth upholstery despite my continuing unease at being here with Liam. “So how long is the play running?” I ask. There are many topics we can’t approach and few that we can. This is one of them. “Until mid-November,” Liam says. “It really just started last week so we’re still early in the run.” “And what’s it about?” Liam smoothes his shirt down and folds his arms loosely over his stomach. “An Irish guy, about my age, who’s on the verge of moving to

Philadelphia and has a lot of conflicted feelings about it, especially about leaving his father behind. One of the unusual things about it is the part’s played by two actors, one playing the private side of Gar—that’s the character’s name— who lets the audience in on all his secret feelings, and the other playing the public, the side Gar shows to the world.” I stretch my legs out under the table, careful not to cast them out so wide that I hit Liam’s. “So which one are you—the private or public side?” “The public one,” he replies. “I’d let it be known that I wanted to get away from Ireland, but keep busy at the same time, and this was the first decent thing that came up. The director’s someone I did theater with five years ago, when he was spending time in Dublin, and the actor that was originally meant to be play public Gar got into a horrible skiing accident down in New Zealand—broke both his legs just before rehearsals were set to start; essentially snapped the lower legs in half. Last I heard is still in a wheelchair, waiting for another surgery.” I wince. “That makes my root canal sound easy.” “The accident details really did sound woeful,” Liam declares with a nod and pained expression. “Apparently they had to insert rods

into his legs with screws at the top and bottom and he won’t be on his feet again for months yet.” He shrugs slightly. “When I heard that it felt like a bit of a personal lesson, you know, to say that things could be worse.” “But it sounds like he’ll be okay in the end,” I point out, and Liam nods again. I don’t really hear the lesson he cited in the story. It’s far from a worst case scenario. That man will heal eventually. He’ll walk again. This is just a little blip in his life, a future story to tell about the year he broke both his legs skiing in New Zealand. “I had a greenstick fracture when I was five,” I add. “My arm. I fell off a jungle gym and my left arm got tangled in the bars.” Liam’s puzzled. “What’s a greenstick fracture?” I try to remember how the doctor explained it all those years ago. “The bone only cracks on one side, not all the way through. It has something to do with the bones being soft and young and bending instead of breaking.” “Bending instead of breaking,” he repeats. “That’s probably always a better option if you can take it, isn’t it?” “Mmm,” I hum. “No one usually asks which you’d prefer.” The waitress sets down Liam’s beer and my water. I glance up to thank

her and then turn my attention back to Liam. “So what about you?” I remember what he said about breaking someone else’s bones, the guy who slept with his fiancée. “Did you break any bones as a kid?” “No breaks. I had a concussion once when I got knocked down on the football pitch. It was the weirdest thing. For a few minutes I had no idea where I was or what had happened; sort of like a temporary amnesia.” We’re still talking about our childhoods— not just injuries but childhood quirks, our respective families’ oddities and our early experiences at school, things I haven’t thought of in a long time—when the food is delivered to the table. Liam was obsessed with magic, dogs and the concept of the devil as a child. Magic, he explains, because he wanted to be able to perform it, dogs because his family could never have one due to his older sister’s allergies, and the devil because he had it confused with the monster under the bed and believed it was always lurking, waiting for him to fall asleep so it could pull him under. “I don’t know how you ever fell asleep thinking that,” I tell him. “That’s terrifying.” Liam pauses with his fork about to pierce his pie. “I know. And bizarre. I must have seen a horror movie or heard a story…Anyway, I’d leave

the light on so the devil wouldn’t dare to crawl out from under the bed, but I remember that I’d wake up in the pitch black in the middle of the night—my parents must have crept in to switch the light off—and I’d be afraid to stick my hand out of the covers again in case the devil reached for it.” My fear was witches rather than the devil, witches with long curving fingernails that they’d run down my back in my sleep. I tell Liam about those nightmares and how, for a couple of years, I desperately wanted to be a figure skater, although I wasn’t as light on my feet as most of the other little girls in my class. Then there was the period of about ten days, when I was six or seven years old, that I would only eat peanut butter and bananas for dinner because I’d temporarily lost the taste for anything else and couldn’t explain why. “That wouldn’t have been allowed in my house,” Liam muses. “My dad would’ve gone mad. He has a shout that would wake the dead. You should’ve heard him when he found out I was dropping out of Trinity Collage to give acting a proper go.” “He didn’t like the idea?” Liam smirks. “Not a bit, and not any more now than he did back then.” I shake my head in disbelief. “But you have

a career built up.” “That doesn’t seem to matter.” Liam reaches for his beer, downs a mouthful and motions to the passing waitress that he wants a refill. “He doesn’t think much of the show I’m on. I don’t think he’s ever watched more than a few minutes.” “Some people are only happy when you do exactly what they want,” I offer. My mind’s back on the peanut butter and bananas and how my mother would try to tempt me with other kid friendly foods like hotdogs and macaroni and cheese, but neither of my parents punished me or yelled because of my stubbornness. Liam tells me about the show, called Six West, which he’s only technically on a break from. It’s like a soap opera, but not the glamorous kind we watch here; closer to Coronation Street or EastEnders. He’s been on it for three and a half years and his character, Aidan, is gay and currently in a relationship with a slightly younger man who isn’t out of the closet. He says that they wrote his character off temporarily, when Liam’s various entanglements and conflicts with his coworkers escalated, sending Aidan to Australia to spend time with an ex-lover who is dying of cancer. “So you’re going back?” I ask. “To Ireland and the show?”

Liam’s eyes harden. He pulls at his shirt collar, running his fingers along the inside edge. “Eventually. It’s not something I really want to think about it.” We’re getting too close to the territory he didn’t want to cover and I nod and concentrate on my fajitas. The pub’s gotten warm and crowded. In the center of the room two kids are careening around a table in fits of giggles, playing catch-me-if-you-can while their grandparents and parents (if that’s who they are) stubbornly ignore the disruption. My irritation makes me feel ancient the way I did at the concert the other night, and I begin to tell Liam about the toddlers in the shop earlier and how I’ve lost all patience. He laughs when I recount my inner dialogue about Will and Kate rolling naked in chocolate. The sound makes me feel better and allows the conversation to flow easier once again. Liam orders more beer, then the waitress takes what’s left of the food away and I ask her if it’s too late to split our orders into separate checks. Liam tells her not to bother, but I insist and as she walks away he stares at me across the table and says, “You hardly ate anything anyway, and all you drank was water. Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” “No, I’m fine.” “Half the food was still on your plate—no

wonder you’re so thin,” he says, and I detect a thread of either concern or suspicion in his voice that I can’t let go of. I sit up straighter in my seat. “I don’t have an eating disorder, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s not one of my particular problems.” Liam opens his mouth and lets it fall shut without a sound. He folds his hands on top of the wooden table. “No,” he says finally. “That’s not what I was thinking. I only meant, in a friendly concern sort of way, that you should try to take care of yourself.” I don’t want to hear this from him; this well-meaning interference is one of the things I wanted to get away from. “You must think I’m really messed up, huh?” I say, bitterness pooling on my tongue. Liam sighs, his eyes somber. “Everyone’s got his or her own problems, Leah. I’m not making any judgment about yours.” The blood drains from my face. “I do have problems, you’re right about that.” Having already hoisted a flag of tension between us, I carry on. “And I know generally people would prefer them to be better hidden—or for me to just get over them. But I don’t want to forget; I don’t want to get over them.” Why am I arguing with him? The defiance is misplaced. I hardly know Liam. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks and his

comment about the food could’ve been innocent enough. “I’m sorry for being so touchy,” I say hastily, steering my gaze to the safety of my paperback. “It’s okay,” Liam says, two of his fingers slowly tracing patterns on the table. “It’s really none of my business. I’m the last person who would ever offer any kind of advice about relationships. I haven’t done very well in that area.” “It doesn’t sound like that was your fault.” My voice is quiet and weighed down with regret. Our problems seem to be polar opposites—he wants to outrun his past and I’m clinging to mine with a tenacity that makes everyone I know uncomfortable. “Parts of it weren’t,” he allows, “but what’s done is done.” The waitress reappears and sets both our bills down on the table, but now I don’t want to leave. I’ve dragged the atmosphere down, forced Liam to remember things he’s been trying to forget, and I wish I could edit the past few minutes into something approximating friendly. Is it too late for that or can I still try? “Actually, can I get a coffee?” I ask the waitress impulsively. “Do you want any more beer, Liam?” Liam’s hands slide off the table and into his

lap. He hesitates before replying, “I’ll have a cappuccino.” Given a second chance to make this right, I change topics, describing Burnaby and Vancouver and insisting that before he leaves Canada, Liam needs to travel out to the west coast to take in the mountains and the ocean. “It’s beautiful—scenic even when you’re in the city. Not like here.” Twin shivers of guilt and west coast longing race down my spine. I don’t mean to disparage Ontario. I don’t often think about the mountains on a conscious level, yet I’ve never really stopped missing the sight of them in the distance. Liam and I down multiple lingering cups of coffee and the minutes slip into hours. He tells me about the Dublin Mountains, the unspoilt vistas of Connemara and the Aran Islands, and the Irish language camp he went to as a child one summer. I compare Toronto and Vancouver and then talk about my anthropology classes. I begin to get heady the way I used to in class and rave about the unseen connection between all things, not meaning God but how The Essenes who wrote The Dead Sea Scrolls, the ancient Egyptians, the Irish High Kings and each and every one of us all trace back to the same place. There are even startling similarities between humans, apes and dolphins—the three

of us being species that take care of their young, develop family bonds and forge alliances. We had a guest lecturer in my biological anthropology course last year who brought in the skeleton of a bottlenose dolphin’s pectoral limb to show us. Its resemblance to a human hand—though longer, lean and curved—filled us with awe. We talk for so long that Liam begins to get hungry again and orders cheesecake. The kids are gone and so are the majority of other diners, although Alfred Hitchcock is still hanging out at the bar, nursing a Guinness. I check my watch and am surprised to find that it’s after ten. I knew we’d been here for a while but didn’t realize it was quite that late. For hours now a craving’s been growing inside me, stronger that than the shame that accompanies it. I shouldn’t have come here after all. The dirty dreams I’ve been having lately are coursing under my skin, no longer confined to my subconscious. I’m afraid Liam will see the fever in my eyes and recognize it for what it is. I’m equally afraid it won’t matter to him or be what he wants. And I’m angry with myself for being so weak. Bastien hasn’t even been gone a year yet and I’m desperate for someone else to touch me. How can I miss him as much as I do and still want that? But I haven’t done anything wrong yet. I’m

still Bastien’s. A thought is just a thought until you own up to it and give it depth and weight. I stare at Liam across from me. I watch his lips as he eats and feel as though if I’m not careful I could begin to tremble. My nerve endings are on high alert. I’m pulsing inside. “It was such a bright, warm day,” I say, heart thrumming. “I bet it’s still nice out there. Do you want to go for a walk after?” Liam’s eyes flicker with recognition. He pauses momentarily. Swallows. Trains his eyes on mine to search out my hidden meaning. “Where do you have in mind?” he asks. “Down by the lake maybe,” I say innocently because I haven’t quite given in to myself. Maybe a bit more of Liam’s time will be enough. Maybe I won’t have to stop myself because he’ll stop me. “All right,” he says with a slight incline of his head. “It couldn’t hurt to walk off some of the food.” He smiles, the wariness fading from his eyes. I go down to the bathroom before we leave and stare at myself sternly in the mirror. What would Bastien think if he could see me now? That thought alone should be enough to stop me, but Bastien feels far away, hazy like a sidewalk chalk drawing dissolving in the rain. The sight of myself in the full length mirror makes me

hungrier. I’m skinnier than I probably should be but I still feel attractive. There are things beyond oxygen and food that I haven’t stopped needing. This should come as a shock. I’m not the person I thought I was. On my way back to the table I see Liam handing over both our checks, along with a pile of cash, to the waitress. I fish a couple bills out of my purse and hand Liam what I estimate is my portion of the bill plus a tip for the waitress. Since money is an issue for me I’d be smart to let him pay, but I don’t want this to feel like a date. My confusion’s almost as thick and close as the longing. Should I change my mind about the lake and walk home alone? Would I stop wanting him when I got there? “Don’t be stubborn,” Liam says, trying to hand my money back as he gets up from the table. “The majority of the bill was mine anyway.” I keep my hands at my sides. “You can keep it for cookie money.” Liam smiles and I know I won’t magically stop thinking about him if I go home now; I’ll toss and turn with the heat of this craving. “Okay then, Leah,” he says, surrendering. “Let’s walk.” Without the sun the air’s grown cooler, but the temperature is still mild for this time of year.

As we turn down a side street my boots trample freshly fallen leaves. Soon enough there will be snow. Will I still be here this time next year? Where is life taking me? I don’t want anything to change but I myself have changed things. Day by day changes happen, no matter how much strength you throw into resisting them. I peer sideways at Liam, so solid and real next to me. “What would you be doing now if we weren’t walking here?” I ask quietly. Liam’s head dips so he can hear me. “Most nights I’m at the theater. Sometimes in the afternoon I go to the community pool down the road. They set aside a couple of hours specifically for doing lengths. And I’ve been tinkering around with the piano a bit, trying to teach myself a thing or two, since there’s one in the apartment.” He juts out his elbows in a casual shrug. “But tonight specifically, I didn’t have any plans. That’s part of the point of being here. If I fill up my schedule with plans and people I won’t sort myself out. I’ll go back to Ireland in the same frame of mind I was in when I left.” I nod, knowing exactly what that frame of mind was from his confession that day in the café—angry, confused and bouncing from one woman to another. It’s selfish of me to think of putting him in that position again. I’m only thinking about myself.

“What about you?” he asks. I drag my lips into a tight smile. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I haven’t been doing much since my boyfriend died. I flunked most of my classes last spring. My parents wanted me to come home but it didn’t feel right. I’ve been staying with my boyfriend’s aunt.” Liam’s face is blank. I can’t read his thoughts but I keep going. “She lives out in B.C. most of the time but she has a place here in Oakville too. She’s been really supportive.” In the distance I can see the Erchless Estate grounds. According to Abigail the house, which is now the Oakville Museum, is supposedly haunted. During the day it looks majestic, but now it—and the winding garden grounds it sits upon—appears nearly sinister, like a dream beginning to warp into a nightmare. We’re almost at the lake. I’ve only been here in the daylight and it’s entirely deserted; even the geese have gone. I want Liam to ask me to come back to his place so I won’t have to suggest it myself. It would be so much better if he’d do it, but I know he won’t. How could he when I keep bringing up Bastien, and Liam came to this country wanting to be left alone? The sky and water are black. The moonlight glistens on the water, revealing the division between lake and sky. The water’s so

calm tonight that I can’t hear the rhythmic swoosh of the waves until we’re less than thirty feet from the shoreline. If I turn my head to the east I can make out the city lights from Toronto, but straight ahead there are no such reminders of modern civilization. I gaze at the pier. A lighthouse marks its end—not a place you could inhabit like a real lighthouse, but a skinny red and white tower with a flashing red beacon at the top. “It’s strange being here in the dark,” I whisper. “There’s not much to remind you of what year it is. It could almost be 1945 or even 1895.” Liam squints in the direction of the water, his hands in his pockets. “Let’s walk down the pier,” I suggest, taking a step towards it. Liam hangs back, but only for a moment. The night seems darker as we hit the pier, surrounded as we are, on either side, by shimmering black. When we reach the lighthouse tower I feel miles away from anywhere, but the strangeness of that doesn’t banish the other feelings and I stumble forward, reach out and curl my hand around Liam’s wrist. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move an inch. For a second or two nothing changes. Then he blinks and says my name. There’s reproach in his voice and I feel myself shrink.

“Don’t say it like that,” I whisper, my hand releasing his arm. “Like what?” he whispers back. “Like I shouldn’t do this.” The words crackle. With the lighthouse at my back, beyond Liam I see only water. We’re alone like I wanted, but it won’t work. “You’re confused,” he says slowly, finally leaning closer to me. “You know you are. You don’t want anything from me.” I wish he was right but he’s not. I can’t swallow my breath. In a low, yearning voice I murmur, “Just tonight, okay?” I drop my purse down next to my feet where it won’t be in the way. Liam’s so near now that I only have to tip forward to lay my hands against his chest. I finger one of the buttons on his shirt. He obliges me by leaning closer still, his breath warm on my forehead, his face inches from mine. I hold the back of his head tenderly in my right hand and press my lips against his with a gentleness that makes me want to sob. His mouth urges mine open, nudging at my bottom lip, sliding his tongue inside. I’m already melting straight down the middle, pressing my hips against his, rubbing him with my pelvis. He lunges for my neck, stroking the length of it with his lips, nipping it with his teeth. I slide my hand down between us, tug at

his zipper. My fingers reach into his jeans and then his boxer shorts, my face burning and my heart pounding. I don’t know that I have the guts to bend down and take him in my mouth— whether I’m ready for the intimacy of that—but I don’t have to be because soon he’s hard enough just from my hand. Both Liam’s hands burrow underneath my tunic, fitting themselves around my breasts, which are still cloaked by a layer of fabric. “There’s no one here,” I say. We don’t have to go to his apartment. “No one but us.” One of Liam’s hands wind around my back to slip my zipper down. Undone, the dress hangs looser under my top and Liam’s fingers caress the small of my back. I groan deep in my throat and say it again: “We’re alone. It’s okay.” I’m still stroking his cock and he glances down at it in my hand, a fierce concentration look in his eyes. He walks me backwards to the red base of the lighthouse, both his hands diving up under my dress, pulling at my tights and panties, sliding them swiftly down my thighs. “Okay,” he grunts, his cheekbones taut with expectation. Liam hitches up my dress as he hoists me up against the base of the tower. Pinned in front of him, I shiver at the feel of October air on my bare thighs. Liam’s hands squeeze my ass and

stroke my thighs, my spine chafing against the lighthouse tower. I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted anything this much. I’m almost there, even though he’s not inside me yet. My body’s racing on ahead. I say his name like a plea. I can’t wait anymore. Liam plunges into me, fast and deep. The pain surprises me. It hurts more than losing my virginity, like a seam torn open. My back knocks against the unyielding base of the lighthouse and that hurts too. My brain can’t reconcile the pain with the desire still surging through me. I don’t want him to stop; I just don’t want it to hurt. Liam kisses my neck and then my mouth as he thrusts inside me, over and over. Our mouths are rough and hungry. I grab a fistful of his hair and clasp it tight between the fingers of my right hand. Our tongues grapple, pushing back and forth, mimicking the tug between our lower bodies. I begin to wince with the pain of it, and I open my mouth to ask him to slow down, but now he’s coming, driving himself inside me with a relentlessness that ends with a gasp. He exhales his hot breath into the crook of my neck. Somewhere in the darkness I hear voices, distant but creeping nearer. Liam stiffens and raises his head. He pulls out and sets me down. We stare at each other with wide, anxious eyes. I yank up my panties and tights as Liam tucks

himself in and zips his jeans. He steps away from the lighthouse and peers around it, down the length of the pier, searching for the source of the noise. I snatch up my purse, follow him and spot a group of teenagers clambering in our direction. The lighthouse and the darkness likely shielded us from view, but I suddenly feel self-conscious. They probably didn’t see us, but they could have. What am I doing? “Let’s go,” Liam says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. We hurry along the pier, edging past the teenagers—three girls who have begun to shout out the words to a pop song from last year that I’d forgotten, and two guys straggling behind them, clutching skateboards. I’m quiet, replaying the last few minutes in my head, stunned. I don’t even know Liam’s last name. All those months of shutting myself away, grieving for Bastien, just to end it with a onenight stand. My head throbs with guilt and what’s left of the hunger I felt for Liam. “Do you want to come back to the apartment?” Liam asks, his fingers at the base of my neck, twisting gently into my hair. I wonder if he’s only asking to be polite, if this is what you’re supposed to say to a girl you humped against a lighthouse even though you’d really rather be left alone. If I knew him better I’d

probably be able to tell. But I don’t and I can’t and I’m afraid to be alone with the confusion. I wasn’t ready for this and now I’m not ready for that. The sound of the teenage girls’ raucous singing fades as we near the shore-end of the pier. Ahead and to the right of us, the Oakville Museum looms large and lonely. The sight of it plucks at the sadness inside of me that never disappears. It should be Bastien’s arm around me now, but I turn to look at Liam, his unanswered question hovering in the night air between us. “Yeah,” I say slowly, the word itchy like wool in my throat. “Okay.”

Twelve “We’re not far,” Liam tells me. “It backs right onto the square.” As we pass the empty playground two raccoons scamper by and he points to them and says, “Look at that. I’ve never seen one in the flesh before.” “No raccoons in Ireland?” I ask. “Some people might have them as exotic pets,” he says, “but they’re not a native species. There aren’t any wild skunks either.” “I didn’t know that.” We watch the raccoons as we stride on. I tell Liam about how when Bastien and I first moved into our apartment in Toronto the raccoons used to wreak havoc on our trash all the time and we’d wake up to find it strewn across the front lawn and sidewalk. We had to buy a special hook to raccoon-proof our garbage and recycle bins. “And one of the neighbor’s dogs got gashed across the snout by a raccoon and needed five stitches.” The raccoon conversation feels extraneous and awkward, worse than not saying anything, and I fall quiet again—we both do until we reach Liam’s building. He swipes us into the lobby, with its glossy marble floor, an armoire which looks like it belongs in a museum, and four plush

armchairs all spaced equidistant from each other. “This is nice,” I say, breaking the silence. “It is,” he agrees. “And it’s dead handy—so close to all the restaurants and shops. I was lucky. It just fell into my lap.” Like me. We cross the lobby and climb into the elevator. Liam punches the three button and several seconds later we’re on his floor, padding along the hallway to his apartment. “It’s right here,” he says, stopping to slip his key into the lock. I follow him inside the door. The suite looks like a show apartment, muted and impeccable but, piano aside, missing the personal touches you normally find in someone’s living space—photographs, paintings and eccentric clutter. Liam heads straight for the kitchen and drops his keys onto a tiny white dish. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, turning to look at me. “Coffee or…” He steps towards the fridge and swings it open to peer inside. “There’s some white wine.” “Water’s fine,” I say. “Where’s your bathroom?” Liam points me in the right direction. “Just across from the bedroom there. The button on your left is the light.” I disappear inside the bathroom, feeling breathless and shy. The bathroom’s as neutral as

the living room—decorated in various shades of gray. There’s a single black and white photograph of a frothy seascape on the wall. My eyes flick from that to Liam’s toiletry supplies laid out beside the sink—mouthwash, toothpaste, shaving cream, deodorant, dental floss and a single toothbrush sticking out of the pale gray toothbrush holder which matches everything else. I feel like an intruder who shouldn’t be seeing his private things and I resist the urge to open his medicine cabinet. Besides, I don’t have time to snoop. I need to clean myself up. My panties are wet in the middle from Liam’s leaked cum and when I wipe myself with toilet paper I see blood. The sting’s still there too. I thought I was ready out on the pier but obviously I wasn’t wet enough; my body needed more time. I strip off my wet panties and bury them in the wastebasket, throwing toilet paper over to hide them. As I’m doing that I realize, with a jolt, that I’ve been even stupider than I initially realized. In the beginning Bastien and I used condoms, but after a couple of months I got a prescription for the pill. I haven’t swallowed one since the day he died. Didn’t think there was any point. I certainly didn’t think I’d be ending my celibacy anytime soon, and I bunch up my fists, lean against the wall and groan at my stupidity.

Unprotected sex—what do they teach you about that in junior high health class, Leah? First thing tomorrow I need to get myself to a pharmacy and pick up emergency contraception pills, which will cost additional money I really don’t have. Why didn’t I let Liam pay for dinner? Why didn’t I ask him to use a condom? What if he has some kind of STD from one of the other women he’s slept with lately—his sister’s friend or his TV co-star? At the very least he must have assumed I’m on some kind of hormonal birth control, and although I know I should troop out to the kitchen, confess what’s happened and give him some kind of quiz on his sexual history, I can’t. What happened down at the lighthouse was my idea. He tried to talk me out of it and I don’t want to disappoint him so soon by underlining the extent of the mistake. I wash between my legs with soap and warm water, pull my tights back on over my bare skin and then stare at myself in the mirror, combing my fingers through my hair and doing my best to appear presentable and calm. My eyes won’t cooperate but the rest of me looks okay. I squirt toothpaste onto my finger and massage it into my teeth and gums, stalling. How long have I been in here? I need to face what’s left of the night without making it worse. I chase the

toothpaste with citrus flavored mouthwash and join Liam in the kitchen. He’s standing against the counter, sipping from a tea cup which he puts down on the counter when he sees me. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Yeah, I’m fine. How about you?” I glance nervously into his eyes. “I know that wasn’t what you–” I’m about to say ‘what he had in mind’ but he cuts me off: “Let’s not analyze it, okay, Leah? The last thing I need is for this to be complicated.” I nod like this is a sensible sentiment. “Me too.” He reaches behind him for the glass of ice water he’s poured me and I take it from him. “Thanks.” Liam bobs his head. I haven’t seen him smile since we reached the lake, but I see a hint of it on his face as he says, “Just for tonight, right?” I lean back against the counter too, nodding again as I swallow ice water. Liam pushes off the counter and steps closer. He reaches for my waist, his thumb stroking my side as he presses his lips into my forehead and then my mouth. Just like that I’m hungry again. Our tongues slide against each other, Liam skimming one of his hands over my breasts.

He touches my tunic, grabs it between his fingers and begins to tug it up over my head. I help him, knowing that I shouldn’t allow things to go much further, that I’ll have to break the feverish spell we’re in sooner rather than later. “I think,” Liam whispers huskily in my ear, “that you didn’t really get what you needed out there on the pier.” He pulls back to look at me, one of his hands cupping my neck. “Am I right?” My pelvis grinding impulsively against his is answer enough. Liam’s hands land on my legs, inching under my dress, where his fingers curve firmly around my thighs. Up and down they run, fondling my ass. I arch my back and thrust myself against him. One of Liam’s hands slide between my legs, the thin fabric of my tights still keeping my skin from his. He draws circles through the fabric with his fingers, making me exhale sharply and buck under his hand. Then his fingers are hooking into my tights, slipping them down to my knees so there’s nothing to keep him from me. One of his fingers slides inside me and I wince, still stinging from what happened out on the pier, but the pain doesn’t last. Liam’s thumb rubs the part of me where I need him the most while his finger moves insistently inside me. My feet begin to shake. My fingers twitch. Liam kisses my neck and my mouth, and even my lips

are trembling. He must be able to feel it. My heart’s slamming against my chest. I’m so close. Everything aside from this sensation feels like a lie. Liam smoothes his other thumb across my mouth. Teases my lips until I open and grab for his thumb with my teeth. I swirl my tongue around it, take it into my mouth and suck it like I was too shy to do with his cock. And then I’m shuddering all over. Spasming around his finger. Clutching it tight and releasing as I move my mouth around his thumb. I can’t believe how good everything feels, never want the feeling to stop. Liam’s eyes meet mine. In that moment I’m not shy. There are no secrets between us. I laugh, lightly and out of breath, releasing my hold on his thumb. Liam smiles like he’s happy to have given me the moment. Then he’s sliding his finger out, moving to wrap his hand around my waist just the way we started out. Only his hand never quite reaches me because we both notice it at the same time—the blood on his finger. The surprise in Liam’s face makes me say, “It’s not what you think.” The confusion hasn’t disappeared from his eyes and I add, “I’m not a virgin.” Liam wipes his finger on the tea towel

hanging over the stove, his eyes holding on mine. “I hurt you?” he asks as he leans back against the counter next to me. I pull up my tights and shake my head, embarrassed on multiple levels, none of which I want to discuss with him. “Not really.” I glance at the incriminating tea towel, lace my fingers together and fold my hands in front of me. “Maybe things just happened a little too quickly out by the lighthouse.” Liam’s quiet, thinking that over, and maybe somehow all of this—a one-night stand of awkward/amazing/unsafe sex—wouldn’t be so overwhelming in a world where I’d never been in love with someone else, but I’ve become the same person I was at the very beginning of the night again. I don’t know how I can be that girl and the one who slept with Liam without even waiting to be asked back to his apartment, but I am. And I can’t deal with it. I’m finding it difficult to even look at Liam, let alone explain what’s happened tonight. I reach down to pick my tunic up from the floor. “I think I should go,” I say as I tug the sweater quickly over my head. “It’s been kind of a long evening—probably longer than you intended.” “Leah.” Liam grazes my shoulder. “It’s okay. Relax.”

I nod in agreement, but it’s not really okay. I still feel warm and a little shaky and that makes it impossible to entirely regret tonight, which only heightens my confusion. “I just…I really need to get home.” I turn and start walking towards the door. From his place in the kitchen, Liam calls after me, “I can give you a lift if you wait until I finish my tea.” His tone has taken a turn towards indifference. Maybe I’ve worn him out by acting so erratically. “That’s okay,” I say over my shoulder. “But thanks.” I repeat myself as I turn the doorknob: “Thanks.” Liam doesn’t try to stop me or follow me, and I guess I’m glad. Things already feel too complicated between us. There’s too much to explain and excuse and I can’t do either. I walk home alone in the dark, my panties in Liam’s wastebasket and my mind flicking back and forth between an entire relationship’s worth of images and tonight’s unexpected experiences with Liam. One shouldn’t affect the other retrospectively. I was never unfaithful to Bastien and tonight doesn’t change that. This is what I tell myself as I trek home in the dark, but I feel hollow, small and useless by the time I get there. This wasn’t the way things were supposed

to happen. If there was going to be someone else it shouldn’t have been for a long time yet, and then it should have been a full-fledged relationship, not a record speed hook-up. My head’s begun to throb around the temples and I want to crawl into bed, shut the world out and stay there forever, but first I need to shower. It wouldn’t seem right to get under the sheets with the feel of Liam still on me. So I climb into the shower and lather up. Staring at my own naked body under the stream of water makes me think about Liam again—not like I ever really stopped —and when I do lie down the pressure’s so intense that I’m surprised my head hasn’t sprung a leak. I sleep fitfully. Each time I wake and check the clock it’s to find that not more than an hour has passed. When light begins filtering through my curtains, I stumble into the bathroom, head still throbbing, reach for a bottle of ibuprofen and am about to twist the lid off when I remember that I need to go to the pharmacy for emergency contraception pills. I don’t know if the ibuprofen could interfere with them—I can’t risk that. The closest pharmacies are in downtown Oakville, but I don’t want to take the chance that I’ll run into Liam, so I decide to head in the opposite direction, to the Shoppers Drug Mart on Cornwall Road. I log on to my seldom used laptop

to try to check their hours but every wireless network within range is security-enabled, rendering my Wi-Fi connection useless. When I look up the their phone number in the yellow pages and call Shoppers Drug Mart the message on their machine says they open at eight o’clock. It’s almost that now so I change into sweat pants and a flannel shirt, the pain of the headache keeping me company as I throw my jacket on and step outside. The kind of shaky I am now is entirely different from last night’s: sleep-deprived and faintly nauseous from the pounding in my skull. I have to stop thinking about last night. Forget about it. Swallow the pill and then put it behind me. Nothing else makes any sense. There’s no way I can undo what happened on the pier, but maybe I’ve been allowing it a significance it shouldn’t have. The act itself doesn’t mean that I’m a bad person or that I don’t miss Bastien. Maybe missing him so much is part of what made me do it. Whatever the case, I can’t let it drag me down like this. It’s as though after all I’ve been through some kind of survival mechanism is kicking in. I can’t rake myself over the coals for this. I won’t. I’ll bury it. Let it disappear. Having decided that I feel marginally

better, but my palms are clammy when I stride through Shoppers Drug Marts’ automatic doors. The pharmacies are always at the back of the stores and I march determinedly down the vitamin aisle and towards the prescription counter. A dark-haired woman in her forties is on the phone. She acknowledges me with her eyes and raises one of her fingers to indicate that she’ll be with me in a minute. I nod and pretend to look at the display of cold remedies in front of the counter. “Hello,” she greets as she hangs up the phone and looks in my direction. “Can I help you?” “I hope so.” I drop my voice so the stock guy unloading boxes a couple of aisles away won’t overhear. “I need the morning after pill.” “Would you like to step into the private consultation room with me for a moment?” the woman asks, motioning over her shoulder. I glance at the area behind the counter, spying an open doorway off to the left. The woman raises the counter flap and ushers me back behind the divide. I follow her into a consultation room the size of a small walkin closet and sit in the padded chair across from hers, the two of us separated by an undersized modular desk.

“I just have a couple of brief questions,” she says. “When was the unprotected incident?” “Just…” I do the math in my head. “Just about nine hours ago.” “And you’re not using any other method of birth control?” Her voice isn’t the slightest bit judgmental, but the question makes me feel like a fool. “No. I used to be on the pill but…” But I’ve been stupid. I cringe as I remember how I sprinted out of Liam’s place last night. I should’ve waited until he finished his tea and let him drive me home. Panicking like that will just make it harder to regain some kind of normalcy with him if I ever see him again. “But not now?” the pharmacist suggests. “No. Not now.” “And are you currently taking any medications?” “No.” It’s been weeks since I had to take the pain pills and antibiotics for my tooth. “I didn’t even take anything for my headache this morning.” The woman smiles briefly. “You can take some acetaminophen or ibuprofen. It shouldn’t be a problem. Just one more thing: do you have any medical conditions or any allergies?” “No. Nothing.” “All right, well, the pill is approximately

ninety-five percent effective at preventing pregnancy when taken within twenty-four hours, like you’ll be doing, but doesn’t protect against STDs.” I manage a curt nod. “It’ll just be a couple of minutes’ wait,” she adds, rising to show me out. I wander around the store, staring at cosmetics and magazines that I don’t bother to pick up. The shelves are filled with Halloween decorations—witches, ghouls, cobwebs and gravestones—and bags of miniature chocolate bars, temporarily reminding that the upcoming holiday is less than two weeks away. The stock guy’s whistling in the hair care aisle. Obviously his day is off to a better start than mine. I return to the counter shortly. The pharmacist sets a paper bag on the counter and explains there are some potential side effects. “You can read more details on the info sheet inside. Your next period may be a little different than usual.” “Thank you,” I say gratefully. I can’t wait to get this over with and wipe yesterday from my memory. Thank God for modern medicine. “Take it with food,” she advises as she rings up the sale for me. The single pill costs about the same as last night’s dinner at The Rose and Crown. Mistakes are expensive. After I’ve paid, I walk across the parking lot

to Whole Foods and buy apples, carrots and cheese for me and Armstrong. Then I wash my pill down with strong Whole Foods coffee and munch on a blueberry muffin. As stupid as I feel about my mistake, it feels good to be taking care of it, like I’m getting back on track. With the hardest part of the day behind me, I go home to Abigail’s couch and fall asleep in the sunlight to the innocent sound of children’s morning television.

Thirteen Later I feel a little nauseous, but I don’t throw up. I catch up on my laundry, watch a slew of police/mystery shows back to back, have a bowl of cereal and then read more about Offred. Her story has become a welcome distraction to my own. At one time, the horror of not having any choice would have made it a more difficult read for me, but now I find Offred’s inner courage irresistible. The book doesn’t send me direct messages anymore, but it’s a kind of inspiration. If Offred, who is a normal woman and not some glamorous superhero who obliterates villains while wearing stilettos, can be that strong in the face of adversity, why can’t I? I read late into the night and continue on Tuesday, finishing in mid-afternoon. I cry a little when I finish because I don’t want to let Offred go. She feels like a friend I’ve just never happened to meet in person. On Wednesday I bring her with me on the bus ride to the endodontist and reread several sections of the book. The ride there and back takes much longer than the actual root canal procedure, which is finished in just over an hour.

The endodontist is pleased with the outcome and says he doesn’t feel I need any antibiotics, but that I’ll want to take some ibuprofen for the pain once the freezing begins to come out. “You can go ahead and book an appointment with your dentist for the crown in a couple of weeks’ time,” he advises. “You’ll want to eat very soft foods for the next couple of days while things are settling down. And continue to avoid hard and crunchy foods until you get the crown put on. It’d be a good idea to rinse with warm salt water for the next couple of days too.” He writes me out a prescription for a pain killer in case the ibuprofen doesn’t do the trick and says to call the office if I have any problems. Because my parents have already forwarded a check to Doctor Garmash, there’s nothing left for me to worry about, except making that appointment for the crown later. Due to the lengthy bus ride, the area of my mouth Doctor Garmash was working on begins to throb before I make it home. I go directly to the same Shoppers Drug Mart I purchased the Plan B pill from two days ago and buy more ibuprofen (I don’t want to get the prescription for the stronger stuff filled unless I really need it) as well as soup, ice cream, microwaveable macaroni and cheese and several packages of Halloween chocolates. While I’m there I notice there’s a different pharmacist on

duty, a black man in his late forties whose faded Caribbean accent and clipped graying beard remind me of Bastien’s father. I’m glad he wasn’t the one I had to face the other morning; I might have had to try a different drugstore. Finally, I arrive back at Abigail’s, feeling a bit sorry for myself because of the pain. Like always, my brain wants to drift towards Bastien, pull him into the present with me. But now no matter how hard I try, the memory of what Liam and I did attaches itself to what I had with Bastien. It doesn’t compare and it shouldn’t change the past, yet I can’t completely purge the night from my mind. I wonder what Yunhee would say to me if she knew about Liam, but I’ll never tell a soul. Telling would make what happened more real, make forgetting harder. The freezing hasn’t faded enough for me to eat yet. I stick a straw into a juice box, swallow apple juice and lie on the couch with two pillows propped under my head. I’m halfway to dreamland when the doorbell rings, wrenching me back to reality. The ibuprofen’s begun to work but the front door feels far away and not worth the effort. Then, in a sleepy haze, I wonder if it could be my mother fresh off a flight from Vancouver wanting to check on me after the root canal. That gets me up and ambling towards the

door. I inch it open and peek around the edge to find Deirdre staring back at me. She’s wearing a cardigan composed of swirling fall colors and humungous pockets. It reminds me of the disastrous skirt I made in home economics class in seventh grade. “Hi, Leah,” she says cheerfully. “Marta told me you were having your root canal today and I thought I’d just pop by and see how you were doing.” I pull the door open wide. “Oh, thanks.” My voice is fuzzy with sleep. “Did I wake you?” “I was just taking it easy, not sleeping.” Behind Deirdre the remaining autumn leaves rustle. The sound is lonely and cold. “Well, I just wanted to see if you needed anything.” She fishes her keys out of her pocket and shakes them so they make a jangling noise. “I can run to the store if you need anything. I had a root canal myself about ten years ago and I remember eating nothing but pudding and apple sauce for the first day or so.” “It’s really nice of you to offer.” I feel touched like when Liam bought me the cookies. “But I bought some soup and things on the way home from the appointment.” Deirdre smiles. “Ah, so you’re all set then.” I nod. “I’m good.”

“Do let me know if you happen to need anything tomorrow. It’s no trouble for me to nip out and get a few things. Actually”—she tilts her head and slides a hand under chin—“would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night if you’re feeling up to it? I could make some really well cooked pasta—or eggs, mashed potatoes, something mushy.” At the moment I can’t imagine eating anything, but the offer is so thoughtful that I can’t turn it down. “That would be great.” I flash a smile. “Is there anything I can bring?” Deirdre pats my forearm. “You just bring yourself if you’re feeling well enough—shall we say around six-thirty?” When I first met Deirdre and Marta I worried that they might be intrusive—not that they gave me any cause to think so—but up to now they’ve always given me space. Marta, who I spend more time with since she’s now my boss, has never even directly asked about Bastien. At one time I may have taken their dinner invitation as a bad omen, but now I feel glad for the company. Marta and Deirdre are like two cool aunts who instinctively respect my boundaries. Abigail too. She phones an hour later to see how I’m doing and we talk for about fifteen minutes. Then my parents call, and finally Yunhee, who is in a bad mood because of

something Chas did but that she insists she doesn’t want to talk about. With the phone calls out of the way it’s just me and Armstrong again. I feed him, replace his wheel and then drift lazily into that space between consciousness and dreams where Bastien finds me. His arms slide lovingly around me on the couch and keep me warm. He knows I’m still his, that what happened on Sunday night was just loneliness and hunger. I’ll never really be anyone else’s. He was the one. When I feel him with me this way I don’t want to wake up. I spend the night on the couch beside him and awake to the screeching of a cat in heat early the next morning. I stumble up to bed and try to fall back to sleep, but can’t. Instead I lie in the bath for over an hour and then plug away at one of the six remaining undone art kits, a kangaroo with her baby peeking out of her pouch. There are actually well over a hundred engraving boards left but most of the leftovers are now repeats, and although the activity is more calming than useful in the first place, I can’t bring myself to duplicate my efforts. I swallow more ibuprofen and scrape away the darkness until my board gleams silver. Then I look in on Armstrong and contemplate working on Johnny Yang. I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at it since Sunday. The memory of

that night needs to fade further before I forgive myself entirely. In the end I throw myself into cleaning the house. I dust, mop, vacuum, sweep and scrub every inch of the house that I can reach. I wipe down surfaces with a product that purports to be environmentally friendly. Armstrong, as though sensing my restlessness, wakes up earlier than usual, allowing me to give his cage the most thorough cleaning it’s ever had. I give Armstrong a sand bath, then rifle through the kitchen cupboards and polish silver that Abigail has probably forgotten she owns. All of this is better than lending my brain power to guilty thinking, but it means I don’t feel fresh when my planned dinner with Deirdre and Marta approaches. Once I’ve showered, blow dried my hair and taken another dose of ibuprofen, I slip on my running shoes and set off for the neighbor’s house, feeling as though I should have something in my arms to offer, even though Deirdre told me I didn’t need to bring anything. It’s Deirdre who welcomes me into the house and says that Marta’s still at work but that I should come sit in the kitchen while she finishes dinner. As I follow her, she jokes that, “One of the disadvantages of working from home is that I’m usually the one making dinner preparations—not that I mind, but Marta’s a superior cook.” Marta has

mentioned in the past that Deirdre formally retired last year but still does bookkeeping for several small businesses. “I’m sure whatever you’re making will be great,” I say as I hover around the counter. “Is there anything I can do?” Deirdre motions to a chair. “Sit yourself down. I’m cheating here anyway—making capellini with sauce we bought at the Jubilee Fruit Market.” I take a seat at the kitchen table. A shapely yellow vase in the center of the circular glass table shows off a bouquet of blue hydrangeas. When I was living at home, my mother, who loves anything pretty that grows in the ground, ceaselessly pointed out flowers and plants to me along with their proper names. “It’s really nice of you to have me over,” I say. Deirdre, who is now standing at the oven and stirring a pot of pasta sauce, swivels to glance back at me. “Are you feeling more like yourself today?” My lips snap into the briefest of smiles. It’s been so long since I felt like myself that the old me is practically mythical. “My mouth is still a bit achy,” I tell her. “But not as bad as yesterday.” We talk about the weather growing colder,

the racket the cat in heat caused this morning, and then theater, because Deirdre happens to mention that she was “a stage actress for a few years in another lifetime.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that a friend of mine is starring in a play in Toronto, but Liam’s not really my friend, not really anyone to me. Soon Marta comes home and sets the table in the dining room. The capellini in creamy mushroom sauce is delicious, and suitably mushy, and I drink wine for the first time in months. Because I haven’t eaten much lately it doesn’t take many sips to loosen my tongue. I begin babbling about The Handmaid’s Tale: Offred, Moira, Nick and The Commander, the narrowness of life as a handmaid, the idea that a fertile woman’s duty is to produce babies. “And there are people who believe that now,” Marta says. “People who think a woman’s place is in the home and that they shouldn’t have the same right that men do, to have sex without facing a pregnancy.” I nod, again thanking God and modern science for allowing me to make mistakes without paying for them in the same way that women before me did. “Who was it that said ‘if men could get pregnant abortion would be a sacrament?’” I ask. “Florynce Kennedy,” Deirdre replies. “The

great civil rights activist and feminist. She didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her. Just kept fighting the good fight, kicking down barriers. I have a book with a section on her if you want to have a look at it after dinner—she’s one of a kind.” Following the meal, the three of us sit in the Victorian style living room drinking more wine and then lattes. Because I’ve finished The Handmaid’s Tale, Marta reveals her favorite part of the book. It’s not what I would have imagined but it makes me smile. Then, as promised, Deirdre places a book about feminism in my hands and points to a photograph of an African American woman in a cowboy hat and pink sunglasses. She’s flipping the bird and grinning at the camera and I automatically smile back. One glance at Florynce’s picture and I can tell she’s fierce. Without people like that, nothing would ever change. I don’t realize I’ve expressed myself out loud until Deirdre says, “When I was in school we were more or less taught that the nail that sticks out gets knocked down.” She gives a toss of her head. “The sixties revolution didn’t seem to reach the small Ontario town I grew up in. You were more or less expected to take a certain path. I don’t know what I would’ve done without people like Florynce demonstrating that I didn’t

have to do what was expected of me.” Marta reaches for Deirdre’s hand, folding it into her own. “Deirdre’s been an example for lots of people herself over the years,” she says proudly. Deirdre allows herself only a half-smile and I can see she’s the type of person who is better at giving a compliment than receiving one. Regardless, Marta and Deirdre look so happy together on their living room couch that it makes me ache for what I’ve lost. Bastien would like them too, I think. And he’d admire the rebellious spirit of Florynce Kennedy and want seconds of creamy mushroom capellini. “I wish you two could have met my boyfriend,” I blurt out. “I think you would have liked him.” “Oh, I’m sure of it,” Deirdre agrees. Marta expands on Deirdre’s thought: “After all, we like you.” “Les amis de mes amis sont mes amis,” Deirdre declares. It’s been a few years since I took French, but it’s an easy phrase so I translate: “The friends of my friends are my friends.” “It’s not always true, of course, but it very often is,” Deirdre says, her face childlike in its openness. “So what was he like—your boyfriend?”

A worry line pops up between Marta’s eyes. Maybe she’s scared that this is a question I don’t want to answer. I’ve been alone with my memories of Bastien for a long time. That solitude was what I wanted, but now I find that I also want to share. I tell them about Bastien’s artistic skills, his beautiful smile, generous nature and sophisticated taste in music. I even describe the night we later came to refer to as our first date at the movies and how I anxiously confided my feelings for him, afraid they wouldn’t be reciprocated. Then I tell Marta and Deirdre about running into Bastien at the zombie walk in Toronto and how we’d gone to high school together in Burnaby—how full of regret I felt for robbing us of more time together by not falling for him sooner, and about the work I’ve been doing on his unfinished graphic novel. I say that I know most people probably don’t believe that a relationship you start at eighteen will last but that now that he’s gone I’m sure we would have grown old together if we’d had the chance. “I do believe sometimes you just know,” Marta agrees. “And so”—I cross my legs as I hunch down in my chair—“did you two know?” Marta laughs and steals a look at Deirdre. “Not at all. We actually annoyed each other in

the beginning.” “No!” I protest in surprise. Marta and Deirdre seem as though they were made for each other, like they could finish each other’s sentences while clasping hands on their sophisticated old couch for the next twenty years without having a single argument. Deirdre’s unclaimed hand motions to Marta. “We had a friend in common, but after our paths had crossed a few times she was worried about inviting us both along to dinners and things because we always seemed to end up in a heated debate in the corner of the room.” “And what would you argue about?” I pry because for the life of me I still can’t envision them fighting over anything that matters. Marta volunteers, “I used to be much more conservative.” She arches her eyebrow and sighs in regret. “Or so I thought. I was a late bloomer and it turned out I didn’t really know who I was. But back then—this was sixteen years ago—I was dating a man named Steven, who my conservative parents adored, and I used to be of the opinion that people who appeared to require help in any way only needed to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.” What Marta’s saying reminds me of that book That Secret, which sold millions of copies by claiming that all people need to do to achieve

happiness is think positively. “So you don’t believe that anymore?” I venture. “No, I think that we need to fund more social programs that strive to eradicate poverty, that support gender, racial and other types of equality and treat mental health. Socially we got many things wrong in the past and once your eyes have been opened, you begin to see those things—and their unfortunate legacy— everywhere. It’s impossible to close your eyes to them.” I don’t know enough about social issues to add anything, but I don’t disagree. I wonder what Marta and Deidre would have to say about psychopathic children who throw stones at geese and bully other kids at school with a ferocity that people over thirty claim to be shocked by. Would social programs help those kids? What’s gone wrong in their lives to leave them soulless? I’m a little drunk and inarticulate from the wine and the issues are so complex and disagreeable that I shrink from them. My own life, simple as it may be in comparison, is overwhelming enough. “Oh dear, I’ve started to rant,” Marta says apologetically. “At your past self, amongst other things,” Deirdre notes with a twinkle in her eyes. “Yes, I know.” Amusement dances at the

edges of Marta’s voice. The person I was nine and a half months ago is already a different version of myself and I wonder, as I listen to the two women who feel more like wise aunts than ever, whether the Leah I am now will also feel alien to me someday. I don’t want that to happen—I don’t want to leave Bastien that far behind. “You look tired, Leah,” Deirdre observes. More from the wine than anything else. “I am a little.” “Maybe we should call it a night,” Marta says. I volunteer to help with the clean-up first but Deirdre and Marta tell me there’s no need, that they’re just going to toss everything into the dishwasher. I never use the dishwasher at Abigail’s. It feels wasteful for one person. In truth, I’d sort of forgotten about dishwashers as an option. No matter how often my thoughts are of Bastien, obviously I think like a lone person now. I thank my neighbors for inviting me and return to Abigail’s couch, hoping Bastien will find me there again. Instead I fall into a deep sleep where whatever dreams I have become a mystery the moment I awaken, again, to the sound of a cat’s fevered meows.

Fourteen This is the direct opposite of letting Sunday night go but I do it anyway—I head for the Starbucks up by Whole Foods (Wi-Fi!) with my laptop the next day and Google Liam and Six West. The top search result is the show’s official website. There’s a photo gallery, cast list and a preview of the most recent episode, which won’t play for me because I’m in the wrong part of the world. I click on the cast list and spot a head shot of Liam next to his character’s name—Aidan Walsh. His real name is cited in italics: Liam Kellehan. It’s bizarre to learn his last name in this covert manner. I can’t help but think that Liam would feel like I’m spying on him. However, that doesn’t stop me from moving on to an article in the Evening Herald entitled “Liam Kellehan decamps to Canada to leave relationship woes behind him.” Six West star Liam Kellehan is set to quit Irish shores, at least temporarily, for a Toronto stage production of Philadelphia, Here I Come. The Dublin actor has been the focus of multiple sex

scandals in recent months, the first being fiancée Natalie O’Mahoney’s affair with fellow Six West actor Shane Delaney, and the second Kellehan’s subsequent involvement with yet another Six West costar, Isabelle Fitzgerald. Kellehan, who narrowly avoided assault charges against a battered and bruised Delaney, has repeatedly declined to comment on his latest tryst with Becca McNamara, the explicit details of which were leaked to the press by McNamara herself. However, diplomatic co-star Fitzgerald offered this statement to the press: “Most of the things that have been said in the media about Liam aren’t really anyone’s business. I just want to wish him well with his upcoming production and I look forward to working with him on Six West in the future.”

The compulsion to delve into the numerous other search results and trawl through the seediest dirt available on Liam ripples through me, but I throw my moral fiber into resisting. So far the only things I know that Liam himself didn’t share with me are the names of the people involved. If I stop snooping now I won’t have to feel guilty for knowing too much

about his secrets if I ever happen to see him again. It must be difficult to withstand being betrayed in public like Liam was by his fiancée (his subsequent relationships just sound like a steaming mess of rebounds), and I feel sorry for him as I shut down my laptop and sorry that I, too, was a rebound girl. Obviously he was partly responsible for what happened on Sunday night, but there’s no denying the idea was mine. He wanted dinner and conversation. I wanted those things too but they weren’t enough; I wanted him. Maybe he’s not disappointed about the way things turned out, but I suddenly feel like I owe him some kind of explanation, and when I get home I impulsively rip a page out of my notebook and write: Liam, I’m sorry that I left so abruptly the other night. I want you to know that didn’t have anything to do with you, just what I’ve been going through myself. I know you’ve gone though some complicated things too lately and I didn’t mean to make things worse (I hope I didn’t). I really did enjoy talking to you over dinner and I should have left things alone. I hope the play has a very successful run and I want to wish

you all the best. Leah

Since I don’t remember his apartment number I can’t stick the note in the mail, but I know I’d be able to find my way to his suite again, and so just before I go to work I shove the note into an envelope, take a detour over to the square and loiter around outside Liam’s building, pretending to look for my keys. Three minutes later a stylish forty-something blond teeters by on spiky heels and swipes her way into the building. I follow her through the front door and into the elevator where she presses four and I press three. Then I wind my way around the third floor hallway and stop at the door that I’m at least eighty percent sure is Liam’s. Apartment 306. I don’t want to run into him so I have to be quick. I shove the envelope into the space between the door and its frame. Its conspicuous appearance makes me frown but there’s a wooden lip attached to the bottom of the door that prevents even the thinnest of envelopes from being shoved underneath. I flee the area, leaving the conspicuous note jutting out of the doorframe, not sure why I feel like a junior high kid with an awkward crush when the note seemed like a perfectly mature idea when I wrote it.

But my shift at O’Keefe’s soon distracts me. The regulars are beginning to like me, I think. I’ve been trying to watch British TV shows whenever I stumble across them. Mostly Coronation Street, but also Robin Hood and an old seventies show called Rising Damp that airs in the middle of the night. This afternoon Simon and Louise bring in a collection of their own DVDs to lend me—A Touch of Frost, Spooks, Life on Mars (which Simon assures me is the much superior original British version), As Time Goes By, Cracker and Little Britain. It won’t be long until I’m a bona fide expert on British and Irish sensibilities. I’ve been buying chocolates and crisps now and then too, although I don’t really have a sweet tooth and often can’t finish the chocolate bars. When I return home at the end of the day I decide it’s time to sample the Bourbon creams Liam bought me weeks ago. My mouth doesn’t feel entirely back to normal yet, and I still have to make that crown appointment, so I dip the cookie in milk and then chew, carefully, on the other side of my mouth. The taste is notably chocolaty, but there’s something more to it that I can’t pinpoint and reading the list of ingredients doesn’t help. I polish off another two cookies while watching Simon and Louise’s copy of Spooks, a series about British secret agents. The

show’s intelligent and riveting, a bit like 24 but with more interesting accents and a London backdrop. I watch four and a half episodes before I begin to nod off on the couch and decide to take myself up to bed and save Armstrong from a night of wheel obsessing. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about the four-legged sex fiend that shrieks outside my window for the third night in a row. When the noise dies down and then stops altogether, I wonder if it’s because the cat’s owner has taken pity on the rest of the neighborhood and hauled it inside or whether it was lucky enough to find some carnal satisfaction out there in the dark. I think of Deirdre and Marta lying awake next door, all of us hoping the fresh silence will last. They have a wedding out of town tomorrow and are leaving early, which means I have to be in work at eleven to cover for Marta. It’s only a couple of extra hours so I don’t mind—the extra pay will cover the expense of my unexpected trip to the pharmacy at the beginning of the week. I fall back to sleep for a couple of hours and later in the morning I enjoy the slow bit of the day when the shop is mine alone. I take my time Windexing both sides of the front door and then setting up the display table on the sidewalk. Kevin comes in to help man the shop at one-

thirty. His wrist has healed and his left arm’s now bandage free. I’m happy to see him but he keeps yawning and hogging the stool because apparently he was up until four o’clock playing videogames online and then his neighbor woke him up at the crack of dawn with his leaf blower. “There’s a cat in heat prowling around my neighborhood waking me up lately,” I complain as I glance outside to make sure no one’s run off with the contents of the display table. “It’s driving me crazy.” “How long have you been hearing it for?” Kevin asks as he yawns for the eighteenth time. “A few days, I guess.” “You know they stay in heat for, like, a week to ten days. You better buy some earplugs— or a shotgun.” I roll my eyes at the thought of another week of awakening to horny cat noises. “Who doesn’t get their cat spayed anyway? It’s ridiculous.” Kevin shrugs. “Somebody who wants kittens. Or maybe it’s a feral cat.” Someone’s walked through the front door in the middle of our conversation and I turn my head to make eye contact with the customer. The sight of Liam sauntering into O’Keefe’s gives me a sinking feeling that drops all the way down to my toes. I thought my note could smooth

things over, but now I know I can’t handle this. I’ve only slept with one person aside from Bastien in my whole life and now he’s standing across the room. So much for forgetting. The second my brain registers Liam’s presence I’m dumbstruck. I instinctively flick my gaze away from him, but of course he’s heading straight for me. “Hi, Leah,” he says slowly. “Can I steal you for a minute?” I glance nervously at Kevin, whose eyes widen as he seems to pick up on my unease. “Um, do you think you’d be okay here on your own for a minute?” I ask, my head swirling with theories about why Liam wants to talk to me. Kevin cracks his knuckles as he leans down to rest his arms on the counter. “I got it under control, yo.” Liam steps back out the door as Kevin, next to me with his eyes still ultra-alert, says, “Is that your boyfriend or something?” “No. Why would you say that?” “There was like”—Kevin makes a rolling motion with his hands—“a weird, edgy tension vibe.” “Okay,” I say sarcastically, “now you’re imagining things. You seriously have to catch up on your sleep tonight.” Kevin nods like this is entirely possible,

but he’s squinting like he doesn’t believe me. I edge past him, away from the counter and out the front door, where Liam is staring down at the McVitie’s Digestives and Marks and Spencer Ginger Snaps I laid out on the display table this morning. His leather coat’s zipped up to his neck and Kevin was right about the tension; I can see it stiffening Liam’s jaw and radiating out towards his cheekbones. “You didn’t put on your coat,” Liam notes as he raises his gaze to look at me. “I thought we could go across to the square and talk for a couple of minutes.” It’s indeed too chilly to stay out here comfortably for more than half a minute, and I excuse myself to snatch my coat from O’Keefe’s backroom. Kevin’s sporting the same doubtful look as when I left fifteen seconds ago and for the second time in two days I feel like I’ve been transported back to junior high. “Back soon,” I tell him as I swing past the counter tugging my coat on. Liam nods as I rejoin him outside. We jaywalk across the street, dodging the traffic, and into the green patch of lawn in the middle of the square adjacent to his apartment building. Liam’s a step ahead of me and takes a seat on the first unoccupied bench. I sit next to him, allowing enough room for a whole other person between

us. “I got your note,” he says, glancing at me sideways. “Thanks.” Two little girls are twirling in the middle of the square, giggling like nothing in the world could be better than this dizzy moment. Not fifteen feet away from them a golden retriever sits idly surveying the scene as the man I assume is their father ogles his Blackberry. I swing my legs under the bench, cross my left ankle over my right and try not to fidget. “I felt bad about rushing off.” Liam dips one of his hands into his hair. “Everything that night was pretty abrupt, except dinner.” I nod in agreement and listen to him continue. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure everything was okay.” He drops his voice to a decibel barely above a whisper. “This is something obviously I should have thought to ask you on the night but…are you on birth control?” I’m surprised to hear the question out of his mouth at this late date. I shake my head in response but keep my focus on the little girls, who are spinning until they drop. “But I took care of it,” I add. “I went the next day…” I let my words trail off. Bastien and I could delve into the most personal conversations about our bodies without breaking a sweat, but it’s awkward to be

having this discussion this with someone I barely know. Liam and I haven’t even seen each other naked. Liam doesn’t look as relieved by my answer as he should. “So, everything’s all right now?” Under the park bench my right foot repeatedly taps the concrete. “I’m about ninetyfive percent sure that it is, according to what the pharmacist said.” Liam’s cheekbones flare as his hand dives back into his short brown hair. “I’m glad to hear that, but I wish you’d said something at the time.” “You didn’t ask,” I point out, irritation leaking into my tone. I’m not proud of the way I handled myself last Sunday but he should have known better too. “I know that. But I didn’t exactly see it all coming, Leah. After what you said about your boyfriend I didn’t think—” I cut him off. “I’m sorry, okay. It was a surprise to me too. I haven’t been with anyone since he…” I can’t bring myself to say Bastien’s name. Admitting what I’ve done in the light of day makes me feel worse. “And I didn’t think I would be.” I’ve told myself I shouldn’t get upset about this anymore, but now my throat is swelling. Liam rests his right arm on the top of the

bench, around the invisible person between us, his hand dangling close to my shoulder. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m not sorry. We just should’ve done things a little differently.” Since this is already difficult and uncomfortable, I force myself to ask one of the questions I should have posed on Sunday. “While we’re talking about this, I need to know if I should be worried about anything else, whether you’re, you know, one-hundred percent healthy?” Liam’s arm retreats back to his own territory. His blue eyes stare straight ahead and then shift slowly back to me. “You’ll be fine,” he says in a steady voice. “I’m not usually so careless.” Maybe not, but I don’t imagine that he was using condoms with his fiancée and she was sleeping with someone else on the side. But I can’t figure out a way to bring that particular issue up without making it seem as though I’m twisting the knife. “Me neither,” I murmur. Liam reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. He breaks into the kind of smile that never fails to make we want to smile back. I can’t lie to myself; as heavy as my regret is, part of me is still glad to be sitting here next to him, and that’s the part of me that stares into Liam’s eyes

and says, “I should probably get back to the store —I told Kevin I wouldn’t be gone long—but maybe we can get coffee or something sometime, you know, avoid the part of the night where things got complicated and just have coffee, talk.” Liam’s head tilts back, smile fading on his lips. “I like talking to you but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Why?” I really never thought this would be a continuing thing between us—I wasn’t sure I’d ever even see Liam again—but now it stings to hear him dismiss the idea of even minimal future contact. Liam’s eyes lock on mine. “I think you know why.” I shiver at the implication. It would be so easy to repeat last Sunday night. I want to lean over and smack my lips against his until we’re both out of oxygen. Liam swings his legs under the bench and slopes his head closer to mine as he adds, “If we do that I’m going to want more than coffee, and maybe you will too. And if we do it we won’t be happy about it and if we don’t do it we won’t be happy about it.” I suspect he’s right. But I don’t want to believe that. “So that’s it—we can’t even have coffee again?” His chin drops as he looks away. “I’ve

already repeated a lot of my past mistakes and that’s not what I want this to turn into. You know what I’m doing over here—I was honest with you from the beginning. And anyway, Leah, you have a lot of your own baggage you need to sort through. I don’t think this is the best thing for either of us. I thought, from the sound of your note, that you understood that.” “I did.” I press my thumbs together in my lap. “I do. But when you came by today I started thinking it might be okay that we just hang out.” It would’ve been easier to put what happened between us behind me if he’d never come into the shop again. He should have stayed away. Liam shakes his head. “It’s not. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought. I do like you. I just can’t do this right now.” Neither can I. It doesn’t seem right that he’s the one turning me down when my reason not to see him would be as good, if not better, than his reason for not wanting to see me. “Okay, I get it,” I snap, uncrossing my ankles and preparing to get up. Why prolong this? “Leah, don’t be that way.” Liam’s eyes ping apologetically back to me. “What do you want me to say? I’m being as honest with you as I can.” “Don’t worry about it,” I say with a

harshness that makes it clear I don’t mean it. On my feet now, I stare down at him. Liam’s got what looks like a day’s worth of stubble on his face and he’s frowning hard, like I’m being unnecessarily tough on him. “Thanks again for the cookies,” I add with a note of finality. “I tried some last night and you’re right—they’re really good.” I stomp off across the square and into the traffic, never once turning back, anger supplanting my feelings of regret and the lingering gnawing hunger for him that I’ve been trying not to admit to myself. Anger’s preferable to guilt, easier to deal with, so maybe I should whip Liam off another thank-you note. As I stride into O’Keefe’s with that sour thought in my head, Kevin takes one look at me and decides to keep quiet for a full ten minutes, until I’ve started to cool down. It’s a good thing, too, because any further inquiries about Liam would not have been looked upon kindly.

Fifteen This is far from the worst week I’ve ever had but I’m sick of my own problems. Since last Sunday I feel like I’ve been walking around with a pebble in my shoe that I can’t get rid of, no matter what I do. The feeling ebbs and flows but never entirely disappears. It will, I’m sure. Hopefully sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I could use a distraction, and Saturday night, after my shift, I call my mother collect, keeping my tone light so she won’t suspect there’s anything out of the ordinary going on. Being my mother she suspects anyway, but I say, “No, really, everything’s fine. I was just missing you and Dad. So what’s new there? Tell me what you’ve been up to.” I listen to my mother talk about her garden, her job and her friends and their families. Then she tries to pin me down about my Christmas visit and because I spoke to Marta about it before she left work yesterday I’m able to say, “I need either a really late flight on the twenty-third or an early one on Christmas Eve.” O’Keefe’s, like practically everything else, will be closed on Christmas Day, which falls on a Sunday this year, and Marta’s planning on shutting up

the shop at about two o’clock on Christmas Eve so I don’t feel too badly about leaving her in the lurch that day. Marta even told me I could have the twenty-third off, but I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of her. “And I need to be back on the thirtieth for work,” I add. “That’s just six days,” my mom bristles. “We were hoping you’d be home for longer than that.” “I practically just got this job, Mom. As it is I’m taking Christmas Eve off. I don’t want to leave Marta short-staffed. I’m really her only employee and I feel like she did me a favor by hiring me in the first place.” For the moment my mother has no choice but to understand. She says she’ll book my tickets tomorrow and starts gushing about how much she and my father are looking forward to having me home for the holidays. Every year my grandfather, on Dad’s side, takes the ferry over from Vancouver Island on December twenty-third and spends the holidays with us. The Christmas Day dinner tradition has come to rest with my aunt Ruth. We—Dad, Mom, Grandpa and I— shuttle over to her house in Abbotsford, where we meet up with my other set of grandparents. Aunt Ruth’s youngest son got his girlfriend pregnant with twins in high school two and a

half years ago and now he, his girlfriend and the twins, Carter and Clayton, are living with her and my uncle Jim. Needless to say Christmas won’t be a quiet affair and normally I like spending the day in the midst of the hustle and bustle, but this won’t be an ordinary Christmas. Wellmeaning older relatives are bound to be curious about the state of my emotional well-being and want to know my future plans, while I would rather ignore the future entirely. Visiting Bastien’s family while home in Burnaby will be just as important as spending time with my own, and although I want to see them I’m scared that their pain might make mine worse or that being around them will trigger a deeper guilt. Nothing’s what it should be. It shouldn’t be possible to feel destroyed by your boyfriend’s death and still want to sleep with someone else. I shouldn’t have been angry with Liam when he told me we couldn’t see each other either; it should have come as a relief. I’m tired of the ways I don’t make sense, and after I get off the phone I spend the rest of the night trying to lose myself in Simon and Louise’s British DVDs. Good as they are they’re not distraction enough, so on Sunday, directly after my shift, I surprise Yunhee by calling her up and asking if she’s busy on Monday. “Like, tomorrow Monday?” she asks.

“I know it’s really last minute,” I tell her. “I just want to get out of the house for a while. I’m feeling antsy lately. But if tomorrow’s not good then Tuesday or—” “Actually, I’m finished classes at two tomorrow,” she says. “The thing is, I need to find a birthday present for my sister. If I don’t get it in the mail by Tuesday it’s going to be late.” Yunhee’s little sister Sumi is in her final year of high school. In the past mostly when Yunhee brought up her name it was because Sumi was in trouble with her parents for breaking curfew, skipping classes or sneaking out at night with one of her parents’ cars. It sounds like she changed a lot starting in ninth grade. Yunhee once told me that she thought her sister didn’t want to be a good Korean girl anymore, which in a way she understood. What she couldn’t comprehend was why Sumi had to take things too far in the opposite direction. “I can help you look for something for your sister,” I offer. “Do you have any ideas?” Yunhee laughs. “A Marc Jacobs purse or a Mini Cooper. Anything I could afford she probably wouldn’t want. I’ve trawled the net looking for something I could have shipped to her but that wasn’t a raging success. If I can’t find anything tomorrow I’m going to have to go the gift card route, so seriously, if you want to

help me find something that would be great.” Yunhee and I meet at the Eaton Center at two-thirty the next day and spend most of our time in Sephora, the Apple Store, and flicking through the sales racks of trendy clothing shops. Anything within Yunhee’s budget isn’t good enough, just like she pointed out on the phone, and we get worn out and have to stop for bubble tea. I tell Yunhee that my mom’s booking my flight home for Christmas and share that I’m nervous about facing my extended family, scared that they won’t understand my reaction to losing Bastien and that I won’t know what to say to his parents. “Maybe your grandparents and the rest of your relatives will surprise you,” she says. “They probably wouldn’t want things to be awkward over Christmas. I bet they keep their mouths shut about it. I mean, your parents won’t, but everyone else.” “Not my parents, no. But I hope you’re right about everybody else.” I slurp my honeydew bubble tea. “I wish my parents could be cool about it too. Just let me do things by my own timetable.” “I don’t know.” Yunhee shrugs lightly. “Considering they’re the people who made you, I think they’re not doing too bad a job of letting

you do your own thing.” Yunhee licks her lips and pauses like she’s not sure how her next comments will be received. “You were really scaring them for a while, scaring all of us. Everybody just wants you to be okay.” I know that. But I know it from the other side. The pressure that people heap on you when they need you to be all right because they don’t know how to handle it if you’re not. I know how that separates you from them, pushes you out to sea because that feels like the only option. I suppose I’m scaring Yunhee less now that I’m capable of drinking bubble tea with her and helping her find her sister a birthday present. But I don’t want to lie to her; those things don’t signify that I’m okay. “I still feel like nothing, from the point Bastien died onward can turn out exactly like it should have,” I say, folding my straw, accordion-like. “I don’t think anything will ever completely change that. I’m just trying to take things day by day now, you know?” But I don’t want to drag our time together down and I don’t want it to be all about me. I release my straw, allowing it to spring back into shape. “So you never said—is your sister still being a little hellion?” “I think she’s in the process of rehabilitating herself.” A smile skips across Yunhee’s lips. “All the lecturing my parents have

done about her grades over the past couple of years is beginning to sink in. Now that graduation’s on the horizon she’s realizing she needs to do something with herself aside from party with her friends.” Yunhee groans and rolls her eyes. “God, I sound old.” I laugh. “Yup. I bet you sound exactly like your parents.” I’ve met them a couple of times but never while they were in lecture mode. A yearning to confide in Yunhee about Liam claws up inside me as she continues to lament her own maturity. I know she wouldn’t judge me for what I’ve done—that she’d probably even try to convince me to ditch the self-blame— but I can’t get the words out. They stick in the back of my throat like swallowed nails. I ask about Chas instead and Yunhee says, “I really don’t get him. Sometimes we’re great together—we’ll talk on the phone for hours and he’ll make me laugh, make me think, all the things you’d want—and others times he’s aloof and distant for no reason and I wonder why I’m wasting my time with him.” “That sounds like a lot of drama,” I say. “I’m trying not to let it be.” Yunhee whips up her feet and folds them onto her chair with her like she’s had a habit of doing ever since I’ve known her. “But sometimes it is. It pisses me off when we argue because he’s smarter than me and

wins even when he shouldn’t, just because he knows how to construct an argument.” “He’s not smarter than you,” I counter because Yunhee is one of the smartest people I know. “He’s just had more years of school.” “Yeah, maybe.” She sips her tea. “I’m thinking about doing law so maybe Chas is good practice.” I didn’t know she’d started thinking about law, but she’s perfect for it and I tell her so. We finish our tea and throw ourselves back into shopping for Sumi. Finally Yunhee narrows down her choices to a Little Miss Trouble T-shirt or a karaoke iPod plug-in. Both of them fall within her budget and are small enough to mail without adding too much in postal charges to the cost of the gift. I vote for the T-shirt because it’s more personal. Yunhee buys it and we head back to her apartment and hang out for another hour and a half before I catch the train back to Oakville. My head feels clearer afterwards, even though I didn’t confide in her. Maybe just knowing Yunhee would understand is therapeutic. The next day, after picking up as many groceries as one person can possibly carry to a bus stop, I find I’m even able to tackle Johnny Yang again. I scribble snippets of dialogue down until about nine o’clock and then watch more British DVDs.

It’s storming when I go to bed and still storming when I wake up to the sound not of a horny cat, but of a ringing telephone. I squint blearily at my alarm clock and register the time as 5:03. A call this early can only be three things—a mistake, a crank call or an emergency —and I run for the nearest phone in Abigail’s bedroom, my mind on my parents. It’s 2:03 in the morning in British Columbia so they should be home fast asleep, but there’s no safe time, no safe place. I stub my toe on Abigail’s nightstand as I lunge for the phone in the dark. “Hello?” I say, sucking in the pain. “Leah, it’s…it’s Katie,” she stammers. “I have bad news. Yunhee’s in surgery at Toronto General Hospital. It sounds serious.” Katie’s voice is brittle and threatens to break. “Vishaya just called to tell me and I’m throwing on my clothes and going to meet her at the hospital.” My blood runs cold, just like when the police showed up on my doorstep last January. Time stops dead. I cling to the phone in silence. This can’t be happening again. “Leah?” Katie prompts. “Leah, I have to go. We’ll be at the hospital if you want to meet us there.” “What happened?” I croak. I’m imagining an out of control car, history repeating itself in

the worst way. “She and Chas tried to stop a robbery they saw happening near his apartment. The guy stabbed them both. Chas’s hands got sliced up but she got it worse. She’s still in surgery. Her parents are on their way.” I’ve fallen quiet again and Katie repeats, “I have to go.” “I’ll see you at the hospital,” I tell her. “I’ll find you.” I drop the phone into its cradle and sprint back to my room, yank my hair into a ponytail and jump into jeans and a warm top. The trains from Oakville to Toronto start early. I should be able to make it to the hospital in not much longer than an hour. It’s pitch black outside and pouring rain. Thunder claps in the distance as I hurry towards the train station in the hooded rain jacket that’s keeping me dry from mid-thigh up. Below that I’m soaked through, and as I settle into my seat on the 5:30 train I shiver from both the creeping wet cold and Katie’s terrifying news. When she said Yunhee’s condition was serious I was too stunned to ask for more medical details. Besides, there wasn’t time. She’ll pull through, I chant inside my head. She’ll make it. Katie said it sounded serious but she never said there was any danger that Yunhee wouldn’t make it.

As the train hurls along the lakeshore towards Toronto, I curse myself for having canceled my cell phone service months ago. There’s no way for me to receive additional information until I reach the hospital. She’ll make it. She’ll pull through. At Union Station I transfer from the GO train to the subway and take it up to Queen’s Park. It’s 6:40 when I stalk into the hospital and follow the signs to the emergency room—the first place I can think to look for Katie and Vishaya. My eyes scour the waiting area, which is populated with weary, miserable looking people of all ages. The floor is wet in spots from sick people and their families and friends dragging the rain indoors with them, and I notice an old woman knitting a long burgundy scarf, moving the knitting needles with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of an athlete. I wish I could do something that well and that easily. I wish I was dreaming and it was time to wake up. If I don’t hear something soon my molars will be ground down to stumps. Then I spot a waving hand with my peripheral vision. My gaze rockets to the space where Vishaya sits waving me towards her, Katie and Chas. I zoom over to them, stopping directly in front of Chas, whose

hands are both wrapped in loose bandages, blood beginning to seep through layers of white. There are streaks of blood on his jeans and sneakers too, although not necessarily his own blood. I wince at the thought: Yunhee unconscious somewhere in this building, under a surgeon’s knife. “We heard, just a few minutes ago, that she’s out of surgery,” Katie tells me. “She’s in the recovery room,” Chas adds, his face swollen with gloom. If I passed him on the street I bet wouldn’t recognize him as the guy we ran into in the university library last fall. “We’re waiting to hear where they’ll move her to.” “What kind of injury was it?” I ask quietly. I don’t want to put him through the pain of reliving what’s happened, but I need a clearer picture of what Yunhee’s going through. Chas presses his eyelashes together like he might not ever open them again. “Abdominal,” he says. “She lost a lot of blood before the ambulance picked us up.” Vishaya gets to her feet, propelling me gently away from Chas and Katie. “I’ll fill her in on everything and bring back coffee for you guys,” she tells them. As we walk on she turns to me and says, “He’s pretty emotionally torn up right now. It’s been a crazy night.”

Vishaya explains that Yunhee and Chas were coming out of the all-night fruit market near his apartment at around two-thirty this morning when they saw a guy in his early twenties pull a knife on an old man. The attacker saw them and froze initially. Chas shouted at him to leave the old man alone. The attacker charged them, howling obscenities and swinging his knife. Chas tried to grab for it and had both his hands slashed in the process. Out of control, the man jabbed his knife into Yunhee’s abdomen and then lurched away, leaving Chas bending over Yunhee, who had crumpled to the sidewalk. The old man pulled out his cell phone and called 911 as he darted over to them. “The cops have already been here to get a description from Chas,” Vishaya adds. “The old man was too freaked out to remember much about the attacker, but Chas got a good look at him.” Chas didn’t have phone numbers for any of Yunhee’s friends or family—just her cell and landline—so after the ambulance had brought them both to the hospital and the trauma team had taken over Yunhee’s care, Chas called Yunhee and Vishaya’s apartment to tell Vishaya what had happened. “He was talking so quickly that I couldn’t understand him at first,” Vishaya says. “Then he

started saying he should’ve thought to grab Yunhee’s cell from her jacket because it’d have everyone’s numbers in it. So I ransacked her bedroom, found her phone book and called her parents in Ottawa.” Vishaya pales and slows her pace through the hallway as she recounts, “Her mother started to wail over the phone. It was a nightmare. Then her father got on the line and told me they were coming straight away. I told him that I’d go to the hospital so Yunhee wouldn’t be alone. But the hospital wouldn’t let me see her because they were sending her for Xrays and then into surgery, so I had time to call Katie, who said she’d call you too.” I throw my left arm around Vishaya as we shuffle towards the hospital’s Tim Hortons outlet for coffee. In the past Vishaya and I have tolerated each other but never really been fond of one another. She always seemed like the kind of person who believed that there was only one right way to do something and that her 98.5% high school average (and equally high University of Toronto grades) proved that she was an expert on that single correct method. But now I can feel tension carving into her, creating cracks where perfection has no place. We’re both so scared for Yunhee that nothing else matters. “Is Chas okay?” I ask. “His hands looked —”

“They haven’t examined him yet,” Vishaya says. “There’ve been lots of people coming in on stretchers. I think one of them was a heart attack.” We buy four coffees and take them back to the ER waiting area, where a teenage boy with bloodshot eyes now sits beside Katie in the space formerly occupied by Chas. “He just got called in by the nurse,” Katie explains as Vishaya hands her a coffee. “That’s good,” I say as Vishaya and I slip into seats across the aisle. “Has he gotten in touch with his parents or what?” “They’re in Calgary,” Vishaya offers. “I asked him if he was going to call a friend to pick him up and he said he’s not going anywhere until he hears that Yunhee’s okay.” Once again there’s nothing to do but wait. The three of us drink our coffees in silence as the minutes drag on and more weary people fill up the seats around us. I think, as we wait, about how if Yunhee were sitting here in the waiting area with us her feet, once her shoes were dry, would be up on the chair with her, and I think about Chas winning arguments he shouldn’t but making her laugh and making her think. It’s nearly an hour before we see Chas again and the first thing he says as he pads towards us with freshly bandages hands is, “One of the

nurses told me she’s still in recovery. Doesn’t that seem like a long time?” None of us know what’s normal in the circumstances; we don’t know what to tell him. “I’m going to check again,” Chas declares, his eyes frantic. He stumbles back towards the ER clerk at the counter and in a split second I’m up and following him. “Yunhee Kang, the girl I came in with,” he says urgently to the clerk, “they keep telling me she’s still in recovery, but it’s been hours.” The clerk assures him that Yunhee is still under observation in the recovery room following surgery and Chas begins to dissolve before my eyes. “But it’s too long,” he insists. “What does it mean that it’s been so long? How come no one’s coming to talk to us?” In the background a child’s alternately sobbing and erupting into hiccups and the clerk patiently promises that someone will update us once Yunhee’s out of recovery. Chas’s brown eyes have begun to swim and I lay my hand gently against his back and say, “Let’s sit down, okay? They don’t know anything yet.” I’ve begun to grind my teeth again and if Chas, Katie and Vishaya weren’t here with me I’d be climbing the walls already. Only now that Chas is coming apart, I know that I can’t. If I’m going to crumble, it will

have to be some other time. I buy him a fresh coffee to replace the one we had to dump while he was having his palms stitched and Chas tells us, as he hunches over his coffee, that what happened to Yunhee is his fault. “I should never have challenged him,” he says. “You could tell right away he was tweaking or something. He couldn’t stand still. And I just didn’t think about what could happen.” “You didn’t know,” I counter, trying to console him. “You were only trying to help.” Chas flinches, his eyes trained on his coffee cup. “That’s precisely the point, I didn’t know. It’s one thing for me to choose to take a risk, but I made that choice for both of us.” Vishaya’s cell phone rings before anyone has time to protest further. “It’s Yunhee’s mother,” she announces as she raises the phone to her ear. Chas, Katie and I listen to Vishaya pass on what little information we’ve gained since she last spoke to Yunhee’s parents hours ago. It sounds like they’re almost here and once Vishaya hangs up she confirms that. “They just turned onto Yonge Street—they’ll be at the hospital any minute now.” Though it hardly seems possible, news of their imminent arrival makes the crisis feel more acute. The limbo the four of us have been in for hours will end shortly. I’m terrified of what the

change will bring. Only two days ago Yunhee and I were drinking tea together and joking about her maturity level. I wish I’d told her about Liam now. Any remaining guilt I was carrying with me about the act has drained down to a lone gritty drop while I’ve been sitting in the ER. The confession would have been something to share; Yunhee would have enjoyed it. I’ve felt so old since January but the fragility I feel now has nothing to do with age. I’m so scared of losing her that the fear’s like a physical entity, a malicious shadow thing wrapped around my limbs and my neck, twisting at my organs. A crippling version of that fear’s been with me since January, but this particular fear is fresh. It reminds me that I still have things to lose. One accident doesn’t prevent another. Bastien’s death doesn’t offer me some kind of immunity from other pain. She’ll make it. She’ll pull through. I can’t let myself believe otherwise. Minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Kang and Sumi appear in the ER waiting area, dazed yet zeroing in on us quickly. Of the four of us, Chas is the only one Yunhee’s parents have never met, and I listen to Vishaya explain that he was the one who was with her when the stabbing happened. Mr. Kang glances numbly down at Chas’s

bandaged hands before declaring that he needs to find his daughter. We wait as Yunhee’s parents approach the ER clerk. The exchange is swift and their faces, as they turn to walk away from her, reveal something has changed. Mr. Kang consults with Sumi, who scurries over to us: “They just moved her to the ICU. We’re going up now. It’s family only.” Chas, Katie, Vishaya and I stare in stunned silence. Vishaya regains her voice first. “Your parents have my number. Will you call me if anything changes?” Sumi nods. She looks much more grown up than the last time I saw her, over a year ago. “We’ll wait here awhile,” Chas says, a veneer of composure stretched thinly over his distress. “We’ll wait.” Sumi follows her parents away. I’m shivering again, hooking my arms around my waist and forgetting to breathe. The same child from before—or maybe it’s a different one—has resumed sobbing, but none of us break our silence to say what we’re thinking: that ICU is a hair’s breadth away from the worst case scenario. I retreat inside myself, barely noticing the others until Chas rises and starts staggering in the opposite direction that Yunhee’s family

disappeared in. His face is in one of his bandaged hands and Vishaya, who knows him better than Katie or I do, mumbles, “I’ll go after him. Stay here.” Our shoulders—Katie’s left and my right— automatically knit together as we wait. I don’t know if Chas and Vishaya are gone for ten minutes or an hour; the difference between the two no longer registers. The only thing that counts is what happens to Yunhee next. Katie and I remain motionless and mum in our seats. I send a silent wish out to the universe, over and over and over again as we wait: Please, let her live. And then I pray to Bastien, asking him, should he happen to see Yunhee on the other side, to send her back to us. There should be something else I can do, but there’s not. There’s only the endless waiting and when Vishaya and Chas return, wearing identical expressions of exhaustion, it’s as though they never left. Later we take turns going to the cafeteria for food, always careful to leave at least one person behind in the ER because that’s where we told Sumi we’d be. The knitting woman disappeared long ago but a child still wails periodically. The ER’s atmosphere itself never changes and I’m starting to believe that it never will, that the waiting won’t ever cease, when

Sumi materializes in front of us. “How is she?” I ask, my heart knocking against my ribcage. Sumi pulls her dark hair forward and holds it taut against one side of her neck. Her shoulders look thin and delicate under her cardigan and her voice is so quiet that we all have to lean forward to hear her say, “The doctor told my parents there were a lot of cut blood vessels in her abdomen. They were really deep wounds but the knife didn’t hit any of the vital organs.” “Is she still in ICU?” Chas asks. Sumi bobs her head, her eyes glazed with a mix of dread and disbelief. “My dad said you should probably go home now. Only family can see her. We’re going to check into a hotel later. I’ll call if anything changes.” “Please, take my number too,” Chas urges. Sumi pulls out her phone to enter his digits into memory. Then she stares off in the distance, rubbing her arms as she says, “I better get going.” I tell her to please let us know if she or her parents need anything. None of us move from our seats until she’s gone, and then Vishaya looks from one of us to the other and says, “What’s everybody going to do?” “I don’t want to go back to Oakville now,” I

tell her. It’s too far away. I want to know I can be back at the hospital within minutes if I need to be. “Can I sleep on your couch tonight?” There’s a lot of day left. Anything could happen and I don’t want to be alone in the meantime. “Of course you can,” Vishaya says, like I didn’t even need to ask. Katie and Chas aren’t ready to break away from the group either. We pool our money together and take a cab to Vishaya and Yunhee’s apartment so we won’t have to face the subway— all the anonymous strangers who don’t know or care about Yunhee. At the apartment, Chas flips on the TV to news and leaves it there all day as we camp on Yunhee’s orange couch and the surrounding chairs. The incessant chatter from news anchors and journalists doesn’t really help, but we need the noise. For hours the four of us stare trancelike at reports of political battles, acts of senseless violence, random accidents and Hollywood celebrities. The atmosphere is no different than it was at the hospital. There’s no way out of the waiting, no matter where we are. The rain stops in the early evening but the clouds still hover, gray and hostile. Chas, who’s been up all night, falls asleep on the couch and we tiptoe around him, making coffee and chewing on chocolate chip cookies out of the

box. Later Katie and I drop into the supermarket, only steps from Vishaya and Yunhee’s apartment, and buy a selection of things from the deli so no one will have to worry about cooking. At about nine-thirty Mr. Kang calls Vishaya from his hotel room to let her know nothing’s changed. He thanks her for everything she’s done and says that either he or Sumi will be in touch when there’s more information. Vishaya assures him she’ll pass any news she gets on to Yunhee’s other friends. Knowing that we might not hear anything definitive for some time cues a whole other level of exhaustion that none of us can fight. Vishaya drags out a double airbed for Katie and me. We leave the couch to Chas, who has been even quieter than the rest of us since we arrived at Vishaya and Yunhee’s apartment. In theory we could sleep in Yunhee’s queen size bed, but no one suggests that because it doesn’t feel right. Even asleep I don’t feel right. My mind doesn’t for one second forget that Yunhee’s in trouble. It’s the second longest night of my life and there’s no sign of daylight yet.

Sixteen I dream of the hospital and Yunhee’s parents. I dream of more harrowing news than we’ve heard so far. Being asleep is worse than being awake: unchecked, my mind runs wild. In the middle of the night I can’t stand it anymore and I roll off the airbed and tiptoe into the kitchen, where Chas is leaning against the counter and popping a pill into his mouth in the dark. “My hands were sore,” he says quietly. “They looked painful earlier, at the hospital.” I park my weight against the counter too. The bamboo venetian blind slats are tilted at a sharp angle, allowing slashes of bright moonlight into the kitchen. The clouds must be gone. Chas’s head wilts on his shoulders. “It’s nothing in comparison. I keep going over it in my head. If she doesn’t come out of this…” I don’t want to hear any talk about Yunhee not coming through this; there’s enough of it streaming through my own mind. “We can’t think like that. Don’t let yourself do it.” “I don’t know how to stop,” he says in a voice like a paper cut. I nod in sympathy. I haven’t ever stopped

trying to bring Bastien back. His accident didn’t involve me but I still feel like it should’ve been within my power to prevent it, and I explain this to Chas under cover of darkness. I never imagined, the day Yunhee and I ran into him in the library when he was still sporting those ridiculous midway-between-1977-Elvis-andWolverine sideburns, that we’d someday have a conversation like this. Chas shakes his head and turns his back to the moonlight. “I know what you’re trying to say but it’s not the same thing, Leah. There was nothing you could have done about your boyfriend, but I caused this.” “He caused it,” I argue. “The guy with the knife. Him alone. He set what happened in motion, like a domino effect.” I clear my throat, which is dry from hours of tossing and turning. “I know how Yunhee thinks—and I know that you do too—so we both know that if you didn’t shout at the guy to stop, she would’ve. You just happened to do it first. And if you hadn’t, he might have come at you both anyway. You said yourself he was high on something.” “He was twitching,” Chas agrees, raising his head a few degrees. “He was out of his mind.” And he’s still out there somewhere, or so I assume as Chas hasn’t heard anything else from the police since they came to take his

description this morning. I don’t know what else to say. I’m so tired. And so thirsty. So afraid. “We can’t give up on her in our heads,” I choke out. Chas steps towards me to grip my arm. “We won’t,” he says. “I’m sorry.” The phrase reminds me of Liam when he told me I didn’t have to be sorry. I don’t want Chas to be sorry either; I understand how he’s feeling all too well. I just want things to be different. I ask him if he wants any coffee, since we’re obviously not going to do much sleeping anyway, and Chas nods and says, in the closest tone to levity he can muster under the circumstances, “But you know they only have instant.” He turns to pull open a cupboard behind him. “I’ll make it,” I tell him. “Sit down. Wait for the painkillers to kick in.” I twist the lid off the instant coffee, grab two mugs from the hideous antler mug stand the Kangs won in a charity draw and pawned off on Yunhee when she we went away for university, and then flick on the kettle. We drink our coffees at the kitchen table and talk a little about the two things we have in common, Yunhee and the University of Toronto. Chas is a TA/graduate student who is also trying

to write a novel about a twin brother and sister with the gift (or curse) of second sight in Dark Age Scotland. He says he’s getting bogged down in research and I mention the work I’ve been doing on Bastien’s project, Johnny Yang, Merman at Large. Chas is encouraging about it but neither of us really feels like making conversation and soon we creep back into the living room and watch the sci-fi network on mute. When Katie and Vishaya wake up in the morning the four of us exchange phone numbers. It’s clear that we all can’t continue to camp out in the apartment forever, and after more instant coffee and lingering reluctant goodbyes, Katie and Chas walk out to catch the subway home. Vishaya has to hand in an essay that, thankfully, she finished early days ago, and I hole up in the apartment awhile longer, calling Yunhee’s work to explain the situation and waiting for Vishaya to come back, still not ready to put more distance between myself and Yunhee. But by one o’clock, once Vishaya’s returned and we’ve eaten leftover samosas and rice pilaf together, I can’t continue to put off leaving. I need to shower. I need a change of clothes. And I’m due in at work tomorrow at three. Somehow, between now and then, I need to get some more sleep.

Vishaya and I both tear up as we hug goodbye. There were so many months when being alone seemed easier, and today I feel just the opposite. “You know I’ll call you the second I hear anything,” she promises. I jot O’Keefe’s phone number down for her along with my hours so that she can get in touch with me there if I’m not home, but as soon as I’m back on the train to Oakville my panic deepens at the thought of being temporarily out of communication’s reach. The only message for me on Abigail’s phone when I reach home is from my parents, but the lack of news from Yunhee’s family doesn’t make me feel better either. At the moment nothing will, nothing but hearing she’s been transferred out of ICU. Like a robot, I feed Armstrong and clean his cage. Like a zombie, I shower—cordless telephone resting on the bathroom counter so I won’t miss a call. And then, because my parents will worry if they don’t hear from me, I call home and leave a quick message explaining what’s happened and that I’m trying to keep the phone line clear. The silence in the house is deafening. I can’t sit still with it a moment longer and I dig out the handful of remaining foil art boards and etch away at them on the kitchen table, radio on behind me, until I fall asleep with my cheek

pressed to the image of the Sphinx of Giza. My brain’s foggy when I wake up. For a few seconds the weariness won’t let me remember where I am. The last time I felt like this I collapsed at the supermarket. Something’s ringing. An alarm? The telephone? No, it’s the front door bell. I’m too tired to question whether I need to answer it or not. I’m rubbing my eyes and lumbering towards it as I remember, in a flash that nearly knocks me off balance, the events of the last day and a half. Yunhee. The hospital. Sumi’s eyes as she told us her sister was transferred to ICU. These are the things I’m thinking about as I open the door and I see, in Marta’s eyes, that I’m wearing the thoughts on my face. “What’s wrong, Leah?” she asks worriedly, her right hand reaching out to touch my face. She lifts her palm to display the black residue on her fingers. I rub at the spot where she touched me, the part of my cheek that was resting on the black engraving board while I slept. “My friend’s in the hospital,” I tell her, sounding like the robot I was when I fed Armstrong. “In ICU.” I explain about the stabbing as Marta’s chin drops ever nearer to the ground underneath her feet. “I’m so sorry,” she says in a hushed voice. I’m beginning to hate the word sorry. It makes it sound like Yunhee’s already been lost.

Marta tells me that the reason she came over isn’t at all important and not to worry about it. She’s holding a folded slip of paper in her left hand and she presents it to me as she says, “A man dropped into the store looking for you and then asked for your phone number, said he knew you but that he didn’t happen to have your number. Of course I wouldn’t give it to him, so…” I unfold the scrap of paper where Liam has printed out his first name along with a telephone number. I can’t understand why he’d want to talk me. It seems he said everything he needed to say the last time he came into O’Keefe’s. “Anyway,” Marta say, “I’ll just leave that with you. If he becomes a nuisance we can—” “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that,” I interrupt. “But thanks for passing it on.” Not that I plan on calling him, because that thought couldn’t be further from my mind. Marta nods. “I hope you hear better news about your friend soon. I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Thanks. See you tomorrow.” I close the door, crumple up Liam’s number, drop it on the coffee table and sprawl out on the couch, waiting for Vishaya to call, which doesn’t happen until just before ten and even then there’s no news—no change in Yunhee’s condition. Vishaya has to call Chas and

Katie too so we can’t talk for long, and soon I’m lying in bed listening to Armstrong whirl on his wheel, my right eyelid twitching with tension and my head beginning to ache. If I don’t sleep I’ll be useless at O’Keefe’s tomorrow, but my mind won’t let go. Every time I begin to drift off I jerk back to wakefulness like a body realizing it’s in free fall. I begin to dread the sensation itself and relocate myself to Abigail’s couch, where I eventually manage to sleep in hour-long bursts punctuated by equally long periods of anxious wakefulness. I rise with the morning light. Bathe. Eat. Do laundry. Iron. Risk a quick call to Chas to see how he’s doing. He tells me he’s not sleeping well either but that he can’t miss another class so is on his way there now. “Sometimes it’s better to be busy anyway,” I say. This is what people used to tell me shortly after Bastien died and being busy didn’t work for me then, but every situation is different and everyone has their own way of trying to cope. Today I actually believe what I’m telling Chas. If I wasn’t afraid to leave the phone I’d be out in the backyard raking leaves and pulling at weeds, never mind that Abigail pays a landscaping company to keep up with the yard maintenance. It’s only because I’m stuck indoors until my shift at O’Keefe’s later, a blend of restlessness

and anxiety spiraling inside me, that I snatch Liam’s number off the coffee table early in the afternoon and punch his digits into the cordless. After two rings I decide calling him while I’m in this agitated and still exhausted state is a terrible idea, and I’m about to hang up when I hear the ringing stop and his voice say, “Hello.” “Liam, it’s Leah.” I haul my feet up on the couch with me, sitting cross-legged like Yunhee would and promising myself that as soon as I can see her again I’ll tell her all about Liam, this conversation included. “Do you want to tell me why I’m calling you?” As I’m asking the question it hits me that having Liam’s number in my hand can only mean something negative. He was so certain we shouldn’t see each other again when we spoke on Saturday; he wouldn’t have changed his mind without a reason. Learning that he had herpes or gonorrhea is one of the few things that would necessitate communication. A couple of days ago a revelation like that would have been a lot more frightening, but with Yunhee in ICU the possibility that Liam’s about to tell me I’ve been exposed to something nasty doesn’t even make me flinch. “I made you angry the last time we spoke,” he says apologetically. “I’m not angry with you. I understood—it’s

fine.” I was mad at the time, but it doesn’t matter anymore. “You’re still angry,” he says, that Irish accent of his making itself heard in even the shortest sentence. I jiggle my foot in my lap. “Liam, I’m honestly not. There’s been so much going on here that I haven’t thought about it in days, okay? That’s the truth. It hasn’t even been on my radar.” Liam sounds a little taken aback by my indifference. “So it seems like this is a bad time to say I don’t know my own mind—that maybe I was wrong about us not seeing each other again and that maybe as long as we keep things simple...” He leaves the sentence hanging, probably expecting me to jump in, but I’m quiet for long enough to make him add, “Leah, are you still there?” “It is a bad time,” I confirm. I don’t know how I would have felt if he’d called me two days ago and said the same thing. The only Liamcentered thought in my brain right now is a vague sense of relief that he’s not calling to tell me he has an STD. “There was an emergency with a close friend—she’s in ICU. I can’t even think about anything else right now. I jump every time the phone rings because it might be about her.”

It’s Liam’s turn to pause. “I’m really sorry to hear that. What happened?” “She and her boyfriend got stabbed in Toronto late Tuesday night.” My voice is starting to disintegrate like an ice cube dropped in scalding hot water. “She had abdominal surgery on Wednesday morning and she’s been in ICU ever since.” “Jesus. I’m sorry.” “I should go.” What’s left of my voice is small and frail. “I don’t want to tie up the phone line for too long.” “If there’s anything I can do…” So often people say that to be polite but Liam sounds like he means it. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.” “Do that,” Liam says. “Please. Anything you need.” Anything I need. There is something and in my current frame of mind I’m not too proud to ask him for it. “Is there any chance you could come over tonight after I get home from work? I don’t mean…” I don’t want him to get the wrong idea; I feel as asexual as a hunk of old green copper. “I just don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.” “The thing is, I have a show tonight,” he says, his tone laced with regret. “Right. I forgot. Of course.”

“But if you don’t think it’s too late I could come round after,” he offers. “It won’t be too late,” I assure him. There’s no hour he could name right now that I would consider too late. The thought of spending another entire night alone, my distress about Yunhee a constant chafing that chases sleep away, is almost unbearable. “Thanks, Liam.” When you’re part of a couple, or at least part of the kind of couple Bastien and I were, someone does things for you all the time and you do things for them. There’s always someone there to pick up the slack for you or for you to talk difficult matters over with. I miss Bastien as a person, all the amazing things he was, but now I realize that I miss the idea of being part of a couple too. It’s not that I haven’t realized this before. But every time it occurs to me it feels fresh. When you’re alone you have to learn to be just you, and not the person that was part of a unit, all over again. You have to ask other people for help when you wouldn’t have before. And sometimes, like with Abigail, they offer so that you don’t have to ask. Whatever Liam was planning to say about not knowing his own mind doesn’t matter right now, and whatever regrets I used to have about our night together no longer matter either. I owe

him one for doing this for me and I won’t forget it. In the meantime, I have to get ready for work. The little scrap of ability to concentrate that I’ve regained since Bastien’s death has disappeared again, so luckily my shift at O’Keefe’s proves to be a slow one. Because it’s raining again foot traffic is minimal. Some regulars stop in to buy things like beef curry, black pudding and Haggis links, but no one complains about Will and Kate or smushes chocolate on the floor. Before Marta leaves at a quarter to six she observes that I’ve forgotten my copy of The Handmaid’s Tale and leaves out today’s edition of the Toronto Star for me to peruse. Most of the hard-news articles are too long for me to digest in my current state. I glance at pictures of shiny new cars I have no intention of buying, recipes I won’t try and snapshots of glamorous actresses. Then I attempt to do today’s Sudoku puzzle but realize, less than a third of the way through, that I’ve messed it up. Since I don’t have the concentration to try again, the paper becomes a doodle pad that I fill with a sampling of the various ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics that I can still remember. There are actually thousands of them in total—only a small

fraction of which I ever knew—some representing single letters, some representing the sound made by a combination of letters, and others representing a thing, person or idea. By the time I lock up the store and cash out, the Toronto Star’s puzzle page resembles, to an unlearned eye, some kind of segment from The Book of the Dead. The morbidity of that catches me off guard and with trembling hands I rip the page to shreds and reel towards home, as shaky as a leaf in a hurricane, to continue the waiting I’ve been doing for days.

Seventeen At nine-thirty on the nose Vishaya calls to let me know that Sumi has been in touch with her and that once again there’s no real change in Yunhee’s condition. “She said that mostly she’s sleeping,” Vishaya adds. “And that they still have her on oxygen in ICU. She hasn’t been saying much. But you know”—Vishaya struggles to turn the information into something positive—“she’s still hanging in there.” “What about the police?” I ask. “Have you heard whether they’re any closer to finding the guy who did it?” “When I talked to Chas a couple of minutes ago he said they had a lead they were following,” Vishaya replies. It makes me shiver to think that the guy who did this is still out prowling city streets, but the majority of my energy is with Yunhee. I don’t know how I’m going to get the through the night and tomorrow and the next day not knowing whether she’ll be all right. I’m so strung out on worrying that everything else in my life has receded into the background. Even Bastien feels further from me. I try to picture him comforting me,

reminding me how strong Yunhee is and that all I can do is be there for her. Only I can’t even do that. She’s locked away in ICU. “You’ll be there when you can,” he’d say. “For now you just have to keep the faith.” I want to. I’m trying. But what would Bastien say if he knew about Liam coming over? I’m so frantic about Yunhee that I can’t fault myself for asking Liam to drop by tonight, and anyway, that’s more about needing a friend than it is about anything else. It’s almost eleven-thirty by the time the doorbell rings. My face and hands are puffy, which probably has something to do with my lack of sleep the last two nights, and I’m not really fit for company, but having someone around is the only thing I can think of that will stop me from going off the deep end. I don’t know Liam well enough to ask him for that; I’m lucky he’s doing it anyway, and when I open the door he’s standing in the drizzle in a black sports jacket and jeans, holding a coffee tray with two cups of Tim Hortons coffee tucked inside it. “Come in,” I say, pulling the door open wide and stepping back to give him room. “Thanks for coming. It was really nice of you.” Liam crosses the threshold and I shut the door behind him.

“The one on your left is black,” he explains as he glances down at the tray. “And the other’s milk and sugar. I remembered that you weren’t keen on tea but wasn’t sure how you took your coffee.” “Thanks. Milk and sugar is good.” I take the tray from him and lead him inside. “But how do you take your coffee?” “If you could add a dollop of honey, it’d be perfect.” “Sure. Why don’t you sit down?” I point to the living room couch, which I edge by on my way to the kitchen. I never use honey for anything but thankfully I find some in the cupboard and squeeze a bit into the black coffee. Then I return to the living room with both cups and find Liam standing in front of a Powell family reunion photograph that hangs next to an old fashioned painting of downtown Oakville at Christmastime, horse drawn carriage in the foreground. I hand Liam his coffee and say, “I hope that’s enough honey. Let me know and I’ll add more.” Liam, who is closer to clean shaven than I’ve seen him before, takes a sip of coffee and nods. “That’s grand. Thanks.” I point to Abigail in the photograph, her face turned slightly to Alrick next to her. “That’s Bastien’s aunt Abigail, the one who owns this

house.” Liam takes a closer look at the sea of faces in front of him. There are at least thirty members of the Powell family—of all ages, shapes and sizes —lined up in three rows for what Abigail told me was a photograph snapped with a self-timer button in Stanley Park during their reunion picnic. “Is your boyfriend in here somewhere?” he asks. Bastien’s kneeling down in the front row with one of his arms hanging around his brother Jeremy’s shoulders. “That’s him,” I say, resting my finger against Bastien’s sweatshirt. “He’s only about twelve here. And that’s his little brother beside him.” Liam examines the photograph for a few extra seconds before turning away and making for the couch. I sit down next to him. Any awkwardness I would have felt at seeing Liam again has been so drastically muted by recent circumstances that it barely registers. “Any news about your friend?” Liam asks, his serious blue eyes pointed at me. “Her roommate called a couple of hours ago and there hasn’t been any change.” I swallow a mouthful of coffee and slouch down on the couch. “Her parents came in from Ottawa a couple of days ago. They’re staying at a hotel downtown, but one of them is in ICU with her all

the time. Her little sister came too. They’ve been calling with updates every day, but it’s just…this continual shock that I can’t snap out of.” Aside from my voice, the house is as quiet as a library in the middle of the night, and I reach for the TV remote and flick it on. “Do you mind?” I ask and watch Liam shake his head. “Since it happened it’s like I need noise all the time.” I’ve stacked Louise and Simon’s DVDs on the book shelf in front of Abigail’s hardcover classics and I trudge over to grab the stack and present it to Liam. “Have you seen any of these? I borrowed them from a couple who come into O’Keefe’s a lot.” I’m not in the mood for comedy. Aside from that, I don’t care what we watch. “This one’s brilliant,” Liam proclaims, holding up season one of Life on Mars. “Not like the rubbish American remake.” “That’s what the couple who lent it to me said too.” I reach for the DVD and slide it into the player. The noise from the TV takes the edge off a little and I look at Liam and say, “So how was the play tonight?” I feel as if I could fall asleep the second I let my eyes shut, but I know that’s either a lie or because I’m a fraction more distracted than when I’m alone. I’m really glad Liam came over and feel like I know him better than I actually do just by

virtue of him being here at a time like this. “I meant to tell you on the phone that the run’s been extended by three weeks,” Liam replies. “The critics aren’t in love with it but the audiences themselves really seem to like it.” “That’s great. It gives you some more time.” I remember him saying at the pub, almost two weeks ago, that he didn’t want to think about going back to Ireland and the show yet. I also recall him mentioning, over the phone earlier today that maybe he was wrong about us not being able to spend more time together, but I can’t think about the implications of that tonight. The timing’s wrong. “Exactly.” Liam puts his coffee down, grabs the pillow next to him and tugs it closer. “And I’ve been thinking about talking to my agent to see what we can do to wriggle out of my contract early. Ideally, I’d like to give London a shot. See if I can pick up any interesting parts in the British theater, film or TV industries. I really should’ve done that a year ago. I reckon I’ve gotten all I can from the soap opera back home. I’ve let it become a comfortable rut.” He smiles ruefully. “So maybe I needed the push.” On the TV a cop’s careened into a nonlethal car accident and Liam, having already seen Life on Mars, explains what I’ve missed while we’ve been talking. I lean against my own pillow

and focus on the screen. It’s impossible to concentrate for longer than thirty seconds at a time, and as my attention wanders I begin to tell Liam about the hours waiting at the hospital, Chas blaming himself for what happened, and the birthday gift Yunhee mailed to her sister, which means Sumi probably spent her birthday in ICU. Then I tell him what an awful friend I’ve been since last January, completely self-absorbed and disengaged from everything outside of the unit Bastien and I once formed. Liam drinks his coffee as he listens, but I get so sick and tired of hearing myself complain, which in itself is more self-absorption, that I clam up in mid-sentence and frown down at my knees. Liam reaches over with his right hand, touches my thigh and says, with a softness in his voice that makes me want to buckle in the middle, “Leah, you’re obviously exhausted. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” “I can’t. Either I have bad dreams, or I wake up every hour, or I get confused and don’t know where I am when I open my eyes.” I rub my cheeks with my thumb and forefinger. Every time I see this guy something’s wrong with me and I wish we’d met under better circumstances, maybe years from now, so that we could just laugh and flirt and be something more carefree than this.

“Do you have a hot water bottle?” Liam asks. “There might be one somewhere. Why?” “When I was a kid my mum would tuck a hot water bottle into bed with me if I felt sick and couldn’t sleep,” he explains as he stretches his feet out in front of him so that one of his shoes rests against a leg of the coffee table. “My sister used to get terrible cramps in her calves when she was pregnant and used one almost every night. She said she had to go back to using it for a bit after the baby was born because she didn’t realize how much stress it’d released. I’ve been known to lie down with one myself when I’ve had a bad day.” Maybe I’ll take a look around later, see if Abigail happens to have one in her bedroom, but I don’t want Liam to go yet. He barely just got here. “You’re an uncle,” I note. “Do you have any pictures on you?” Liam dips into his back pocket for his wallet and slides out a photo of a young darkhaired girl, her long braids partially hidden under a baseball cap. It hardly seems possible but her eyes are bluer than Liam’s. “She’s absolutely gorgeous,” I declare. “How old is she?” Liam grins proudly as he gazes at the photo in my hand. “She turned five in July.”

“And what’s her name?” Liam bites down on his still growing smile. “She’s a real tomboy and likes people to call her Jack, but her given name’s Jacqueline.” “Jack.” I smile too, my eyes clinging to the photograph of Liam’s niece. “That’s adorable. It suits her, I think.” “It does,” he agrees. “I always make sure to call her Jack. It drives my sister mad. She’s constantly trying to convince my niece to at least settle for Jackie, but”—Liam’s eyes crinkle up—“she’s a stubborn one when she wants to be, and it has to be Jack. She won’t answer to anything else.” I hand him back the photograph, which he slips into his wallet again. “So are they in Dublin —your sister and your niece?” “My family’s all in Dublin. My parents, my sister and my…” He catches himself and swallows the next thing on his lips, shaking his head like he’s rejecting the unsaid words. “They’re all in Dublin,” he repeats. “My sister, Alison, and her husband have a cupcake shop in Temple Bar. A mad successful one that’s always running them off their feet. My parents are both teachers, which was a pain in the arse growing up, as you can imagine.” Liam asks me about my parents, and I tell him a bit about my mom’s work at the law firm

and my dad’s part-time job with the city. Then I talk some more about growing up on the west coast, the terrible rainy winter months when you begin to wonder if sunshine’s just a dream you had once. And then, when summer comes and the clouds begin to disappear, everyone scrambles outside on their bikes, inline skates and skateboards and the atmosphere of the place entirely changes, making you wonder if there’s any place in the world you’d rather be. Liam laughs and says the B.C. rain sounds a lot like how it is at home but that he’s never actually minded the rain. “You sound homesick when you talk about the west,” he observes. “I never think I am until I’m talking about it. I like it out here too. Downtown Vancouver feels much smaller than Toronto. In Toronto there’s always something happening. The pace is faster and there’s a real big city vibe.” “Not much of that in Oakville, though.” “No,” I agree. “Oakville wasn’t part of the plan. That just happened.” Life on Mars is still unfolding in front of us and periodically, as we continue to speak, Liam motions to the screen and sums up the action. I don’t sense myself falling asleep but the next thing I know I’m opening my eyes, lifting my head off Liam’s shoulder. We haven’t been this close since the night

at the pier almost two weeks ago, and for a second the yearning I felt for Liam that night sparks inside me. His eyes are closed, and his breath is both heavy and steady. I almost reach out to smooth my fingers against his face. That first day I saw him at the café, the afternoon Liam glanced down at my T-shirt, I must have noticed he was attractive, yet I don’t remember thinking about it. The time I hurt my ankle and he walked me to a bench, I did notice, but with complete emotional and physical detachment, the way someone who has no desire to sit down registers the presence of a chair. Now he hurts to look at; not as much as it hurt to look at him that night on the pier, but if it weren’t for Yunhee I bet there wouldn’t be much difference between now and then. It’s not just about how Liam looks either. He’s easy to be around, easy to talk to. When I left that note at his door I sincerely thought it would be better if I didn’t have to see him again, that the best thing I could do would be to put that night behind me. My feelings about him now are more complicated and tonight isn’t the time to begin delving into them. On TV, Sam, the cop from the present, is exchanging furious words with his superior officer back in 1973, and I clutch the remote and inch the volume down so it won’t wake Liam.

Then I glance at my watch, which shows a quarter to three, and slip upstairs to separate Armstrong from his wheel. I quickly discover there’s no way to do that without disturbing him since he’s nestled fast asleep inside it, despite this ordinarily being his most active time. He looks so peaceful, curled up in the wheel like it’s a king size feather bed, that it makes me smile to myself and resolve to pay extra attention to him tomorrow. I leave Armstrong where he is and head for the bathroom. Once I’ve finished there, I glide noiselessly down the stairs and into the living room, where Liam’s blinking sleepily at me from the sofa and saying, “What time is it?” “Almost three.” My forehead creases with disappointment at the fact that he’s awake and will probably tell me he has to leave. He didn’t make me forget about Yunhee, nothing would, but having him here dulled my anxiety for a while. Liam rubs his eyes and sits up straighter on the couch. “Have you been awake long?” “Just a couple minutes.” Liam’s focus switches to the TV. “I think we’ve missed half the series,” he jokes in a drowsy voice. “Looks like it.” I’m still standing next to the couch because I know he won’t remain

seated there long. “Did you find the hot water bottle?” he asks, running one of his hands idly along his jaw line. I shake my head. “I didn’t look.” Liam tilts his head and gazes at me with an expression I’m not sure I recognize. “Come here,” he says quietly, and before I can tell him that nothing can happen tonight he adds, “I know, Leah. I know. Just switch off the lights. You can leave the TV on if it helps. We’ll try to go back to sleep.” I flick off the lamps on either side of the couch and take a seat next to him as he kicks off his shoes and peels off his sports jacket, tossing it at the nearest armchair, where it lands in a heap. I can’t believe he intends to stay the whole night. In that moment I like him so much that the feeling’s more dangerous than anything that’s happened between us so far. We arrange ourselves so that we’re spooning on the couch, Liam behind me with his left arm draped across my waist like Bastien’s so often used to be. “All right?” he asks. “Mmm-hmm.” Normally I’d never be able to sleep like this, with someone I technically hardly know stretched out behind me, the length of our bodies touching. But tonight I know it will help to have him here; it already has. “You?”

“I was half asleep the moment I lay down,” Liam says, his mouth so close to my ear that he barely has to whisper. I reach for the hand he’s draped over my waist, twining my fingers through his, and my final thought before I slip back into unconsciousness is of Yunhee and what she wouldn’t give to hear about tonight.

Eighteen When I wake up in the morning to a blue halflight that tells me it’s early, I sense that Liam’s body is missing behind me. The television’s been turned off too. I listen to the silence for a moment before stirring and, as I rise, hear it broken by running water in the kitchen. My right hand, the one I’d tucked under my head last night and was sleeping on, is in the throes of the worst case of pins and needles I’ve ever experienced. I can barely move it and, as I begin massaging it with my left hand, can scarcely feel it either. It’s as though my endodontist broke into the house in the middle of the night and injected my right hand with Novocain. I head for the kitchen, my left hand trying desperately to restore feeling to my right, and see Liam, in his rumpled white shirt, rinsing a tea cup. He smiles as he looks down at my hands. “My right hand was dead weight until about a minute ago,” he declares, flexing his fingers to demonstrate the return of his mastery over his hand. “Good to know I’ll recover,” I say. I step up close to him and, on impulse, grab the hem of his shirt with the hand I still have feeling in. “And

thanks for staying last night. I really appreciate it. You’re better than a hot water bottle any day.” “Well, I should hope so.” Liam’s eyes fill with mischief. “But I don’t think last night was the best proof of that.” His left hand skims through my hair and curves gingerly around the back of my neck, his thumb caressing skin no one gets to see except when I put my hair into a ponytail. The corners of my lips jerk up, my skin warming as he watches me. Liam slowly withdraws his hand, takes a step back and adds, “I should go. I just needed to get some tea into me before I head off. I hope there’s good news about your friend, Yunhee, soon.” I must have mentioned her name last night, and hearing it on his lips is another thing that makes me feel like we know each other better than we really do. “Thanks,” I say. I know we haven’t discussed what he said on the phone—the possibility of seeing each other again. Having him strictly as a friend is one thing, but I don’t think that’s what he meant and there’s not enough space for Liam and sex in my head right now. If he wants simple, this certainly isn’t it. I walk him to the door and, after he’s slipped back into his sports jacket, plant a kiss on his cheek.

“You have my number,” Liam says. Since I was the one who called him yesterday, no doubt he now has mine too, but we both know what he means. He doesn’t plan to call again; it will have to be me. After I’ve closed the door behind him, Yunhee springs immediately back to the forefront of my brain. When we moved in together in first year we created a lot of our own little rituals. The first was cupcake night on Wednesdays, because our class schedules happened to make it the toughest day of the week for both of us. Initially the idea of cupcakes for dinner seemed like a wonderful reward for getting through my mind-tangling philosophy class, but you can tire of anything; there’s a reason sugar isn’t a food group. We revised Wednesday nights to noodle night—with cupcakes, on occasion, for dessert—and Yunhee made the only official rule, which was that we could never hit the same restaurant two weeks in a row. The other unsaid rule, that wherever we went for dinner had to be fairly cheap, we’d internalized by virtue of being students. Yunhee’s favorite noodles were jajangmyeon, a Korean recipe her mom often made at home. My favorite all-time noodle dish became lemon spaghetti, which I only had once because when we tried to go back to the

restaurant a month and a half later it had closed. We’d stream TV shows together on one of our laptops and our favorites were Hoarders, golden oldie Degrassi Junior High episodes, and Modern Family. If we happened to stay up late enough on Friday or Saturday night for it to technically be considered the next morning we’d watch kid stuff like SpongeBob SquarePants and Rugrats while eating cereal in bed. Sometimes we had Wii Sports tournaments with some of the other guys and girls on our floor. And then there were the other activities that Katie joined us for—the Asian Film Club movie showings and band gigs. I don’t know where I would have ended up living if Yunhee hadn’t let me move in with her once her roommate dropped out and went home to North Bay. I’m sure it all would’ve worked out somehow, but I can’t imagine that whoever I would’ve lived with would’ve become as good a friend as Yunhee. And if I’d never lived with her we still would’ve been friends, but when you share such a small space with someone the process of getting to know them is mightily accelerated. Yunhee did everything she could to stay connected with me after Bastien died, and I’ve only really come to appreciate that over the last few days, when I’m in danger of losing her. If—

not if, when—she’s better I promise I’ll be different, at least with her. Meanwhile I have another promise to fulfill —the one I made to Armstrong last night. It’s early enough that he’s not asleep yet (maybe this is partially due to the nap he had last night) and I’m able to scoop him out of his cage and gently cuddle him. I let him climb on my hands too, and then take him into the bathroom, block the bathtub drain and set Armstrong inside the tub so I can play with him with no worries about him running off. This is a trick that a boy of about eight, whom I met at O’Keefe’s store with his mother, shared with me last Sunday but I’d forgotten about until this second. In the beginning Armstrong tolerates being the focus of my attention, but he soon tires of it and I know it’s time to let him sleep. I put him back inside his cage, where he promptly makes himself comfortable in his bedding. Then I swiftly clean the bath before filling it with warm water and lowering my body inside. It’s a deep tub and if I fill it nearly to the top I can almost float inside it. Bobbing in the water, my head back and my hair fanning out around me, I slip into the same kind of trance that sometimes the television, or watching waves at the lake, can send me into. I’m not consciously aware of how

slowly or quickly time is passing, but I jerk at the sound of the telephone, which I only now realize I’ve forgotten to bring into the bathroom with me. I run to Abigail’s bedroom naked, droplets of water landing on the carpet under me, and have the hand in my phone before it stops ringing. “Hello?” I say urgently. “Leah?” Vishaya says. “It’s me.” I grip the phone tighter. “What’s going on?” “I just got off the phone with Sumi and they’re moving Yunhee out of ICU this morning.” My heart’s beating with the swiftness of a hummingbird’s. A step behind, it doesn’t yet realize the danger’s over. I can’t find words big enough to reflect what I’m feeling and I stand there gulping in air, wet hairs on my arms pricking up on end. “Sumi said that the past few days have been really scary,” Vishaya continues, “but that the doctor told them Yunhee’s condition has improved, that she’s stable and alert.” Joy shines through Vishaya’s syllables and their sparkle makes my lips tingle and shoot into a smile. “They’re moving her to a regular surgical floor where she can have visitors shortly.” “Shortly?” I repeat, more giddy than I can ever remember feeling. “Do you mean she can

have visitors today?” It’s amazing how quickly life can take things from you—and astounding the swiftness with which its gifts arrive too. I feel as though every bone in my body has simultaneously relaxed and woken up during the past few seconds. We almost lost her, but we didn’t. Yunhee’s safe. She’s going to be okay. Happy tears leak out of my eyes and spill down my face, dampening the only part of me that was previously dry. “Obviously her parents don’t want a ton of people showing up, especially in the first couple of days, but yeah, we can see her,” Vishaya says. “I’m just about to call Chas because I’m sure he’ll want to be one of the first. You know how he’s been holding himself responsible.” “I know.” And hopefully now he can begin to let go of the guilt. “God…Vishaya…this is… this is…” I still can’t find the right thing to say. “I know,” she says. “I know. It’s exactly what we’ve all been hoping for.” “Do you think later this morning would be too early to stop by the hospital?” My vision’s streakier than a windshield in a tropical storm, and I mop my eyes with the heel of my hands. “I’m in work at three but I’d love to see her before I go in.” That’s the understatement of the month. There’s nothing that would mean more to

me than being able to see Yunhee today. Vishaya gives me the floor and room number that Yunhee’s going to be transferred to and says she thinks it should be fine to visit later this morning, that otherwise Sumi wouldn’t have said so. “We’ll just make sure to stagger the visits so it’s not too much for her. Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow to go since I know you’ll be there today. Can you call me on my cell after you get back to let me know how she’s doing?” I tell Vishaya of course I will and then hurry back to the bathroom to dry myself off and empty the bathtub. The past few days suddenly seem like a bad dream. The heaviness I’ve been carrying around with me has dropped away, leaving me as light as a sunshine—so excited about facing the morning that I can’t get out of the house fast enough. Everything has changed. Yunhee’s pulled through and the world is an okay place to be again. As I pull on my clothes, dry my hair and walk to the train station, I’m beaming all the while. Things I couldn’t conceive of before have begun to seem possible. It’s not that I’ve come to terms with Bastien’s death over the course of the last several minutes. More like someone’s opened a window a crack, allowing light into a room that hadn’t seen in it in almost a year. Maybe sometime in the not too distant

future I’ll begin to think about going back to school. Maybe even if I don’t Yunhee and I can resurrect noodle night. We kept it up for a while after I moved in with Bastien, but then our noodle nights began to grow fewer and farther between and eventually stopped entirely. We didn’t stop spending time together; we just didn’t do it nearly as often as before. Between homework, classes, the museum and Bastien, my time was stretched thin. Then, once he was gone, Bastian took up more of my energy and time than he ever had when he’d been alive. I gave him everything, gladly, and it never felt like a sacrifice. But now I’ve discovered I need some things back. The revelation comes as a surprise and I’m so excited and grateful that I forget to stop into the hospital gift shop to buy Yunhee flowers or a cuddly plush toy. The mental lapse doesn’t occur to me until I’m walking into her room, my eyes searching her out. The first bed has a curtain pulled snugly around it for privacy, but in the second lies Yunhee, her mother sitting on a chair next to her near the head of the bed. Yunhee’s eyes are closed and she’s hooked up to an IV, but she’s breathing on her own. Mrs. Kang turns to look at me and smiles. She rises from her chair and meets me at the end of Yunhee’s bed, where she pulls me into a hug. The

relief and happiness that I feel in her embrace are identical to my own. “How is she doing?” I whisper. I’ve only met Mrs. Kang a few times, but I’ve heard a lot about her and I guess she’s heard a lot about me too. “Much better,” she whispers back. “It will just take time.” “She’s been through a lot,” I say. Mrs. Kang frowns. “Too much. I’m afraid for her to come back here to the city.” She explains that when Yunhee’s released, which is still a ways off, and is well enough to travel she’ll be taking her back to Ottawa to look after her there. Her husband and daughter, who have been missing work and school, will be checking out of the hotel tomorrow and returning to Ottawa. Mrs. Kang has arranged for several weeks’ leave of absence from her own job. “Maybe you can stay at Yunhee’s apartment,” I suggest, my eyes clinging to Yunhee in bed, watching her breathe in and out. I know Vishaya wouldn’t mind having Mrs. Kang stay with her and the apartment is only a short subway ride from the hospital. “I had the same thought this morning,” Mrs. Kang confirms, the both of us still whispering so as not to wake Yunhee. “I’m going to call her roommate later and speak with her about it.”

Mrs. Kang motions for me to take the chair she was sitting in when I walked through the door. “So she’ll see you there right away if she wakes up,” she insists, pulling a second chair closer to the first and dropping into it herself. I thank her and sit next to Yunhee. She looks so young in her sleep, the hospital sheets— and a thick red and yellow blanket that her parents must have brought—pulled up to her chin. A nurse drifts in to look at her briefly and smiles at me before leaving the room again. Mrs. Kang and I sit at Yunhee’s bedside, punctuating the silence at irregular intervals with hushed snippets of information. She tells me she was very impressed with the ICU—how wonderful everyone’s been to Yunhee—and says the nurses are hoping to get Yunhee up a little bit tomorrow and that they have her hooked up to a pain pump, which allows her to medicate herself to relive the pain whenever she wants. Mrs. Kang and I haven’t seen each other since Bastien died and she offers her condolences and says that she remembers meeting Bastien once. “He seemed like a very nice boy.” “He was,” I say. “Thank you.” Soon Sumi strides in nursing a bottle of orange juice. She kisses her mother and mouths the word “hi” as she glances my way. I know there aren’t supposed to be many

visitors at the same time and begin to get out of my chair so Sumi can sit close to her sister. I wonder if maybe it’s time for me to leave, although I was hoping I’d have a chance to speak to Yunhee directly first. Sumi points to the door and whispers that she’s going down to the gift shop to buy some new magazines so I should stay awhile. She’s only just left the room when Yunhee opens her eyes. Blinking like her eyelashes are coated in dust, she looks straight at me. “Hey,” I say gently. I stand up and lean over the bed to kiss her forehead. “Hey,” she croaks back. She looks every inch as young as she did when her eyes were closed. More than that, she looks delicate. But it’s incredible to see her eye to eye again. Less than a week ago we drank bubble tea and shopped for Sumi together, but I’ve missed her with a vengeance over the past few days. I didn’t know I had that much feeling left in me until I thought I might not see her again. “Your mom tells me the hospital has been really good with you and that you’re doing better,” I say. Yunhee furrows her eyebrows. “It’s been a blur.” “Yeah, I bet.” I dip my head closer still. “When you’re feeling a bit better I have stuff I

want to tell you,” I whisper. I’m sure her mother can hear me anyway, since she’s only a couple of feet behind me. “Major stuff that you’re probably going to want to kick my ass for not telling you sooner.” Mrs. Kang is on her feet, moving towards the door where she and Sumi hover, speaking quietly in Korean. “Stuff about you?” Yunhee asks, her eyes popping. “Me and a guy named Liam,” I confess. “Oh my God.” Yunhee shuts her eyes, opening them again momentarily to add, “I can’t believe you.” “Yeah, I know.” I don’t want to tire her out by forcing her to speak too much. “We’ll have a lot to talk about later.” I slip back into my chair and spy Mrs. Kang crossing the room back towards us. “I think Chas is coming by to see you today.” “I heard he was okay,” she says. “Just his hands…” “That’s right.” I begin to tell Yunhee about our vigil that first night at her apartment, but before I can finish a lanky bearded doctor ambles into the room and wants to examine her. I use that as an opportunity to go down to the gift store and buy Yunhee the cutest teddy bear in the place. With the bear in my arms, I head back up to her room where Sumi and Mrs. Kang are

sitting—much like I imagine they have been for the past several days—quietly next to Yunhee’s bed. Sumi flips through a magazine while Mrs. Kang snores lightly and Yunhee, too, is once again sound asleep. I leave the teddy bear with Sumi and tell her to let her sister know I’ll be back for another visit on Monday. In the hallway I spot Mr. Kang striding towards Yunhee’s room with a bouquet of flowers and a large coffee. We stop and exchange hellos. He says he’s been in touch with the university about Yunhee’s condition and that it’s too early to know when she’ll be able to return to school but that he’s going to gather the paperwork necessary for her medical leave. I tell him I’m sure the university will be able to work things out once they know what kind of timeframe they’re dealing with. “What about the police?” I ask. “Have they picked up the guy who did this yet?” Mr. Kang grimaces. “They think the suspect’s left the Toronto area. He could be anywhere.” My molars clamp together. I can’t believe someone put Yunhee in ICU and might get away with it. But the brief moment of negativity is pushed aside by an overwhelming feeling of wellbeing. Like Mrs. Kang said, it will take time, but Yunhee will heal.

I say I hope they track the man down shortly and soon I’m on the train back to Oakville, the hopeful feeling keeping me company the whole way. Walking to Abigail’s house from the station, I take note of Halloween wreaths on some of the neighborhood doors, and eerie decorations like psychotic pumpkins and disconcertingly plump tarantulas peeking out from behind curtains. Tomorrow’s holiday is just one of many things that I haven’t been able to hold in my head lately. Now it makes me think about Bastien, Yunhee, Katie and me at the zombie walk two years ago. Given all that’s happened since then, it feels like much longer ago. In two years you can love somebody with all your heart and lose them. You can become the very best of friends with someone and then neglect them to the point that they don’t expect anything different from you anymore. You can become someone you never expected and forget things you believed you could take for granted about yourself. Two years can contain a lifetime’s worth of people and events, but I can’t live solely in the past anymore. I’ve survived Bastien by exactly nine months and nineteen days and today is the first day since January eleventh that hasn’t felt like a kind of prison sentence.

Nineteen There’s only an hour until I have to leave for my shift. I nibble on sourdough bread and cheese while placing a quick succession of phone calls. The first one is to my parents to fill them in on the details of the last few days. My mother’s at work but Dad, though he’s never met Yunhee either, is very glad to hear she’s out of ICU. It would make his day if, on top of that, I told him I might go back to school next year, but it’s too early to get his hopes up. I’ve only just begun to consider the matter and I want to be sure first. Then I call Vishaya and Katie, who are both planning to visit Yunhee tomorrow, and assure them that she’s doing well—not eating or walking around yet, though; that will come later. I pass on what Mr. Kang said about school and the police too, and before I know it I’m out of time, unable to place my final call. At work Marta is also pleased to hear that Yunhee’s on the road to recovery. We hit a busy patch just after five-thirty, around the time she’d normally leave, and once the store begins to clear out we realize a silver-haired man in a navy suit and fedora has been standing stock still in front of the DVD shelves for some time. I wander over

and ask him if there’s anything in particular I can help him find. “I’m just not sure where it is,” he says unhappily. “And what would that be?” I ask him. “Can you remember the name of the DVD?” The man taps the top of his fedora lightly, his features set in a gauzy-confusion. “It’s the place with all the people. Where they all go in their chairs, you know?” He smiles worriedly and tugs at the cuff of his sleeve. I return his smile, confused myself now. “The chairs?” I ask. “The chair, the chairs,” he insists, growing agitated. “Yes. In the chairs, most of them. I should be there now too, but where is it? Have you seen it?” My heart sinks. He’s so well-dressed that it’s clear someone takes good care of him, but he appears to be suffering from some type of dementia. “Do you live around here?” I ask, trying again, smile glued to my face so I won’t upset him. “All the time,” he tells me. “That’s the way it goes.” He’s not making any sense but I persist. “And what’s your address? Is there someone there I could call to come get you?” “I shouldn’t think so. Would you?” The

man turns away, gravitating towards the door. I follow him, pausing at the counter to whisper to Marta, “I don’t think he remembers where he lives. Should we call the police?” Marta nods. “I’ll call. Try to stall him.” I sidle up to the man again. He’s only six feet from the front door and I touch his navy sleeve and say the first thing that pops into my head. “Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” The man perks up, either at the mention of tea or the use of the word ‘sir’. I lay my hand on his back and guide him away from the door and back towards the DVDs. “We’ll just wait here and Marta will make you one in a minute.” I make small talk about the weather and the store, keeping up a steady patter. It doesn’t seem to matter much what I’m saying as long as my mouth is moving, and I’m smiling and not posing any questions he doesn’t know the answers to. A couple of minutes later Marta approaches and suggests I take him into the back room where he’ll be able to have a seat at her desk, but when we try to coax him in that direction the man scowls and snaps, “No, this is not the way.” He stomps towards the door again and this time I can’t convince him to stay. I follow him out to the sidewalk, where the air is crisp. He swivels on his heels, staring repeatedly east and west along Lakeshore Avenue and then stepping into

the stream of traffic, where an oncoming sedan honks loudly and screeches to a halt directly in front of him. I wince at the close call but don’t want to send the man scurrying further into the street. “Hey there,” I call casually, my friendly face in place as I stride out to meet him. The man turns to me, his cheeks pink in the cold and his eyes clouded with uncertainty. “Hello,” he ventures, crossing back to the sidewalk to meet me. “It’s pretty cold out here,” I say in a matter-of-fact tone. “Would you like to come inside awhile?” I can’t talk him into returning to the store, but he stands outside O’Keefe’s front door with me, the two of us shivering, until the police arrive five minutes later and greet the man by the name Mr. Bonner. One of the officers explains, in a low voice, that Mr. Bonner has wandered away from his daughter’s house twice before. Then he turns to Mr. Bonner and offers to drive him home. Mr. Bonner smiles warmly at me before he climbs into the squad car. “You’re a lovely girl,” he says with a glint in his eyes that makes him look like an old-time movie star. “They should all be so lucky as to be half as lovely as you.” I feel my face light up from the inside.

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. It’s the sweetest compliment I’ve heard in months. With Mr. Bonner taken care of, Marta can finally leave for the day, and the second she’s out the door I grab the phone behind the counter and place the call I didn’t have time for earlier this afternoon. It goes to message on the first ring and because I was hoping to speak to Liam directly I automatically hang up. Ten minutes later I decide it’s best to leave a message after all and run through it quickly in my head before calling a second time and reciting, “Hey, Liam, it’s Leah. I really want to thank you, again, for keeping me company last night. There was great news about Yunhee not long after you left. They moved her out of ICU this morning and I was able to have a short visit with her earlier. I thought maybe we—you and I—could celebrate sometime soon, if you want to.” I pause for a few seconds to gather my thoughts. Then I give him Abigail’s phone number, in case somehow he doesn’t have it after all, and add, “Okay. Bye.” I feel nervous about Liam in a way that I didn’t before because what I’m doing now is premeditated. Because of Bastien that doesn’t feel completely right, but I wasn’t willing to stop myself the first time and am even less inclined to try to stop myself now. I’m thinking about Liam even as I make change for customers, reliving

what happened between us two weeks ago on the pier and then his kitchen, and wondering what else we might have done if I hadn’t left. At five after seven the telephone rings and though I’m not expecting it to be Liam, because the number I left was my home one, I’m also not surprised to pick up and hear his voice at the other end. “That’s fantastic about Yunhee!” he declares after we swap hellos. “You must be over the moon.” The more I hear Liam’s Irish accent the sexier it sounds, and his enthusiasm makes me laugh lightly into the phone. “I’m ecstatic! It was so good to see her. She’s still going to be in the hospital for who knows how long but she’s definitely rounded the corner.” “That’s brilliant,” he says. “Listen, I don’t have much time now because I’m at the theater and I know you’re at work as well, but by the time I get out I thought it would be too late to ring you. Usually I’m around on Sundays, but I’m going to a Halloween fundraiser tomorrow.” Simon and Louise walk through the door as I’m listening to Liam, which immediately makes it more difficult to carry on a conversation. “Okay,” I tell him. “Well, maybe there’ll be some time during the week.” “There will be,” he says. “Definitely. But the other thing is, and I meant to clear this up

when you rang yesterday, but with your friend in hospital it wasn’t the right conversation to have so…I just…I hope this doesn’t sound cold because that’s not how I intend it, but…” “Just come out with it, Liam,” I prompt, louder than I mean to, causing Simon to glance my way over his shoulder. “I’m not looking for a girlfriend,” Liam admits. “Toronto is just a stopover for me. Five more weeks and the play will be finished.” He’s not telling me anything I haven’t already guessed about the finite nature of whatever exactly we’re going to be to each other, but it’s good to get the truth out in the open. And the truth is, I’m not ready for a serious boyfriend either. I wouldn’t have guessed that I’d be open to having a physical relationship in advance of being part of a couple again. Looking back, the disapproval I felt when I first found out about Chas and Yunhee hooking up makes me feel somewhere between hypocritical and hopelessly naive. “It doesn’t sound cold,” I tell him. “You’re just being real.” Simon is ambling towards the counter with a package of frozen steak and stilton pies in one hand and a jar of lemon curd spread in the other. Two steps behind him Louise clutches a couple of DVDs to her bosom. “You seem like a really

nice person,” Liam says as Simon and Louise set their purchases down in front of me, “and I know you’ve been through a lot in the past year, so maybe this isn’t what you need right now.” “And maybe it is,” I say casually, so Simon and Louise won’t guess they’re hearing something intensely personal, which would only make Simon listen more intently. “I should go. I have customers here. But there’s still tonight if that works.” “Oh, is there?” Liam says, his voice shifting into a teasing tone. “I didn’t realize that was an option.” If I were alone I’d say something more flirtatious, but with Simon and Louise at arm’s length I go with a nonchalant: “It is. A distinct possibility.” “The word distinct sounds promising. Does it involve a lighthouse?” There he goes making me smile again, even though he isn’t here to see it. “Wouldn’t you prefer to watch the rest of Life on Mars?” I kid, and it’s difficult to keep my rising sense of mischief in check considering what we’re talking about, but I’m also keenly aware of the middleaged couple standing in front of me, patiently waiting for me to get off the phone. “I’ve seen it before,” he says. “And I’d rather look at you.”

My neck and cheeks are so warm that I’m sure I’ve started to blush. “So is that a yes?” “That’s a distinct yes. See you later, Leah.” “Bye.” I hang up, feeling like I need a minute alone to digest what Liam and I just decided. Yes, we’ve already been together, but deliberately planning to do it again is filling me with a mix of nerves and excitement that makes it difficult to concentrate on things like steak pies and lemon curd. “So you’re enjoying the DVDs, then?” Simon ventures with a grin. “I overheard you mention Life on Mars.” “It’s brilliant,” I say, quoting Liam. “And Spooks too. I’m hooked on both of them.” “We’ve the other season of Life on Mars and plenty more Spooks too,” Simon tells me. “You can borrow them whenever you like.” He winks at me. “Watch them with the boyfriend.” Louise smirks and pinches the back of Simon’s neck. “He’s incorrigible,” she proclaims. Simon shrugs innocently as he swivels to look at her. “You shouldn’t be listening in,” she tells him. “I’m sure you heard her just as well as I did,” Simon declares, facing his wife. “We’re not invisible. She can see us standing here and knows she’s not having a private conversation.” Louise snorts. “Not with you around she’s

not.” I smile during their exchange, but refuse to let them drag me into a conversation where I either have to admit or deny having a boyfriend. Then I slide their purchases into a bag, tell them I should be able to return some of their DVDs soon and would love to borrow more. At eight o’clock on the nose I lock the front door, and by ten after I’m strolling up Allan Street towards Shoppers Drug Martbecause this time around I’m going to be smart. I buy lubricated condoms whose packaging proclaims: “feels like nothing’s there.” Since I know Liam won’t arrive for hours yet, back at home I have time to sift through my underwear drawer to the sexy stuff I haven’t worn in almost ten months. Bastien’s favorite was a sheer purple babydoll, which means that’s out of the question; I need to keep him out of my head as much as possible tonight. I settle on a satiny black and hot pink bra and thong set because it’s one I bought myself for my eighteenth birthday. At the time I thought, why should I wait until there’s a guy in the picture before I buy nice lingerie? Can’t I look sexy for myself? I shower, shave and trim and then squeeze myself into sexy black and pink. The preparations have made me increasingly anxious.

If there was a cigarette around I’d probably smoke it, although I can count the number of times I’ve smoked on both my hands. I pull out my copy of The Handmaid’s Tale and open it to a random page, hoping it will offer some wisdom regarding my situation. Unfortunately, page ninety-five is merely a section heading. VII appears at the top with the word Night directly underneath it. I flip over to the following page for more words and what I find there, near the bottom, speaks to me but offers no clear answers: “Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around?” I don’t blame Offred and she wouldn’t blame me. That has to be answer enough. Shortly after eleven-thirty the doorbell rings. I smear on invisible strawberry-flavored lip gloss, toss my purse over my shoulder and slink towards the door. Wearing tight jeans and a purple V-neck that only hints at my breasts, I probably don’t look much different than when I said goodbye to Liam this morning. I don’t want to appear as if I’m trying too hard. “Hi,” I say, shoving my arms into my jacket as I step outside with him. “Are we leaving?” he asks in surprise. He’s clean shaven again and I wonder if that’s for me or the play. I begin to blush for no particular reason. “I

thought maybe we could go back to your place. It would seem kind of strange here with it being Abigail’s house, you know?” It didn’t seem strange last night, sleeping innocently on the couch together, but Liam must understand the difference because he nods and says, “Sure, if you think that’s better.” I don’t know much of anything anymore. I’m so jittery that I’m practically vibrating. Maybe we need to jump ahead like that time on the pier, get the second time over with so I don’t explode worrying about it. We walk down the driveway together, Liam close to me, nudging his nose into my hair and saying, “You smell good.” He does too. Like suede mingled with jasmine. We climb into his car, which I suppose must be a rental as his real car would be back in Dublin somewhere, sitting in a driveway. The rental’s a metallic gray sedan and I ask Liam what make it is and what’s happened to the car he has at home, neither of which really matter, but Liam humors me and begins to explain about the cars. His apartment’s less than a two-minute drive from Abigail’s house and he’s still telling me about his car in Dublin, some kind of Peugeot which his brother-in-law and father have been

taking for a spin every now and then so the battery won’t die, when we pull into the parking lot. But as soon as we get out of the car he takes one look at my face and asks, “Are you all right?” “Yeah. I’m fine. I guess I’m just a little nervous.” I press my lips together and taste strawberry. “Nervous?” Liam repeats as we walk towards the door. He sounds puzzled, which makes me feel more self-conscious. As he swipes us inside the building a contemplative expression slips across his features. “I think it’s like I said in the very beginning, Leah, you’re confused.” He pushes three and slouches against the elevator wall. “You don’t really want this and I don’t want to try to convince you that you do.” No, because he wants things to be simple, like he said yesterday on the phone. Not that I can blame him considering his own situation, but is anything ever wholly uncomplicated? “I think I can be nervous without it meaning that I don’t want to do this,” I tell him. “Don’t you ever get nervous? Or, no, you’re a hotshot TV actor, there’s so much sex you just take it for granted.” I’m both a little bit irritated, by what I perceive as a lack of patience on his part, and a little bit joking. Liam shakes his head and bursts into an

amused but sour grin. “Leah, nobody on this side of the ocean has a clue who I am. Not a soul outside Ireland, except the people who’ve gone to see Philadelphia, Here I Come these past few weeks, would even be able to ID me if I robbed them on the subway.” We’ve reached Liam’s floor and step off the elevator and into the hall. “So if you think my ego’s rampaging out of control you couldn’t be further from the truth,” he continues. “And my track record with women has been, no exaggeration, a bloody disaster”—he slides his key into the door and opens it—“which I’ve already explained to you, and yeah, that’s made me cautious about you and every other woman out there. I’m not taking anything for granted, believe me.” Somehow we’re in the middle of a disagreement and I wonder if either of us really knows why. I stand in the entranceway of his apartment wondering if I should take my jacket off or whether I’ll be leaving in another twenty seconds. “But I just don’t want an ounce more confusion in my life right now,” Liam adds, worry lines crisscrossing his forehead. “And I like you—you seem like a really genuine, really nice girl—but if you’re going to be a source of confusion, I can’t have that.”

I exhale and stare steadily into his eyes. He’s just as anxious as I am, but he’s worried about different things. That I’ll screw him over in some way or demand too much from him emotionally. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his head dipping and his eyes apologetic. “Of course you can be nervous. But I don’t want to feel like this is a difficult thing for you to the degree that it’s maybe the wrong thing.” “Look, Liam, it is a little weird for me because you’re the only guy I’ve been with other than my boyfriend.” I grab my arm, looping my right thumb and forefinger around my left wrist. “But I’m not suddenly going to become obsessed with you and think we’re going to get engaged or something, okay? I know this is just a temporary, casual thing.” “The only other guy?” Liam repeats with added emphasis. His ultra blue eyes project dismay. “Yeah.” I wish I hadn’t mentioned that now. He really only needed to know that he was the first since Bastien. “Is there somewhere I can put my coat or do you think this isn’t going to work?” I can’t imagine us sleeping together now. The air is rife with thick, jagged vibes. “Sorry,” he says again as he plunks his keys and wallet down on the kitchen counter.

“I’ll take it for you.” I slip out of my jacket and watch Liam hang it in the closet. “Do you still have that white wine you offered me the last time I was here? Because I think I’d like some now.” “I do,” he tells me, his tone lightening. “I think I could use one as well.” I follow him into the kitchen, where he pours us each a glass. We take them into the living room and drink them quickly, like high school kids knocking back beer at a keg party, as I tell him about my visit with Yunhee. The second glasses are slower and halfway through he leans closer to me and says, “I’m sorry about before. I do want this to happen. I didn’t mean to put you off. I just wanted to know that you were really into it too.” His gaze shifts to my top, following the V-neck down to my breasts and lingering there a moment before looking me in the eye again. “You were amazing on the pier that night. I’ve thought about you a lot.” “Yeah?” I say in a voice like honey. “I’ve thought about you too.” Seeing the want in his face makes me breathless. Maybe this will work after all. “Good.” Liam’s Irish accent is undiluted sex. This isn’t going to be as difficult as I said it would; I’m a liar. “We’ll go slow. You don’t have to be nervous.”

He smoothes one of his hands against my cheek and kisses my lower lip with what feels like infinite patience. I try to kiss him back the same way but I’m already beginning to feel feral. “Not too slow,” I advise, and he laughs and buries his hands in my hair, the two of us growing fiercer on his couch—hands gripping asses, breasts, cock, through layers of clothing. And then I’m straddling him, tasting his tongue and riding his pelvis. “We need condoms this time,” I whisper. “I know,” he murmurs. “Give me a minute. I want to look at you.” His hands grasp the bottom of my V-neck. I stretch my arms up into the air to help him as he yanks the top up over my head and lets it drop to the carpet. Liam’s fingers cascade over the satin fabric of my bra. “This is nice.” He deftly snaps the button on my jeans and pulls down the zippers to peek at the matching thong. “You’re making it hard to go slow,” he says, smile inching onto his lips. In what feels like a single motion, he gathers me into his arms, hoists me up with him and lies me down on the carpet on the opposite side of the coffee table. “Condoms,” he grunts. “I’ll be back in a second.” I grab his arm before he can go and tell him I have some in my purse. Liam reaches for it next

to the couch, his legs on either side of me, keeping me pinned in place. He hands me my bag and I dig out a handful of condoms, Liam freeing me so that I can set them on the coffee table. I keep one in my hand as I strip off his shirt. He’s smooth and sculpted like a runner, the dark circular tattoo on his left shoulder standing out against a backdrop of pale skin. I press two fingers to the design and he says, “One of those things that seem like a genius idea when you’re seventeen.” “You don’t like it anymore?” I ask, examining the mark, a black spiral surrounded by circular Celtic edging. “I think about getting it removed sometimes, but even the best methods leave a faint sort of remnant, so I reckon I’ll stick with it until they’ve perfected the technology; then it’s history.” Liam glances contemptuously at his shoulder. “It’s supposed to be a shield of strength and calm. If I’d been any more pretentious at seventeen it would’ve been a Celtic armband or a dragon.” I laugh and rip open the condom, push my hands into his chest so he’ll lie down and then take him, covered in latex, into my mouth like I didn’t have the guts to do last time. He doesn’t object to the condom but tells me I’m cheating him out of a perfect view and swiftly unhooks

my bra and takes down my jeans. I quiver when his hands grasp my breasts. Quiver when I finish him and when he slips off my jeans and panties and finishes me. “If that’s what nervous looks like on you I’d give anything to see you in a relaxed state,” Liam comments, the tip of his thumb dipping into my mouth and a self-satisfied look in his eyes. But that’s only the beginning and later, when he’s pushing into me for the second time tonight, curled up behind me on his bed, sucking my neck and his fingers playing between my legs, I’m overcome with a euphoria that I know I won’t be able to stay away from no matter how I’ll feel about this in the light of day when I’m alone and missing Bastien. “Holy fuck,” Liam murmurs afterwards, his hands clamped to my breasts. “You’re amazing.” His breath’s steaming hot in my ear. “Next time we won’t even make it to the couch or the bedroom; I want to just bend you over the counter.” He catches himself a second late, realizing he’s gone too far and doesn’t know me well enough to discern whether that’s an okay thing to say to me or not. I see all that in his eyes as he strokes my hair and tells me how beautiful I am. I twist to bury my face in his neck. I’m still

trembly from coming so hard and when I’ve recovered a little I lay my palm against his cheek, feeling closer to him than is wise considering the situation. “You’re more beautiful than I am,” I say truthfully. Liam shakes his head like I’m crazy, but in the most adorable way. “You’re one of those girls who don’t think about how she looks. And so you don’t realize.” “But you must realize about yourself.” I turn over and prop myself up with my elbows so I’m looking down into his eyes. “You must have half the women in Ireland between fourteen and fifty lusting after you on that soap opera.” Liam frowns like the topic is beneath him. Then he tries to turn it into a joke. “What am I doing wrong that the other half aren’t interested?” I smile and run my hand across his cheek again. “Your beard’s coming back. Do you shave right before the show?” “A couple of hours beforehand. It grows in fast.” “And your hair too?” I slip my fingers into his short brown locks. “The hair grows quickly too. Give me a few months away from the barber and I could play Samson. Hey”—he reaches for my other hand, folding his fingers between mine—“this is a bit of

an embarrassing oversight but I don’t know your last name.” “It’s Fischer. How about you?” He doesn’t have to know I cheated and already looked it up. “Kellehan,” he says. We exchange additional superficial stats about ourselves—ages, heights, birthdays. Liam’s twenty-six, six-foot-two and was born on March tenth. He says twenty (my age) is young and that before I told him I’d never slept with anyone aside from my boyfriend he’d guessed I was twenty-two or twenty-three, a graduate student. “I haven’t been with anyone who’s twenty since I was barely older than that myself,” he tells me, revealing that his fiancée was six years older than him. I don’t know what the boundaries of this casual thing we’re engaged in are, but I chance it and ask Liam how long he and his fiancée were together. He says they were seeing each other for four years and engaged for one, and that he was so sure about her that he knows he won’t ever really be able to feel certain like that again. My experience is exactly the opposite, but still leads me to the same place. No matter what happens and who I meet during the rest of my life, I’ll always know Bastien was supposed to be the one. When I say that to Liam he flips onto his chest and says, “You have a long life ahead of

you. Who knows what might happen?” “A lot could happen, I know, but I don’t believe I could ever change that much that he wouldn’t be the most perfect person for me. And I don’t mean that he was perfect, because of course he wasn’t—I’m not idealizing him after the fact—but I knew we were right even at the time. It’s just, things were meant to go a certain way and they didn’t, because life isn’t fair.” I wish I hadn’t brought Bastien into the conversation while lying in Liam’s bed. I feel like I cheapened what I was just holding up as perfection. “I guess I should probably go,” I add, and Liam rolls onto his side to grasp my waist, with reassuring firmness, like he can read my mind. “Life isn’t fair,” he agrees. “You have to make of it what you can.” That’s what I’m doing now, I guess. Is that the same thing as settling? “I know.” I run my fingers nimbly through Liam’s hair so he won’t think I’m getting freaked out about tonight. “I have to be in work just before noon tomorrow and I’ll probably sleep better in my own bed.” Anyway, it’s probably not very casual to sleep over, especially two nights in a row. Liam nods and plants a kiss in the valley between my breasts. “Okay, let’s go.”

We return to the living room to pull on the clothes we’d abandoned there before he slid inside me for the first time tonight. Then he drives me home and, sitting outside Abigail’s house in the dark, I lean across the gearshift and kiss him with an abandon that surprised me on the pier weeks ago and still surprises me now. He cups my chin in his hand and smiles. “So what are doing Wednesday night?”

Twenty The first kid that knocks on my door on Halloween night, his father hanging back behind him, can’t be any older than three. He’s wearing an orange astronaut jumpsuit with “flight commander” patches sewn into the fabric and onto the front of his black baseball cap. He has that look on his face that young children break out in when they’re not sure whether they’re having fun or deathly frightened. It must be his first Halloween trick or treating (or if not, he’s already forgotten last year’s) and I’m probably one of his first houses of the night. I understand the trepidation—how there can be such a fine line between having a good time and being scared, that the division is nearly invisible. Because of that, and because he’s so cute in his little orange uniform, I give the boy two fun size chocolate bars instead of one and say, in the same voice that I used on Mr. Bonner yesterday, “I love your costume. It’s so cool.” “Thank you,” the boy replies in a very small voice. After that I have pirates, princesses, fairies, devils, super heroes, arch villains, doctors, vampires, a banana, fire hydrant, cheerleader,

panda and a girl who I think is supposed to be Madonna circa 1985 show up on my doorstep. Amongst the older kids and teenagers who begin to arrive later, anything retro or undead seems to make for a popular costume: zombie cheerleaders, brides, cops, hippies—there’s even a zombie cow. But my favorite costume of the night, one I’d consider wearing someday, belongs to a teenage girl who looks stunningly gorgeous in a blue geisha/dragon lady outfit. It’s as short as a miniskirt at the front but flows down to her ankles at the back and she’s wearing it with her long dark hair up and black patent leather platform shoes that must be six inches high. “How are you walking around in those without falling over?” I ask and she says it’s been crazy, that she keeps grabbing onto her friend, who’s standing next to her in some kind of silver disco diva thing. I tell them they both look great and they say “thanks” at the exact same time, which the girl in silver explains they do all the time. By the end of the night I have a total of only five fun size chocolate bars left and eat them all within the first ten minutes of watching Crazy Heart on TV. For a minute I find myself thinking about Liam and whether he’s at the fundraiser yet, and the very next minute I’m wondering what Bastien would have thought of

the geisha/dragon lady outfit on me. The night we lost our virginity to each other, in the moments just before it happened, he said, “I’m glad neither of us have done this before; it makes it even more special. We can teach each other at the same time.” We’d already taught each other a lot by then, with fingers and mouths, and I remember his body so well, what his touch felt like on my skin, that I know I’ll never stop longing for him. He didn’t live long enough to be curious about what it would be like to sleep with someone else—or if he did, I didn’t know it—but if we’d stayed together for years and years, would he have begun to wonder? Would he have wanted to break it off and sleep with other girls at twenty-three or twenty-six? Why am I even questioning that now? If I arbitrarily decide he would’ve been with someone besides me would that absolve me of my guilt over what I’m doing with Liam? I could ask myself these questions over and over and never do things any differently, so what’s the point? Is a certain amount of guilt just something I have to learn to live with? Chas is lucky that he doesn’t have to ask himself such questions any longer. I’m lucky that I still have a best friend. Even as doubts are coursing through my brain, I know that’s the

most important thing now, and when I go to visit Yunhee the next morning I’m so happy that you’d never guess I had a care in the world. She’s lying in bed with her head raised slightly, looking stronger than when I saw her two days ago. Chas is sitting next to her, his hands still bandaged. “Hey,” he says happily when he sees me. He jumps from his chair and throws his arms around me in a quick hug. We bonded over that day and night spent waiting for news of Yunhee and I guess even if I didn’t see him for five years I’d still, upon bumping into him on a Toronto street, feel as if we were friends. After Chas and I let go, I edge by him and kiss Yunhee on the cheek. “How’s the patient today?” I ask her. Yunhee frowns, looking like a little girl again. “They say I haven’t been getting up and walking enough. The nurse is going to come back in an hour to take me. I’m kind of dreading it.” “But other than that she’s doing pretty well,” Chas says, looking from me to Yunhee. “Right?” “I’m starting to hate fucking Jell-O,” she says. “Dyed gelatin is not food.” Chas smiles tenderly. “Yeah, okay, well, she’s a little cranky today.” He pulls the second chair closer to Yunhee’s bed and motions for me to sit in the first.

“I would be too,” I say. “Hospitals suck.” “They’re actually pretty good here,” Yunhee tells us. “I just suck at being a patient.” Her eyebrows rise as her frown begins to disappear. “Never mind, you have stuff you have to tell me. I can’t remember the guy’s name—I was still pretty out of it when you were here last.” “It’s Liam,” I say, conscious of Chas next to me. “He’s Irish.” “Irish?” Yunhee repeats. “Like IrishCanadian or Irish-Irish?” “Irish like he has an accent, prefers tea to coffee and has spent his whole life in Dublin.” I’m not going any further down this road with Chas sitting next to me and I point to the empty bed next to Yunhee’s and say, “Hey, what happened to your neighbor?” Yunhee glances at the empty bed too. “They discharged her this morning. I’m sure they’ll probably have someone else to fill the bed any second now.” “And where’s your mom today? Is she staying with Vishaya in your apartment?” “Yeah. My sister and my dad had to go back to Ottawa but my mom’s there. She said she had a couple of things she wanted to do today before she came into the hospital. Vishaya’s been great. I had to get her to do a

sweep of my room and remove any incriminating evidence before my mom arrived, which is slightly ridiculous considering that I’m twenty.” Chas smiles and adds, “But still preferable to her finding anything.” The three of us talk a bit about Mr. and Mrs. Kang’s reaction to Chas. As far as they know he and Yunhee are just friends, but Chas says he feels like there’s an undercurrent of awkwardness whenever he’s around them. He thinks they suspect and disapprove. Then a woman comes by to drop off more Jell-O for Yunhee and she glowers at it as though it’s a serving of rancid eggs wrapped neatly in plastic. Chas says he better get going because he has a class but that he hopes Yunhee at least tries to eat her Jell-O. He kisses her on the head and says he’ll call her tomorrow and be back for a visit the day after that. With the two of us alone in the room, Yunhee levels a solemn look at me and says, “Okay, he’s gone. Tell me what’s going on with Liam before the nurse comes to take me for a walk.” I disclose nearly everything (omitting the sexual details but not the wheres and whens of their occurrence), beginning with the day I hurt my ankle and ending with this past Saturday night. The disapproval in Yunhee’s eyes when I

admit we didn’t use a condom the first time makes me drop my gaze and say, “Dumb, believe me, I know.” But I assure her that I went for the emergency contraception pill the very next morning and won’t make the same mistake twice. The guilt is trickier to deal with and I confess that too, laying my heart bare about the depth of my confusion until Yunhee interrupts and says all the things I knew she’d say but still can’t entirely bring myself to believe—that aside from Bastien, and maybe my parents, she knows me better than anyone and that I was torn apart by Bastien’s death to the point that I couldn’t function for months, so I shouldn’t for a minute believe that physically being with someone else diminishes my love for Bastien; it only means I’m human. “That sounds good when you say it,” I tell her, “but inside I can’t stop feeling like I’m wrong to sleep with Liam, like I’m being weak, like I’m cheating.” I ball my hands in my lap and stare at the red and yellow blanket folded across the edge of Yunhee’s bed. “And that all those months I spent barely leaving our apartment and then his aunt’s house must have been, on a certain level, a kind of self-indulgent faking because otherwise, how could I feel so empty without Bastien and still want to be with

someone else? Both those things can’t be true.” Yunhee sighs, a pensive smile forming on her lips. “I think they can. Anyway, you said you’re supposed to see Liam again on Wednesday, so it doesn’t sound like you’re planning to stop this thing. Why torture yourself? It’s like you’re trying to have it both ways, like you think you can be emotionally faithful if you’re beating yourself up about having sex with another guy.” Yunhee frowns at the red Jell-O on the tray table in front of her and reluctantly clasps her spoon. “The red is the grossest. I could’ve sworn I checked juice instead of Jell-O on the menu.” That’s a problem that I have a chance of solving and I say, “So what would you like? Juice?” “Or some other kind of Jell-O. Anything other than red, I could handle.” I pick up the Jell-O and tell her I’ll be back in a minute. In the hallway I head for the nursing station with the Jell-O in my hand and explain the situation to a harried looking nurse who says she’ll call the diet kitchen and have them send a replacement to Yunhee’s room. When I get back Yunhee’s eyes are shut and as I sit down next to her she opens them and says, “Don’t go yet. I’m still awake, I just get tired.”

“I can sit here while you’re sleeping,” I offer. “No, I’ll sleep after I walk, but listen, promise me you’ll stop thinking this thing with Liam makes you a bad person.” I tell her I’ll work on it and then she adds, very gingerly, “The only thing you should worry about is whether you’re okay with this. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, but now that you’re getting it together you don’t want to let yourself get too attached to someone who’s not looking to get attached, right?” “My head’s nowhere near there yet,” I assure her. “I mean, I like him but I think knowing this is short-term makes it easier rather than harder.” “Like dipping your foot into the water before you jump into a pool,” Yunhee notes. “You know, one of the weirdest things about what happened to Chas and me is that now he keeps acting like we’re serious. Before you showed up today he was asking if I thought my parents would let him stay with us if he comes to visit me in Ottawa.” “What did you tell him?” I ask. “I said that I didn’t think my parents would even be cool with putting him in the spare room, that we’re probably better off waiting until I’m back to see each other.” She pauses as the same

woman who delivered the Jell-O earlier saunters in with a container of grape gelatin to replace the red Yunhee’s grown sick of. “Thanks,” Yunhee says to the woman before turning her attention back to me. “He didn’t really look happy about that, but it’s not something I can put much energy into worrying about now.” “You need to concentrate on getting better,” I agree. Yunhee’s swallowing the last of her Jell-O when a nurse coasts into the room, announcing that it’s time for her walk. I say goodbye to Yunhee and tell her I’ll be back for another visit soon. “Keep me posted on the important stuff,” she says, reciting the phone number to her room. I take the train back to Oakville and walk over to the pet supply store near the Shoppers Drug Mart to buy hamster food and fresh bedding for Armstrong. The larger packages are more economical but also more difficult to lug home without a car. I pick the jumbo packs anyway; I walk constantly and therefore can’t be entirely out of shape, but I could stand to build up the muscles in my arms. Since Yunhee got out of ICU I feel like almost anything’s possible. Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. It seems that nearly losing Yunhee has either changed Chas’s feelings, or revealed to

him what they truly are. Once she’s recovered and come back to Toronto, things could change for them. Or not. Regardless, Yunhee will return to school and work hard to catch up on assignments and essays. I’d be more than a year behind if I enrolled for next fall but I could catch up a little too, maybe take a couple of summer classes starting next May. Maybe… Could I do that and still live in Abigail’s house? Would that be too much to ask of her? Abigail calls later in the day, as though she can sense that I’ve been thinking of her, but I still need more time to sift through things in my mind—at least until after Christmas—and mention nothing about school. “I’ve called a few times recently but you either haven’t been home or haven’t been able to the come to the phone,” Abigail says in careful tone. I don’t want her to think I’ve been relapsing and quickly explain about Yunhee being in hospital and the scare it’s given me. “And so I’ve spent some days sleeping downtown in her apartment too,” I add, “so that I wouldn’t have to come all the way back here in between hospital visits.” I’ve been too busy concentrating on Yunhee this past week to think about Abigail much, but now that I’m talking to her it instantly becomes clear that I can’t tell her about Liam. Even if she had no connection to Bastien I

don’t think she’d understand any kind of romantic relationship that involves being picked up at eleven-thirty at night and dropped off again two to three hours later. But as the aunt of the boy I loved, who has allowed me to stay in her home and given me the time and space to try to put my life back together, confiding that there’s someone else—even someone who in the scheme of things doesn’t matter—is plainly impossible. Abigail’s going to be back in Oakville from November fifteenth to the twenty-seventh, which will make hiding the truth difficult, but with Liam’s play closing on December third, and with him presumably leaving town shortly afterwards, I can’t afford to take a twelve-day break. I’ll have to be stealthy; I don’t like the thought of that, but it’s still not enough to make me stop. When it comes to Liam I’ve obviously decided on a course of action. Our time together will be brief and I’ll take advantage of it while I can. There aren’t many Liams walking around unattached out there; it will probably be a very long time before I get involved with anyone, physically or otherwise, again. There may be some truth to the cliché “Timing is everything” but Liam and I certainly aren’t proof of it. If I’d met him during the summer I might have sat down at his table, had

it contained the last empty seat in The Cunning Café, but I would have promptly shut down any attempt to engage me in conversation. And had Liam happened to ask me if I wanted to get something to eat back in July or August, I would have said no thank you and then walked home to the television. But that’s far from the whole story. If some other guy asked me, like Liam did after work one day in mid-October, to go to The Rose and Crown with him for dinner, I most likely would have turned him down flat. And in the unlikely event that I agreed to dinner, dinner would have remained just dinner. I wouldn’t have asked him to walk down to the pier with me. Wouldn’t have seduced him by the lighthouse, written a note of apology for leaving his apartment so quickly, asked him to stay the night with me while Yunhee was in ICU, called him later the very same day and asked if we could get together again, slept with him two more times and still want to sleep with him now. The truth is, I adjusted my timing for Liam. I wouldn’t be ready for most other guys now. I’m not ready for Liam either but I can’t stop wanting him. By eleven o’clock on Wednesday night my anticipation’s soared to a fevered pitch and when Liam rings the doorbell at eleven twenty-five I have to stop myself from answering

too quickly. He kisses me on the doorstep and I cast a paranoid glance at Marta and Deirdre’s house. If they saw us, would they say something to Abigail? Inside Liam’s car, he puts his hand on my knee and asks, “Still nervous?” “No. I’m fine.” I smile. “How about you? How are you doing?” Liam returns my grin but twists his left hand around to his lower back. “Distinctly not nervous but my back’s been aching on and off. There was a moment, not far into the play, when I was talking to my alter-ego that it really twinged, and I think for a couple of seconds you could probably see it in my face and posture.” “Have you had trouble with your back before?” I ask. “Not a bother until today,” he says. “It’s probably just the way I slept last night.” “Or you’re hinting for a back rub.” “Would that work?” he asks, smile growing. Back at his apartment he stretches out shirtless, face down on the couch and I massage his back, all the way from his shoulder blades down to halfway inside his black boxer shorts; then I get him to roll over and massage his chest and finally his cock. At its full size I slip a

condom over it and ride him until we’re sweaty and spent and my voice is hoarse from gasping. Stretched out together afterwards, we talk, ever more mellow and quietly, about things that have happened since we saw last each other, and I confide that I’m thinking of taking some courses in May, to prepare to go back to school next fall. “That sounds like a good idea,” Liam says, his hand on my naked hip. “I haven’t been able to concentrate at all until recently so I don’t know…it could be a big step. When I dropped out in the spring I’d failed more courses than I’d passed. All that information to process from lectures—all the reading and essays—it’ll be a major adjustment.” “But May’s still six months away,” Liam points out. “And you have to give it a chance at some point. The shop’s all right for now, but in the long run you’ll need more of an intellectual challenge.” Liam says he wishes that he’d never dropped out, that he loves acting but he’d like to have the degree to his name too and that he shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to get out of school. “I hear if you get famous enough they just hand you a degree anyway,” I joke. And soon we’re so still, silent and peaceful that we’re dropping off to sleep, just like that

night on my couch when we drifted off in front of the television. I feel guilty when I wake up in his arms later, but it’s just like all the guilt that came before it, not enough to alter my actions. When I roll over to face Liam, who I thought was still sleeping, he surprises me by laying one of his hands against the small of my back. I wonder if he’s about to suggest that he should drive me home or whether he’s expecting me to say it, and when neither of us do—and instead only lie there blinking slowly at each other—he finally breaks the spell by saying, “I’m going to jump in the shower. You’re welcome to join me.” Being with Liam feels like a constant state of semi-arousal in the first place, and in the shower, with his soapy hands tracing my curves, my fever’s back full force. Because the shower stall is so small and we need to stop for condoms anyway, we end up against the bathroom counter, soaking wet, staring at our reflections as he thrusts inside me. Seeing how much Liam enjoys watching us turns me on even more and I spread my legs wide for him and tell him he can go harder. Then he’s grabbing a handful of my hair, his other hand kneading my ass as he pushes inside me with the same ferocity that he used the night on the pier. It hurt then and doesn’t now. My body’s greedy for him,

ravenous. I can’t imagine how I’ll ever wean myself away from wanting this. And when Liam asks if I’m all right, and whether I’m getting close, the answer to both questions is yes.

Twenty-One On Thursday morning I finally remember to book my dental appointment to get a crown made. It will actually be two appointments, the secretary informs me, because once a mold of my mouth is taken, the dentist will forward it to the lab to have a crown constructed. After I get off the phone I walk to the fruit market in downtown Oakville and buy fresh fruit and vegetables, bread, pasta and a variety of sauces, including the creamy mushroom one that Deirdre put on the capellini the night she and Marta had me over for dinner. In the early afternoon I return to the hospital to visit Yunhee. She had a slight fever on Tuesday night and her mother wanted to give her a chance to rest, uninterrupted by visitors, on Wednesday, but now her temperature is back to normal. Because Yunhee’s mother is present for the duration of my visit, we can’t talk about Liam or Chas and mainly discuss Yunhee’s recovery process. She’s been walking more and eating small amounts of solid food, but in a few days will likely be healthy enough to be released. However, Mrs. Kang says the surgeon doesn’t want Yunhee returning to Ottawa right away so

Vishaya will have two roommates for a while, until the surgeon clears Yunhee to travel. I make it back to the hospital to visit her one more time before she’s released on Sunday, and during the following week and a half I slip into a pattern of dropping by Yunhee’s apartment every few days and meeting with Liam with similar regularity. In between visits I put in my regular shifts at O’Keefe’s and dedicate myself to working on Johnny Yang. I’ve decided that no matter what happens I’m going to finish it in a way that Bastien would have wanted. First that means getting the story down in writing, and once that’s as succinct and eloquent as I can possibly ever make it I’ll need to find an artist— most likely an art student—to draw ten sample pages, in a style compatible with Bastien’s Johnny Yang sketches, to send out to graphic novel publishers. Bastien’s often on my mind. I haven’t give him up, but I’ve had to make room for Liam—not as much room as if we were having a real relationship, but between the two of them it’s enough to make my head feel crowded when I allow myself to think about it. When we see each other on a weekday, Liam stands on my doorstep shortly before midnight and then drives me directly back to his apartment, but if we meet after I finish at

O’Keefe’s on Sundays we drop into The Rose and Crown together for dinner and drinks first. One time Liam fries me a cheddar and chive omelet at one-thirty in the morning as we discuss the latest disastrous oil spill and, more generally, the havoc being wreaked by environmental change— extreme weather and disappearing species. I find out Liam’s first serious girlfriend, at seventeen, was a dyed-in-the-wool environmentalist who now runs an Irish environmental association, and I tell him about my old friend Iliana, who I believe will one day accomplish important things. Liam bought a Wii when he came over at the end of August for Philadelphia, Here I Come rehearsals and sometimes we play FIFA together. I don’t know much about soccer and when he’s easily beaten me a few times I convince him to switch to Wakeboarding and later Baseball, so I can win a few games myself. He doesn’t mind losing but he learns fast. There’s one night, when we’re lying in his bed after sex, listening to a thunderstorm rage outside, that I ask him why he changed his mind about us seeing each other and he says, “I’d made up my mind that it was a bad idea, all things considered—my recent track record, the state you were in after losing your boyfriend and the limited time I had left here—and then I heard

for definite that they were extending the run of the play and I couldn’t resist.” He props his head up with one elbow and stares down at me. “You’re incredibly sexy but you were so sad the first few times I saw you too. I don’t know…” His other hand reaches for mine. “Was I wrong to ask you to ring me? Sometimes I think I should’ve left you alone. I don’t want this to throw either of us off.” “You weren’t wrong,” I say. “No one’s being thrown off.” I haven’t forgotten what he said two weeks earlier, that he didn’t want another source of confusion. “This is like a vacation from real life.” “It feels like that,” he agrees. “And that’s what you wanted your time over here to be, isn’t it?” I let go of his hand and rest my head on his chest. “My sister refers to it as a self-imposed banishment,” he says lightly. “She tried to convince me to stay in Ireland and wait for the shit to blow over, but if I had stayed I don’t think it would’ve gone anywhere. I was too angry to let it go.” The levity’s disappeared from his voice but he keeps going. “And with the people who were part of the problem so close by it seemed almost impossible to break free of that mindset.” “Do you think you’re freer now?” I ask. I want us to be able to talk honestly, but I don’t

want to get too close to the bone for his comfort. Liam winds his fingers into my hair. “From here I feel that way but I think the toxic frame of mind could easily rocket back if I have to return to Ireland too soon. And it’s still too soon. No matter what happens with the contract—which my agent seems to be having some luck with—I need to be in Dublin for Christmas, to spend it with my family. I can cope with that for a fortnight or so, but the thought of being back on the set of Six West with the bloke who was having an affair with my fiancée…I’ll lose the head again. It’s still too fresh.” I suppose Liam’s entanglements with the other women I read about online are meaningless in comparison to his fiancée’s betrayal. She—and what she did to him—is obviously what he doesn’t want to be reminded of when he’s back home and I say, “I hope your agent works through the red tape soon so you can put that behind you, and relocate to London and concentrate on your career like you want.” I can hear Liam’s heartbeat under my ear, a steady thump. “I’m nervous about going home too, even though it’s just for Christmas.” I explain what the weight of my parents’ worries will feel like at close range and how hard it will be to see Bastien’s family again. I don’t add that my current involvement with Liam will only make

the latter more difficult. “Was your boyfriend close with his family?” Liam asks. “Medium-close, I guess. Same as I am with mine. I used to think his mother didn’t like me, but she just takes awhile to warm up to people. I’m closest to his aunt Abigail. She…” I pause, fitting the tip of my tongue against the back of my top teeth; I don’t want to talk about Bastien or his family anymore. It feels private, like something Liam shouldn’t know. “She’s the one I’m staying with, the one I pointed out in the family photo.” “Will she be there at Christmas?” Liam asks. “Maybe that will help.” It might, if I weren’t doing this behind her back too. I begin to change topics but with Abigail’s arrival only days away (a fact I’ve brought up before but didn’t highlight the significance of previously) I’m forced to level with Liam and warn that we’ll have to make other arrangements to see each other while she’s in town. He’s unhappy to hear it and says the thought of sneaking around makes our involvement seem wrong. “Maybe we should put things on hold until she leaves,” he suggests. My heart sinks. “She’s not going until the twenty-seventh. That would only leave us a week

afterwards.” I know this thing with Liam has a set end date, but I can’t stand the thought of subtracting twelve days from what’s already an extremely short amount of remaining time. I pull away from him on the bed so that I can see into his eyes. “Are you okay with that?” Liam sits up next to me, scratching the back of his neck and then folding his arms across his knees, over the blankets. “I don’t have to be back in Dublin until closer to Christmas. I could stay another couple of weeks. It would help keep me out of trouble back home too.” “So is that what you want to do?” I ask. I still don’t particularly like the idea of skipping twelve days in a row, but having him around for an extra two weeks in December makes it sound less objectionable. “Not exactly,” he admits. “I like the idea of staying later into December, and ideally I’d still like to continue seeing you until then, but if that’s going to be–” “We can see each other while she’s here,” I interrupt. “I just don’t want to throw what we’re doing in her face by having you pull into her driveway at midnight. She’s done so much for me. How would it look if I’m suddenly…” I toss up my hand to motion to his naked body in bed next to mine. Liam sighs and clenches his jaw. He wanted

easy and this isn’t. “Look, you probably haven’t told anyone about me either, have you?” I ask. “We’re doing this quietly.” “Quietly isn’t the same as it being a secret,” Liam points out. “But you still don’t want people to know, do you? Otherwise why wouldn’t you say anything about me?” It’s not that I want him to broadcast the news to the world; I’m only trying to prove my point. “Because it’s my business and mine alone,” Liam says with an acidity that makes me flinch. “Because I’ve had enough of people raking over the details of my life as though they’re entitled to them because my job involves being on television.” I feel the color drain from my face as I say, “Then I don’t understand why you can’t sympathize with me wanting to keep some things from other people too.” Liam hangs his head and rubs his temples. “I do. But I also know what it feels like to be lied to.” He’s making me feel worse by the second and I flop onto my stomach, fold an arm under my head and stare at him with the one eye not obscured by the pillow underneath me. “You win,” I say. “And you make me feel like I

shouldn’t be here at all.” That I’m the one who’s lying and cheating. A profound sadness fills my chest. That feeling lived inside my bones every second of every day for months on end, but it still lurks, waiting to rise up and take me over. So much for no one being thrown off. Liam’s hand reaches for my shoulder and glides down my back, where it rests as he says, “Don’t say that. You know I want you here.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Leah. I’m dragging all the shit I was talking about earlier into this. I do understand why you wouldn’t want other people knowing exactly what you’re up to. We’ll sort something out, right?” I shut my eyes, wondering why it all has to be so complicated and what I even really want from this. It’s like what Liam said to me that time in the elevator about not wanting to talk me into something; I don’t want to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. And we’re only playing anyway so what can twelve days matter? Bastien’s the one I’ll never stop thinking about. But then Liam peels back the sheet. With deliberate slowness he leans over to drop delicate kisses on my shoulder and along my spine, like he’s forging a path he’s in no hurry to reach the end of. The kisses coast lower, between the folds of my skin, pausing there with his lips and tongue until I can’t hold the conversation—or

the sadness it sparked—in my head any longer. “You’re such a slut,” I joke in a throaty voice as he rolls me over. Liam laughs under his breath, his fingers parting my thighs. He stares up at me from between my legs with a look that makes me hold my breath. Then he lowers his mouth to me and makes me forget everything except what he’s doing. But by the time he takes me home over an hour later we have a plan. The two of us have grown accustomed to seeing each other at night, but there’s no reason we can’t shake things up a little. We decide to temporarily switch our meetings to afternoons, when I’ll be able to walk down to Liam’s apartment while Abigail’s occupied at work. Even if we see each other on a Sunday, after I’ve finished at O’Keefe’s, I’ll be sure to be home earlier than usual so as not to arouse suspicion. The alternate arrangements sound simple enough in theory, but when Abigail lumbers through the door on Monday morning with her suitcase and carry-on bag in tow, her toothy smile sends Liam’s words about knowing what it’s like to be lied to charging through my head. She releases her suitcase and hugs me. “You’re looking healthy,” she says approvingly. I’ve put on a few pounds since she was last here in

September and assume that’s what she’s referring to, but then she specifies, “Happier.” I carry her suitcase upstairs for her as she says, “You’ve sounded happier over the phone lately too, but it’s nice to see it in your face.” “I think being here has helped. And the job with Marta.” I haven’t said anything to Marta or Deirdre about keeping quiet about Liam. I’m counting on them either not having noticed or being their usual discreet selves. Warning them off the subject would make me feel like a complete lowlife. “She and Deirdre are good people,” Abigail says, leading the way to her bedroom, where I set her suitcase down in front of her closet. “I didn’t really get to know them until Alrick had passed away. He was wary of them. It was one of the few things that bothered me about him. He wasn’t a small-minded person in most ways. But with that one thing, he could never seem to understand.” Abigail sits on her bed, reaching around her neck to unclasp her necklace and fold it into the nearest drawer. “People are strange.” “Complicated,” I offer. It’s easier to fight my guilt when I’m actively being distracted by Liam; now that I’m the focal point of Abigail’s kind brown eyes I feel traitorous. And yet I know I loved Bastien. I’m really the only one who will ever know how much.

Other people might have an idea, but they don’t know, from the inside, how whole and safe it felt to go to sleep next to him every night and how during our best moments I felt as though we were halfway into each other’s heads, that the physical division between us was an illusion. No one will ever know any of that but us. “That’s a better word for it,” Abigail concedes. We talk about going out to dinner with Marta and Deirdre while she’s home and how, once Abigail flies back to Burnaby near the end of November, the next time we see each other will be in British Columbia at Christmas with the rest of Bastien’s family. Though it grows colder with each passing day it’s difficult to believe I’ll be home in less than six weeks. I’m not any more prepared for that than Liam is. In the meantime I try not to let my guilty feelings affect my interaction with Abigail. During her first few days home we probably talk as much as we spoke in an entire week the last time she was back in September. On Abigail’s second night in town I make chicken quesadillas and sticky buns for her and her friend Julie. When Julie compliments the sticky buns in particular, I imagine Bastien agreeing and lamenting how he misses them. Them and, of course, me. “Even though

you’re sleeping with another guy,” he says in my sleep later. With my eyes closed I can feel his body next to mine as real and solid as the bed underneath me. When I try to explain about me and Liam, my explanation becomes a mangled apology and then silence because what can I possibly have to say for myself? “It doesn’t matter, Leah,” Bastien whispers in my ear. “You gotta do what you gotta do.” Then he says, “I love you, sleepy girl. Don’t wake up yet.” I listen to Bastien and stay with him for as long as I possibly can. Before I lost him I wouldn’t have believed that it was possible to sense someone who has passed from this world so strongly in the present. Some nights there’s enough love and acceptance in my sleep to get me through days of sadness and longing. I don’t know what I would have done without that comfort in the beginning and I still cherish it now. I can’t define it. There’s no pinpointing whether it’s a memory, some kind of remnant or just the product of my imagination’s desire, but it, along with so many other people and things that have been on my side lately, gives me the peace of mind—once I do wake up—to walk towards Liam’s apartment feeling freer of self-

blame than I have done in weeks.

Twenty-Two Being with Liam in the daylight on Wednesday afternoon feels different. Realer. Things you do late at night, while everyone else is sleeping, could easily be a dream. Daylight doesn’t seem quiet, secretive or easily dismissed. In the daylight we hear people talking as they wander by on the sidewalk, not far beneath Liam’s window, birds chirping and skateboards whizzing by. If it were summer, his apartment’s proximity to the square would mean a continual stream of activity from morning to night, but November’s descent into winter makes the days short and chilly. Pedestrians become scarcer. “Is this similar to what it’s like in Dublin at this time of year?” I ask Liam. “Gray and cold,” he confirms. “Dark by half-four. Generally miserable.” He smiles magnetically, his blue eyes dazzling in the natural light. “It drives us to drink and all sorts of other vices.” I kiss Liam’s neck and tell him I heartily approve of some of his vices. His knuckles graze my left breast through my fitted black shirt as he says, “I’ve noticed that about you. It’s one of the reasons I’m staying later into December.”

But we actually spend less time naked than we do playing videogames and as four o’clock nears Liam says he’s not in a hurry to get rid of me but that if possible he likes to have some time on his own before performances and hopes I understand. “How’s Saturday around one?” he asks as we stand by the door ten minutes later. “I have to be in work at three. Can we make it a little earlier?” I’ll need to shower and dry my hair before arriving at O’Keefe’s afterwards. That won’t leave us much time. We settle on noon and I’m reaching for the doorknob when Liam says, “Wait. I almost forgot.” He heads for the bedroom, disappearing behind the door and emerging again with a small box in his hands. Liam passes it to me and says, “I’ve paid for six months in advance.” I stare down at the box in my right hand, realizing it’s a new cell phone, still in its packaging. “It’ll make it easier if we have to change plans sometime,” he continues. “And I reckon you should have one anyway, since it’s dark when you’re walking home from work.” My throat shrinks. I’ve been allowing Liam to pay for me when we go to The Rose and Crown because he has more money than I do, but it feels strange to take anything else from him. He’s not my boyfriend, just a guy. “Thanks,” I say, before

the delay in response can become noteworthy. “You didn’t need to do that.” I’ll have the phone long after he’s gone. I’ll think of him when I look at it, miss him. And I don’t want to miss anyone else, but I guess it’s already too late for that. “I know, I’m just thoughtful like that,” Liam jokes with a cocky grin. “Yeah, well, it’s a shame about the rest of your personality,” I kid back, not missing a beat. Laughter escapes from between Liam’s lips. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not here for my personality then.” He hooks two of his fingers down the front of my jeans and tugs me towards him to kiss him goodbye. I walk home with my new phone, the trees bare and a threat of snow flurries in the air, and have only been back at Abigail’s ten minutes when Yunhee calls on the landline to say that she had her appointment with her surgeon at the Toronto General Hospital earlier and he’s given her the thumbs up to travel to Ottawa. “My mom’s renting a car to drive up and the two of us will be leaving Friday morning, so I was hoping you could drop by here tomorrow,” she says. The surgeon’s signed a form for the school, giving Yunhee a recovery time of three months from the date of her release from the hospital.

Tomorrow will be my last opportunity to see her until the end of January. I’ll sorely miss having her in my life for the next couple of months but at least I know she’ll be back, and now, thanks to Liam, the two of us will be able to text in the meantime. On Thursday I take the train to Toronto to say goodbye to Yunhee. Vishaya’s in class and Katie’s coming over to visit after her own classes are finished for the day. With me around to help Yunhee with anything she needs this afternoon, Mrs. Kang takes the opportunity to step out and pick up a few things for their trip to Ottawa tomorrow. Yunhee looks healthy but moves cautiously, like she expects it to hurt. She’s supposed to be up and walking around a little but not overdo it, which she says is a hard balance to find. “I’m freaked out by how behind I’m going to be in my classes when I can come back at the end of January,” she tells me as we sit on her couch together with the bubble teas I bought us at the train station. “It’ll be rough but I guess the work load will be practice for law school.” “That’s one way to think of it, but who wants that kind of practice?” Yunhee says. “You know, they still haven’t found the guy who did this, but I dream about him sometimes. Really

awful stuff. I have dreams where”—she taps her fingernails against her plastic cup, her expression grim—“Chas dies, or other bad dreams, like people chasing me. Not even him, but people whose faces I can’t make out in the dark. I haven’t said anything to my mother about it, but I wonder…I don’t know…if I’ll need some kind of post-traumatic stress counseling when I come back.” Yunhee pensively sips her tea. “I don’t want to be the kind of person who panics every time someone stands behind them on a subway platform. I don’t want this to change me.” Everything changes us. “They do counseling at school,” I say, knowing that she’s already aware of this. “You can go when you’re back if you think it will help.” Yunhee nods. “I’ll see how it goes. I hate that there’s no way to get through this recovery quickly. I feel weak and restless at the same time.” I swallow a mouthful of bubble tea and stare at the friend I’m already missing. “When you get back, whatever you need, promise me you’ll just let me know. I’ve been a bad friend. You were there for me, as much as I’d let anyone be, after Bastien died and I want you to know things are going to be different when you get back.” “Different in a lot of ways.” Yunhee blinks,

the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “Thanks, Leah. I’m glad we’ll be able to hang out more when I’m back. But you were never a bad friend; I just didn’t want you to cut me off.” Maybe I wasn’t actively a bad friend, but I was an absent one. Given how empty I felt for so long I don’t see how things could’ve been any different. All I can do now is try to make up for it, and I unzip my purse, pull out my cell phone and say, “Look what I’ve got! We can text each other while you’re in Ottawa.” “Seriously?” Yunhee’s eyes light up. “You’re no longer incommunicado? Next thing you know you’re going to tell me you’re back online.” “Hey, don’t rush me!” I crack. “The cell’s a big step.” I explain how it came to be in my possession and Yunhee asks, “How’s that going with Liam anyway? Are you getting your rocks off on a regular basis?” “You could say that, yeah.” My grin must reflect my enthusiasm because it inspires Yunhee to say, “It’ll be months before I can have sex again. It’s hard to remember what it would even feel like to want to. But Chas has been dropping by a couple of times a week anyway, just to hang out. I think he’s starting to wear my mother’s innate

disapproval down.” Yunhee plays with her straw. “Hey, are you going to see Liam’s play or what?” I shake my head. “He hasn’t asked me. We’re not tight like that.” “But aren’t you curious? I’d be dying to know whether he was any good. As an actor, I mean.” “Not really.” I don’t doubt that Liam’s talented but I haven’t let myself wonder about the play in any detail. It doesn’t make sense to think about things that will only make it more difficult to say goodbye to him in December. As it is, I already look forward to seeing him too much. “I’m trying to keep this thing contained, you know? Like how we talked before about not letting myself become attached.” “Smart,” Yunhee declares. It would be. If I could actually do it. I tell Yunhee that I’m thinking of taking summer classes, to find out whether I’m ready for the real thing, and that if it works out I’ll probably be back at school with her next September. “That would be awesome!” Yunhee exclaims. “We can revive noodle night.” “I would love that! I had the exact same thought.” And maybe we don’t have to wait. I’m hoping we can start getting together regularly, in the spring once Yunhee’s caught up on her

course work, for noodles or whatever else she wants to do. Soon Katie arrives fresh from humanities class and I make us all instant coffees. We’re finishing them up when Vishaya and Mrs. Kang return within ten minutes of each other. Mrs. Kang greets us cheerfully before commenting that Yunhee looks tired and should rest, because tomorrow will be a long day for her. These days I’m always careful when I hug Yunhee goodbye and today is no exception, but I hold on to her a little longer than usual. “Text me tonight,” she says when I let go. “I want that cell number from you.” “I need it to,” Katie adds. “We should get together soon.” “We will,” I promise, and I text them both from Abigail’s house that night to prove what I’ve already told Yunhee, that things are going to be different now. Return messages shoot back from Yunhee and Katie within an hour and I’m so happy to be back in touch with my friends on a regular basis, and aware of how Liam’s helped to make that easier, that the next day at work I spontaneously buy a package each of Bourbon Cream cookies and Barry’s Tea for him as a kind of thank-you. However, on Saturday morning I lose my nerve and decide giving him the tea and cookies is too

much of a girlfriend thing to do. I leave them at home when I walk down to his apartment, relieved I had a chance to catch myself before I went overboard. Liam has a scowl on his face from the moment he opens the door for me, and when I ask him what’s wrong he replies, “Nothing. I’m just tired.” The soles of my shoes are wet from a puddle I encountered along the way and I slip them off and push them close to the wall so neither of us will trip over them. “For an actor you’re not very convincing,” I declare. Liam rolls his eyes like he’s ten instead of twenty-six and I’m glad I didn’t bring the tea or cookies. He looks every bit as mesmerizing as the last time I saw him, but prickly vibes dangle from his person like chainmail made of thistles. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask as we move towards the living room. Liam taps one of his fingers to his lips as he drops onto the couch. “Yesterday just before the play I had some not entirely good news and some not entirely bad news.” He clams up at the point where I’m hoping he’ll reveal what both those things are. “About the show?” I venture, sitting down next to him. “Yeah, that’s part of it.” He sighs and

drums his fingers against his thigh. “If I come back for January and February they’ll let me out of the contract early.” “So, basically you have to go back to shooting right after Christmas?” I sum up, not sure whether that’s the good or bad news. Liam nods, his face taut. “They want a chance to wrap up my storyline properly. Two months but then I’m free.” Liam’s right hand cups my left knee. His eyes are tense and plead for understanding. “The other part involves you and I thought about keeping you in the dark, because you’d probably never know, and really, I don’t think it’s going to break in any bigger way, so it should—” “Break?” I cut in. “Liam, what are you talking about?” “Right, well…” Liam glances at the window and then over at me again, his eyes resolute. “There’s a photo of us together on an Irish gossip website. They don’t mention your name so obviously they don’t know who you are, but it’s there and I thought you should know.” “A photo?” I croak. “Where was it taken?” “It looks like it was snapped at the pub with someone’s mobile.” Liam’s hand grips my leg more firmly. “Are you okay? Honestly, nothing’s going to come of it as far as you’re concerned. It must have taken by someone over

here on holiday. No one outside of Ireland would give two shites about it. No one over here would probably even be on that website in the first place.” I stare at Liam’s face, feeling dizzy as I watch him beam reassurance at me. All it takes is one person to catch sight of the photo and decide to forward the link to a member of Bastien’s family. I don’t want to think about what that would do that to them. Hurting them is like hurting Bastien. Even if he’d understand, would they? “Can I see it?” I ask, my voice scissorsharp. “There’s no real point,” Liam tells me. “Trust me, we’re not doing anything incriminating in the photo. It doesn’t prove we’re involved. Whoever took it was obviously just trying to fan the flames of what’s already been printed about me in the press.” I level a decisive look at him and Liam bobs his head in defeat and says, “Okay. Let me get my laptop.” In two minutes he’s back in the living room, balancing his laptop on my thighs and opening the lid to reveal a somewhat grainy picture of us in The Rose and Crown. We’re standing between two tables, a poster of Winston Churchill behind us, Churchill’s finger pointing authoritatively at the viewer and the caption

declaring: Deserve Victory. Liam’s hand is on my waist, his ear bent to hear whatever I’m saying into it. Maybe it doesn’t prove that we’re involved, but we certainly look close, comfortable. There’s a brief article next to our photo which begins: Six West star Liam Kellehan obviously hasn’t wasted any time making new ‘friends’ in Canada. In Toronto to star in a production of the Brian Friel play Philadelphia, Here I Come and to escape the scrutiny brought on by his fiancée’s affair and a string of his own raunchy relationships and bad behavior, Kellehan was recently spotted in a pub 30 kilometers west of Toronto cozying up to a dark-haired beauty presumed to be a local girl.

The remainder of the article is essentially a recap of what I read in The Evening Herald in October and as I’m scanning the page in front of me Liam says, “You see, they don’t know who you are and the rest of it is pure speculation.” My eyes return to our picture. It’s not crystal clear but there’s no denying it’s me in the photograph. I’m smiling at Liam, completely oblivious to whoever was pointing their cell

phone or camera at us. I can’t imagine how they got so close without either of us noticing; I suppose people have their cell phones out so often that they seem inconspicuous, even when they shouldn’t be. All those up-skirt pictures on the Internet show how easy it is to be devious. “It’s creepy that someone would do this,” I say. “It’s not right.” “No, it’s not,” Liam agrees as I shut his laptop and give it back to him. “But try not to let it bother you. I guarantee no one you know will see it.” I hope he’s right. This would be a terrible way for Abigail or Bastien’s mother to find out. They could easily be excused for believing, upon seeing that photo and article, that I’ve been using Abigail. “How come you’re not more upset?” I ask. Considering the vitriol with which he’s spoken about the press before he seems remarkably composed. Liam sets his laptop on the coffee table across from us. “I was yesterday. I don’t appreciate the invasion of privacy, but it’s nothing new at this stage and I’ve had much worse things said about me. I was more worried about how you’d take it—I know it’s important to you that word doesn’t get out.” “But you don’t think it will?” That’s my

only hope now. “I really don’t,” Liam assures me. “I wouldn’t have known about it myself, except that my agent told me. Someone over here would have to go looking for the photo, already knowing it existed, and that’s just not likely to happen.” The frown’s set so deep in my face that I can’t pull myself out of it, and Liam gets up and says, “C’mon, no moping. Let’s go out and take your mind off it.” “Go out? How can we go out? You know Abigail works in Oakville, not that far away. And what about this person who took the photo? How do we know he or she isn’t still out there, hoping to find us and snap another one?” “If I catch anyone at it I’ll smash their mobile to bits.” Liam holds out his hand for me. “But if it makes you feel better, we’ll get out of town. Do you like sushi? I was at a good place in Mississauga with a friend last week.” “Not so much,” I admit. People are aghast when you say you don’t like sushi but I can never get past the consistency. “But I like tonkatsu and miso soup.” I take Liam’s outstretched hand and get to my feet. We drive over to the Japanese restaurant he was talking about. The journey only takes fifteen minutes but still won’t allow

time for anything other than lunch. Since I’m not in a very sexual mood anyway that doesn’t bother me. I feel the way Liam looked when he opened the door for me earlier. In the present he tries to cheer me up and makes me sample his sushi. I dunk a piece in soy sauce and pop it into my mouth, but it tastes just as unappetizing as every other piece of sushi I’ve ever tried. I chase it down with cold Japanese beer and say, “Nope, I still don’t get the appeal. It’s just…slimy and cold and tastes like the insides of a fish tank.” Liam hits his palm to his head. “Ah, Leah, I can’t believe my ears! This is gorgeous stuff. How can you not enjoy it? Were you dropped on your head as a child?” I laugh despite my bad mood. “I don’t understand how you can force yourself to swallow more than a bite. It’s foul.” My pork cutlet, on the other hand, is exceptionally tasty and I feed Liam some to prove its superiority, but like so many other people, for reasons I can’t fathom, he’s hung up on the sushi. “You’re soft in the head,” he tells me, with a wide, disbelieving grin. “There’s no other explanation for it.” “That would account for some things, I guess,” I say lightly with a nod of my head. “Like what?” he wants to know.

“Bad decisions I’ve made.” I raise my eyebrows and smile, not wanting to delve into them any deeper. Now’s not the time to dissect them and he’s not the right person to dissect them with. “Like this, you mean?” Liam motions back and forth between us. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just complicated.” Liam’s hand reaches for his beer but he doesn’t raise it to his lips. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. This is just a minor glitch.” He picks up his bottle and drains it dry. “Unless you think it’s becoming too much for you?” “Don’t get started on that again,” I warn. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily—not until later in December.” “Fine with me,” Liam declares. There’s a dessert and coffee café next to our sushi place, which I happened to notice on the way in, and when I mention it to Liam near the end of the meal he insists we have time for dessert and should indulge ourselves. He gets Belgian waffles, and I have an ice cream sundae, and by the time we’re done I feel bloated and a little sick but in a much better frame of mind than when we left his apartment. Liam jokes that he should phone his private counterpoint (the other actor who plays

Gar) and tell him to have a couple cheeseburgers before he comes into the theater tonight so Liam himself won’t feel so flabby in comparison. I wrap my arms around his waist in the parking lot and assure him he has a long way to go before he hits flabby. He kisses me, the taste of waffles on his lips and the taste of ice cream on mine, and I realize we’ve just made things simple for anyone in the vicinity who might be hoping to snap a photo and post it online. But even with that thought weighing heavily on my mind, I don’t pull away from him; I haven’t had my fill of Liam for the day.

Twenty-Three I keep a low profile around the house after work later that night and on Sunday, but on Monday evening Abigail, Deirdre, Marta and I climb into Deirdre’s car and head for an Italian restaurant on Trafalgar Road. Since it’s nearby enough to reach on foot in under fifteen minutes we vowed that we would walk if it was a nice night, but it’s too late into November for there to be many pleasant nights left this year and snowflakes stick to our hair and coats as we stroll from the parking lot to the restaurant. I’m happy to be there with my three unofficial aunts, despite my fear of being found out. If I wasn’t living under Abigail’s roof I wouldn’t have this problem; no one would need to know my business. But it was having that kind of shelter that allowed me to reach a point where I didn’t automatically want to push everyone I encountered away. Now it seems one of the biggest signs of that recovery—letting Liam into my life—could signify that I should move on. Otherwise, would I be staying under false pretenses? The trouble is, I’ve grown fond of many of the aspects of my new life—working at O’Keefe’s,

having Marta and Deirdre next door, indulging myself with Liam. I haven’t even had my job for two months yet and don’t want to leave. There are over five months until summer classes begin. To uproot myself now wouldn’t make sense, especially when Liam—who will be gone in less than four weeks—drops out of the picture. I don’t know what to do. There’s no way I’d be able to afford to rent a place of my own in Oakville on what I make working at O’Keefe’s fifteen hours a week. The longer and harder I think on the problem the more confused I become. “Tired, Leah?” Deirdre asks from the seat across me as she wraps fettuccini around her fork. I’ve failed to keep up with the dinner conversation and I nod at the offered alibi. “Kind of. I’ve been working on the graphic novel I was telling you about late into the evenings.” This isn’t a lie; I’ve been diligent about Johnny Yang. I checked Scott McCloud’s book Making Comics—a book we studied in my Graphic Novel class but which I barely remember—out of the library last week and have been trying to soak up his wisdom about the form, making extensive notes on balancing words and pictures. Since I’m not artistic like Bastien those considerations aren’t something that come as naturally to me,

but I’m determined to learn. I’m planning to check out stacks of graphic novels from the library when I’m finished with the McCloud book. “Is there any chance you’d consider having a look at it once I’m done and letting me know what you think?” I ask. Deirdre and Marta are avid fiction readers. Even if they’re unfamiliar with graphic novels they’d be able to discern whether the storyline and writing are strong enough to approach an artist and then seek publication. “Sure, I’ll read through it for if you’d like,” Deirdre replies. “But if you’d like a professional opinion, I noticed in the Oakville library newsletter that there’s going to be a writer in residence at one of the branches for a few months starting in January.” I thank her for passing that info on and will be sure to meet up with the writer in residence in the new year. That gives me an extra push to have the text of Johnny Yang completed within the next couple of months. The four of us order a bottle of wine for the table, but I’ve offered to be the designated driver on the way home and only drink half a glass before switching to water. Abigail’s thinking of opening a third Bulla store in Montreal, as the ones in Vancouver and Oakville have proven so

successful. But opening another store would mean yet more time away from home and she’s not sure whether she wants more business travel in her life. “Now, more leisure travel would be a pleasure,” she declares. “I’d like to expand my horizons in that way. Fly off to some far-flung places I’ve never been, like Vienna or Brazil. But Bulla has been good to me and if it’s itching to expand, maybe I should follow it.” Deirdre, Marta and Abigail discuss the merits of relaxation vs. the benefits of career productivity. Mostly I listen. Like with anything else, it seems to be a matter of balance. One of my grandmother’s favorite sayings is, “Moderation in all things.” If she were here she would’ve quoted it already. Marta says she sometimes has the same problem as Abigail, albeit on a lesser scale, with O’Keefe’s. She never feels able to leave it for more than a few days at a time and therefore she and Deirdre haven’t been on a holiday longer than four days in three years. “I can watch the store for you if you want to go somewhere soon,” I offer immediately. Marta’s cheeks are rosy from the wine and she tilts her head in surprise. “You wouldn’t want to come in every day, would you? That’s too much for one person and I know you were

only looking to put in a few days a week.” “Well, yeah, but if you went away it would only be for a week or two, wouldn’t it?” Deirdre and Marta’s eyes meet. “That’s something to take into consideration,” Deirdre says cautiously. I’m no closer to figuring out what I should do about Abigail and my living arrangements, but helping Marta and Deirdre out seems simple and right. I set down my fork and confess, “This isn’t definite yet but I’ve been thinking about taking some summer courses at U of T in May. If that happens I’ll be busier in summer, but anytime beforehand I’d be happy to cover for you.” Abigail sips her red wine. “That might be your best opportunity,” she says, addressing her neighbors. “I’d pick up some travel brochures if I were you.” Abigail turns her head to smile at me and I know deep down that I won’t change a thing between now and the day of Liam’s departure. I won’t stop seeing him. I won’t confess to Abigail. I won’t move out. I intend to have things my way, whether it’s right or wrong. All I need to do is keep Liam a secret for the next four weeks. After that there won’t be anything left between us to keep under wraps. At the end of the night I drive the four of us home and then text Yunhee. The phone plan

Liam paid up front for the next six months includes unlimited free texting after five o’clock and Yunhee and I have been texting each other at least twice a day. Abigail raps at my bedroom door while I’m reading Yunhee’s reply and when I tell her to come in she stands just inside my doorway and says, “I didn’t want to make too much of it tonight at dinner and put you on the spot but I’m glad to hear you’re considering getting back to your studies.” I nod and confess, “If it goes well this summer I hope to return in the fall full-time.” I’ll have to meet with an academic advisor at the university first. I won’t be permitted to continue full-time unless they lift my academic probation status, and I’m not sure how likely that is, even if I ace my summer courses. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself—I know that’s still far off—but I think it could work, that I’ll be ready by then.” A thoughtful smile creeps across Abigail’s face. Armstrong’s speeding along inside his wheel like an astronaut in training and she glances over at him and remarks, “He’s a bundle of energy, isn’t he?” “He’s a maniac,” I declare, my voice bubbling with fondness for him. “If there was a way to hook him up to a generator we’d probably have all the free electricity we could ever need.”

Abigail chuckles. “Maybe that’s his special talent.” “Maybe.” I bob my head. “Abigail?” “Yes, honey?” I don’t know that she’s ever called me honey before but it makes what I want to say both harder and easier. “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” I twist my fingers together and breathe deeply. “I don’t think I’d be where I am now if it weren’t for you letting me stay here. In fact, I know I wouldn’t. And I know I’ve thanked you before, but I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you enough.” “You’re very welcome,” she says graciously. “And you just keep doing what you’re doing because it’s working for you. Bastien would be happy to see you coming back to yourself.” While the first thing she said makes my stomach drop, I know the latter thing to be true. I return Abigail’s smile and listen to her tell me goodnight. Seeing Bastien’s sensitivity and generosity in Abigail make me feel like he’s not entirely gone. Her voice is sweet and light, sugar and sunshine, and my smile and gratitude grow, despite my lingering fears about my secret being uncovered. ***

On Tuesday morning I go to the dentist to begin the process of having a crown made. In the evening I quote the price of the appointment to my parents so they can forward the dentist a check. They’re happier when they know Abigail’s in town with me and sound cheerful over the phone. Mom tells me she’s already started her Christmas shopping and that they’re planning to put the lights up on the weekend. My grandmother has been gossiping that my cousin Evan (the one with the twins) and his girlfriend Daisy are having relationship trouble. My mother says she has no idea whether that’s true but hopes not, for Carter and Clayton’s sake. I hope not too, but it does occur to me that some other drama would help keep the spotlight off me over Christmas. An hour after I get off the phone Liam texts me to make sure we’re still getting together tomorrow as planned, and early Wednesday afternoon I walk down to his apartment in full winter wear with his tea and cookies in my gloved hands, having reversed my previous decision. The ground’s slushy underfoot and the wind whips my face pink so that when I arrive at his door Liam cups my cheeks in his palms and says I should’ve let him pick me up. “I could’ve stuck a taxi sign to the top of the car,” he says

with a smile. “No one would’ve been the wiser.” I give Liam the Bourbon creams and tea. His eyes sparkle as he thanks me but neither of our minds are on food; it’s been a full week since we’ve had sex and we’re both hungry for it, barely reaching the living room before we begin undressing each other. Since Liam doesn’t shave until closer to the play he’s at his scratchiest in the afternoon, his face leaving friction marks wherever it comes into contact with my skin. As we lie on the couch together afterwards, he looks me up and down, remarking that it looks like he’s been rough on me. I remember him saying, the first night we were together, that he was teaching himself piano, and I tell him he can make it up to me by playing something. “Ah, that would only do more damage,” Liam insists. I stroke the inside of his wrist with my little finger. “Come on, you’re an actor—don’t tell me you have performance anxiety.” “Performance anxiety can be a sign of intelligence,” he says. “Seriously, I’ve only been messing around with it. I’ve never had a proper lesson in my life. I’ve just been looking at some online tutorials.” I make the mistake of saying, “If you play something for me—even something really short—

I’ll play something for you.” “I didn’t know you could play,” Liam says, looking interested. “I can’t really. I used to when I was young.” Two years’ worth of piano lessons when I was nine and ten, because my grandfather loves to play and convinced my parents that every child should learn an instrument. “I haven’t touched a piano in almost a decade.” “You’ll still look like Mozart in comparison to me. Go on.” Liam points in the direction of the piano. “You first,” I tell him. Liam shakes his head but gets up with his pants and shirt in his arms because he insists if he’s going to embarrass himself he’s not going to do it naked. Once he’s got his clothes back on he sits at the piano, pecking at the keys in true awkward beginner style. I think it’s a Coldplay song, although I’m not sure which one, and Liam gives me a look that asks whether I want him to continue embarrassing himself. “Okay, my turn,” I offer. Liam exhales relief and watches me pull my clothes on. We switch places and I cast my mind back ten years and begin to play “Au Clair de la Lune,” a song I learned in grade one piano. My fingers stumble and my timing’s off but I know I look a little more at home in front of the piano

than Liam did. “That wasn’t bad considering you haven’t played in ten years,” he says afterwards. “Why’d you stop playing?” I shrug. “I was ten. It seemed boring. I wouldn’t have minded just being able to play, but the practicing…” Liam’s eyeing me up again, the same way he did when my body was intertwined with his on the couch. When Bastien died I couldn’t imagine wanting anyone again, but it seems that Liam only has to look at me in a certain way and I begin to melt in the middle. I don’t know if it’s because of the piano performances or a build-up of frenzied desire from substituting sushi for sex the last time we saw each other, but soon we’re moving into the bedroom and doing something we’ve never done together before. Liam strokes the length of his cock while he watches me rub myself. My mind and skin burn for him as his hand moves up and down his shaft. He’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever seen and his eyes never leave me. They’re burning like the rest of him and I’m so close— just looking at him—to pushing myself over the edge, but somehow I instinctively know I’ll never get there like this. There’s a seed of selfconsciousness inside me that I can’t release. We’re too new together and we won’t ever have

the chance to be anything else. I tell Liam, in a voice on fire like the rest of me, that I need him inside me. He slips on a condom and runs two of his fingers over the hottest part of me, the folds between my legs. “You’re so wet,” he says wondrously. His cock pushes inside me and I wrap my legs around him, pushing back. Liam sucks on my nipples as we pound together. Neither of us last two minutes. Then we’re crying out, simultaneously letting go and grabbing for each other’s flesh. It’s always been good with us, except for aspects of that first time on the pier, but this is different. I feel close to him, like how we looked in the single existing photograph of us, and once I’ve caught my breath and am ready to speak, I lay my hand in the dip of Liam’s waist and say, with a quietness contrary to what we’ve just done, that I’m going to miss him. “Me too,” he says, rolling onto his side and trapping my left leg between his. The way the sunlight catches the improbable blueness of his eyes makes my chest ache. “It’s not going to be the same here without you,” I tell him. Liam’s head slides closer to mine so that we’re sharing the same pillow. “We still have

time,” he whispers. He raises himself up, leaning over me to kiss my lips. Then he tells me he plans to book his ticket home for December nineteenth—two and a half weeks after the play closes—and that if I want we can spend more time together once Abigail’s returned to British Columbia. I say that would be good, knowing that in the long run it won’t help me at all. But this was never about the long run. I ask Liam if he’s going to miss the play after it’s finished and he replies that his character is filled with nostalgia and that, along with the inability of Gar and his father to communicate, often leaves him feeling weighed down. “I want to give him a kick up the backside some nights,” Liam confesses, “and tell him just to bloody well get on with his life.” “So it sounds like you’re kind of sick of him then,” I surmise. “In the sort of way that you can get sick of yourself,” Liam says. “I don’t know…maybe it’s the bits of myself that I can see in him that I don’t like. After I’ve put Six West behind me I want to play someone decisive. A monosyllabic action hero or a spy turned psychotic serial killer. Somebody my own dog wouldn’t recognize.” “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“I suppose I don’t anymore.” Liam frowns. “Natalie already had her for a year when we moved in together. It’s a shame—Jack loves that dog.” I sigh, only realizing it in retrospect when Liam props his head up with his elbow and asks me what’s wrong. “Nothing.” I shake my head, but then decide not to censor myself. “My boyfriend always wanted a dog too.” Liam’s hand brushes my arm. “You really do think about him all the time, don’t you?” “Not all the time.” As in, not when we’re in bed together, but I’ve already proven that a lie. “It’s okay,” Liam says, and that feeling of closeness rushes through me again, like I really could tell him anything. “You two must have been really something together.” “Yeah,” I whisper. “I think we were.” “I remember that feeling. But now I think…” Liam stares at the ceiling, leaving his thought unfinished. “What?” I ask. Liam’s teeth scrape slowly over his bottom lip. “For us—Natalie and me—it wasn’t right. It couldn’t have been.” Because otherwise she wouldn’t have done that to him. He’s still staring up at the ceiling when I dare to ask, “Do you still love her, though?”

Liam sighs lightly, his gaze flicking back to mine. “It turns out that’s not so easy to get rid of. But I hate her as well. You think you know someone…” One of his hands sails into the air to grasp resentfully, and in what seems to me to be a kind of lasting shock, at nothing. We’ve talked about his relationship before —before we’d even slept together—but this time I feel Liam’s pain more acutely. It bleeds into the room. “But it’s over,” he says with melancholytinged decisiveness. “I don’t want to be with her anymore. I couldn’t.” Liam’s voice lightens as he adds, “I think there are a few too many people in this room with us at the moment, Leah.” He touches my hair and forces a smile. “How is it that you always make me say more than I mean to? Right from that first time you came to sit with me in the café. You should’ve been a secret agent yourself, wheedling people’s secrets out of them with biscuits, sex and those beautiful brown eyes of yours.” I smile back at Liam, because that’s what he seems to want, and when it’s time to go he follows me to the front door, wraps his arms around me and holds on to me there for a long minute as though maybe it doesn’t matter so much anymore about keeping things uncomplicated. Then he says, “I almost forgot—I

was going to ask if you had any interest in seeing the play before it closes on Friday week. I know I haven’t exactly made it sound dazzlingly brilliant, but that’s completely down to me feeling whingey about my own situation. It really is a very solid production.” “That would be cool,” I tell him, not as surprised as I would have been to hear the suggestion from his mouth two weeks ago. “I’d love to check it out. Thanks.” “Just say when and I’ll have them put a couple of seats aside for you at the box office.” “How about a week today?” “Done,” Liam says with a bob of his head. “I reckon after the crime I committed against music on the piano earlier it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to see me do something right.” I’ve already seen him do something right today and my cheeks bursts into a sly smile at the thought of it. Liam breaks into a mirrorimage grin, as though he can read my mind, and in those final seconds before I open the door and go, I’m certain there’s no one in the room but us.

Twenty-Four I say goodbye to Abigail before I leave for my shift at O’Keefe’s on Friday afternoon. Her return flight to Vancouver is scheduled to leave later that evening and while I ring up purchases for things like Bovril, golden syrup and Monarch of the Glen, I feel glad to have my freedom back and even more relieved that Abigail didn’t find out about Liam and me. But I miss her when I come home to an empty house at eight-thirty that night. The next time I see her, surrounded, as she’ll be, with the rest of Bastien’s family, will undoubtedly be more difficult. I pop the second season of Spooks (courtesy of Simon and Louise) into Abigail’s DVD player, call Katie to give her an abbreviated account of my relationship with Liam and ask her whether she wants to see Philadelphia, Here I Come. Katie reacts with a similar surprise to Yunhee’s but is excited about the idea of coming to see Liam’s play with me on Wednesday night. We arrange to meet at the theater, which is right in the heart of the Distillery district, an hour and a half before the show so we can pop into dinner somewhere first. Liam and I make plans for Sunday but

determine that we shouldn’t return to The Rose and Crown in case whoever snapped our photo is a regular hoping to get lucky a second time. After I get off work at five, we decide on takeout fish and chips from a spot only five minutes’ drive down the road. As I’m the one who’s never been on television anywhere I tell Liam to sit in the car while I go order the food. This extreme level of discretion would seem ludicrously paranoid to me if I hadn’t seen a photo of us on the Internet, but now only seems prudent. Having recently rediscovered my jewelry box, I’m wearing the dangly chandelier-style Swarovski crystal earrings my grandmother indulged me by buying me for my sixteenth birthday, despite my mother’s protest that they were too expensive. They’re not the sort of thing I’d normally wear out casually but it’s been too long since I wore them last and I couldn’t resist putting them on this morning. Liam loves them and says that he feels like he’s about to sleep with Jackie Kennedy. Once we’ve finished our food, he can’t keep his fingers away from their shine, and though they glitter like a million dollars they only get in the way when we’re having sex. I take them off and leave them on Liam’s bedside table to retrieve later. Afterwards we play videogames and then begin watching a Terminator marathon. I fall

asleep during the end credits for Terminator 2 and wake up again during the final moments of Terminator 3. Liam’s awake next to me, but barely. Yawning and heavy-lidded, he asks me whether I want him to drive me home or if there’s any possibility that I can stay the night. It means Armstrong will run wild all night long, but one night of marathon passion with the wheel won’t kill him. I tell Liam I can stay but that I’ll have to be home early tomorrow morning. Since we’ve technically slept together before I’m not prepared for how strange it feels to be climbing into bed with him for something other than sex. As far as I can tell, Liam sleeps like a log over on his side of the bed, while I toss and turn and eventually raid his refrigerator, finishing off the bag of green grapes he has in his crisper. When I get back under the covers with him, Liam folds his arms around me and sleepily kisses my neck. “All right?” he murmurs. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I ate all your grapes.” “S’okay,” Liam says, and I curl my body around him and kiss his hair. His forehead’s sweaty and he says something too drowsily indistinct for me to comprehend. I wonder, as I close my eyes, if I’m fighting sleep because I don’t want to miss anything. Our time’s running down and I can’t be sorry any longer about the

way any of this has happened. It’s just not going to be as easy as I’d originally imagined letting him go. Did I ever really think it would be? I can’t tell anymore, but that’s the last thought prowling around my head before, at last, I give in and join Liam in sleep. *** When I first moved to Oakville days and days would pass without me speaking to anyone aside from my parents. Near the lake and huddled in front of the TV were the two places I felt most comfortable. It’s too cold now to spend time down by the water and the majority of the television I watch, when I’m not at O’Keefe’s or working on Johnny Yang, Merman at Large, is British. I still often carry Bastien’s copy of The Handmaid’s Tale with me, but I hardly ever drop into the corner store anymore. Their prices are exorbitant and all the real food is over at the fruit market and grocery store. These days I’m even known to spend time at the local library. On Wednesday I wrap up warm and walk to downtown Oakville early in the afternoon with the intention of stocking up on graphic novels and fresh produce. Liam’s offered to swing by my

place on his way to the theater later and pick me up, which means Katie will have an opportunity to meet him before the play. He’s supposed to bring my earrings with him when he comes because, although I made a point on Monday morning of reminding myself to put them on before I left, by the time Liam and I had finished our coffees they’d entirely slipped my mind. Turning my cell phone on is another thing I’ve failed to remember. I haven’t become entirely accustomed to having one again yet and often forget about it while I’m out. Having just remembered its existence, I dig around in my purse and switch it on in case anyone wants to get a hold of me. There’s a text message from my father. He does that sometimes now that he knows I have my own phone again. This particular message says he ran into Bastien’s father in the Chapters at the Metropolis mall. I briefly wonder what the two of them said about me and then notice I missed a call from Liam twenty minutes ago. The plan I’m on doesn’t allow anyone to leave audio messages but there’s a text message from him five minutes after that which reads: “Something I can’t put off needs to be sorted out. I’m sorry I won’t be able to drive you to the theater tonight or see you

afterwards. The tickets will still be at the box office for you but I probably won’t be able to be in touch for a few days. Again, I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything later. Please just give me some time. I’ll ring when I can.”

My mind shifts immediately into overdrive, imagining what could be going on. It can’t be a family emergency if Liam’s still doing the play tonight. I know that he said to give him time but I’m on Lakeshore Road, only five minutes from his apartment. I could pretend I never saw the message and use the earrings as an excuse, say that I just happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to wear them tonight but was worried he’d forget them… I scan Liam’s messages again as I hurry towards his apartment, a bad feeling settling like silt at the bottom of my stomach. He’s never canceled before, and what could be so consuming that he doesn’t even have the time to explain it? In his lobby I punch in the buzz code for his suite. The phone rings for so long that I’ve nearly decided he’s either left already or is planning to ignore it. “Hello?” a woman’s voice says sharply. I must have entered the wrong code. I disconnect and immediately try again. This time

Liam buzzes me inside the building without a word. I tug open the security door and slip into the elevator. Then I’m knocking nervously on Liam’s front door and a fine-boned woman with long dark hair and steely eyes jerks it open. I stare past her form, searching out Liam as she says, in an angry Irish accent, “Are you the latest plaything then?” My eyes zoom back to the woman in front of me. She’s in her early thirties, a little shorter than average but strikingly attractive. “Excuse me,” I snap. “Who are you?” The woman, who’s wearing a gray blazer with matching pants, looks as though she’s ready for a day at the office. We’re still standing on opposite sides of the open doorway as she says, “I think you know who I am.” Liam’s ex, Natalie. She nods at the look of recognition in my face, her eyes bitter. “Then I guess you’re the one with the plaything,” I declare. Natalie’s head snaps back as though I’ve made physical contact with her. “I see you’ve heard his version.” “Where is he?” I ask. Natalie opens the door wider for me, motioning for me to come in. Once I’ve stepped inside she shuts the door behind me and replies,

“He’s not here at the moment. It’s just me.” She smiles disingenuously. “Are those your earrings beside the bed or do they belong to one of his other girls?” I refuse to take her bait but my cheeks are smarting. Liam and I never actually talked about being exclusive. As things went on I just sort of assumed… But what’s his ex doing here? He told me it was over for good. Natalie folds her arms across her chest as we face off against each other in the hallway. “Look, I know Liam’s cast me as the villain in this, but you have to understand, we both made a lot of mistakes. There are things about him that didn’t come out in the press, things you likely know nothing about. But I’m here because after all we’ve been through I still think a relationship of four years is worth saving.” Natalie lowers her eyes, her lips puckering as though she’s holding back a sob. “I hope you’re not going to try to stand in the way of that.” I can’t believe my ears. Liam’s message to me, only twenty minutes ago, was just that he couldn’t see me for a few days, but Natalie’s making it sound as though they’re ready to start over. “Where is he?” I say for the second time. “When’s he coming back?”

“Please, wait a moment.” Natalie turns and stalks towards the bedroom. When she returns, seconds later, she’d holding my earrings in her right hand. “Here they are,” she says, dropping them into my palm. “They’re lovely. Did he buy them for you?” I don’t want to talk to her—everything about this seems wrong—but I clutch the earrings and mumble, “No. My grandmother.” Natalie’s eyes are glassy. She stares past me, blinking back tears. “Your grandmother has very good taste,” she says. The last time I saw anyone this sad I was looking in the mirror, months ago. I don’t know what to say. I’m stunned that Liam could lead me to believe one thing while acting to bring about its polar opposite. Did he plan to wait until the play was over to tell me? I know we were never going to add up to anything, but the deceit still comes as a shock. I thought I could trust him. “I thought you were with someone else,” I rasp. “I thought—” Natalie wipes her eyes with her left hand. “I was. And that was stupid of me. I thought I could get back at him for things he’d done, but it doesn’t work that way. Look, I know he probably seemed to be one thing to you, and it’s not that he isn’t that person, but there a lot of sides to

him, and I’m not saying this in bitterness but…” She drops her hands to her sides and straightens her spine. “I can guarantee that you’re not the only one he has over here because that’s not what he’s like. He likes to keep busy.” The final word is delivered with a venom that makes me wince. I stare at Natalie, trying to find some sense in the awful things she’s saying, some kernel of information that resembles the Liam I’ve gotten to know over the past couple of months. “You’re younger than his usual type,” she adds. “I guess you know about Becca and Isabelle, but there were others before. I don’t know all their names but the ones I found out about were all older than him.” My face and neck are hot. I feel dizzy. My stomach’s sour; the way it gets if I drink too much. “I’m sorry that I have to be the one to tell you these things,” Natalie says, a line popping up between her eyes. “But I really need you to leave Liam and me alone to work things out. So much has happened, but there’s a chance we could still have a life together.” She begs me with her eyes. I don’t have any words for her. I’m freefalling inside my head. The only thing to do now is get away from here as fast as I can. I turn and latch onto the doorknob, twist it

open and bolt into the hallway. What shocks me the most is that I didn’t think he could really hurt me. Lately I’d come to realize it would be difficult to say goodbye, but nowhere near as bad as this poisonous feeling of betrayal. The worst part is it isn’t really my betrayal at all—since Liam and I were never officially together. Apparently it’s Natalie’s. And I made it easy. He didn’t even have to try with me; I was just there for the taking. I’m infuriated by my own naïveté. What made me think I could trust him? He’s an actor; fooling people is what he does for a living. And then I realize that Liam probably won’t even see what happened between us in the same way that I do because it was only supposed to be sex and I got my fair share too. I got everything out of this that he did and it was my idea. He even tried to warn me off him. I keep striding away from his apartment, distrusting the barrage of conflicting emotions tearing through me, and heading steadily north until I reach the train station. Part of me doesn’t want to stop walking, even then, but I can put more distance between Liam’s apartment and myself by jumping on the train, so I buy myself a ticket. I call Katie from my seat in the third car and tell her we’re not going to the theater tonight after all. She wants to know what

happened, but I’m not ready to explain yet. I know if I talk about it now my eyes will begin to drain from a toxic mixture of anger, sadness and disappointment. And I don’t want to be sad, of all things. Not over this. It shouldn’t even matter. I go directly to the house Katie shares with three other University of Toronto students. Having been warned that I don’t want to talk and instead need something to do, she soon suggests we head out with one of her housemates for food. Later still we meet up with a second housemate who is taking a night course in film. Because they’re watching The Godfather II in her class tonight and she insists that no one will notice a few extra bodies in the lecture hall, we tag along and watch the rise of Vito Corleone. I’ve never seen any of The Godfather movies and my mind can’t grasp the finer plot details now. As soon as the class is over, I squeeze into a bathroom stall across the hall and check text messages again, thinking maybe there’ll be one from Liam magically able to explain away Natalie’s presence in his apartment and the nasty things she had to say about him. But the only new message that’s come in is one from Yunhee asking me about the play. After that the group of us end up at a bar, but with the rest of them being students who

have to be up early for classes tomorrow, none of them want to stay late. Katie says I can sleep on their couch and I prolong the inevitable return to Abigail’s house and spend the remainder of the night, my mind jumping between sleep and wounded disbelief, in a sleeping bag that smells of stale perfume spread out along her living room sofa. I’m the first one up in the morning. I hear a dog barking outside and it reminds me of Bastien patting the neighbor’s dogs through the fence. I remember telling him once that I wondered if the dogs barked just to get him over there, and Bastien grinned and said that was okay, because he liked hanging out with them too, only he wished they’d hold off until the afternoons. Like Liam said, I think about Bastien all the time. Being sad about Liam doesn’t change that. In a month or so it’ll be almost like Liam and I never met. He’ll leave me warier than before, but otherwise make no lasting impact. I know what it’s like to be heartbroken and I know that I’ll never really be able to feel that about anyone but Bastien. I only wish I could’ve been smarter about Liam. If I’d played it right, maybe it never had to hurt at all.

Twenty-Five Sometimes it hardly seems possible that Bastien’s nearly been gone a year. I wish we were going home to Burnaby together for Christmas like we did last year and that he could see what I’m doing with Johnny Yang. I wish we could talk about The Handmaid’s Tale. Imagining how he’d feel about it isn’t the same as knowing. Even having him here to fight with me or walk away when I pissed him off would be better than not having him at all. Just knowing that he was out there somewhere in the world, even if we weren’t together, would be better. But I’m glad that Abigail let me move in with her in Oakville, and for my job at O’Keefe’s, and most of all, that Yunhee’s going to be all right. When I text her the next day to explain what happened with Liam she calls me long distance from Ottawa to commiserate with me. But I still don’t really want to talk about it much. I listen to her call him a prick and other names, but she knows as well as I do that he didn’t make me any promises. I can’t decide whether I’m more sad or angry. It’s this lingering thing that I drag around in the pit of my stomach. Not the kind of thing

that would stop me in my tracks like Bastien’s loss did, but the type that makes me tired and makes it harder to laugh when somebody says something funny. It’s as if I’m on a time delay; I need an extra ten seconds for a joke to register. I notice when I go to the dentist on Friday for my final crown appointment that everyone from the receptionist, to the hygienist and the dentist himself, seems downright jovial. A bad cold keeps Marta in bed on Saturday and she calls Kevin to come in and help me out at O’Keefe’s for a few hours in the afternoon. Since Kevin’s a talker—unless he’s exhausted— he quickly makes me feel monosyllabic in comparison. I pretend I’m hung over so he won’t ask me what’s wrong. Then Kevin tells me Marta keeps some aspirin in the back room but that he always finds the best cure is cold pizza. I smile at the fact that a fifteen-year-old is giving me hangover advice and point out that it’s not really possible for me to get my hands on cold pizza at the moment. “Warm pizza might work too,” he says. “Or chocolate milk is another good one.” I let Kevin go out in search of chocolate milk for me and when he comes back with a small carton and a straw we somehow land on the topic of comic books. I tell him, without

going into all the back-story about Bastien, that I’m trying to write one, but more like a graphic novel. Just yesterday I checked out several from the library including Black Hole, Scott Pilgrim, Blankets and Skim. Kevin says he’s really only read some manga and superhero stuff but that he has a friend who’s into the same kind of stuff that it sounds like I’m into. “She’s a wicked artist,” he proclaims. “Better than half of the stuff you see in print for Marvel and Tokyopop.” I wonder to myself if his friend would ever consider working with me on Johnny Yang, but I have no way of paying her, and anyway, it’s too soon. I should finish the text first. Then maybe I can get Kevin to introduce us. Sunday I’m on my own at O’Keefe’s as usual (because the shop’s only open for five hours). In the middle of the day I close up for ten minutes so I can refuel with coffee at The Cunning Café, and standing in line there I can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that Liam and Natalie could sashay through the door together at any moment. Or maybe they’ve already left the country. Philadelphia, Here I Come closed on Friday and if they’re back together Liam doesn’t have a reason to avoid Ireland any longer. He’ll hate their reunion being in the press, though. He’d want it to be private.

For the first couple of days I was surprised that he didn’t bother to call after my run-in with Natalie. I guess he figured there was no point since she’d done his dirty work for him. Of everything, that’s what makes me the angriest, that he didn’t own up to his actions. When I was in the vicinity of free Wi-Fi a couple of days ago, still in shock about what Natalie had told me, I searched the Internet for Liam’s name again along with the word “affair.” Though I couldn’t find any evidence that Liam was sleeping around on Natalie while they were together, there were plenty of entries concerning Isabelle Fitzgerald and Becca McNamara. Liam’s involvement with Isabelle, which occurred in the direct wake of his break-up with Natalie, was brief and concluded amicably. But Becca’s relationship with Liam started at a private party where an intoxicated Liam had just bedded someone else in an upstairs room while the party continued downstairs. Becca is quoted as saying she initially rebuffed his advances, but she admits that she’d changed her mind by the end of the night and blames her lapse in judgment on Liam’s charm and “a very convincing imitation of sincerity.” Intimate details of their sexual relationship are available on various gossip sites, but those I’ve avoided. I don’t want to hear what he did with Becca and how she felt about it.

Reading about Liam trying to snare Becca right after sleeping with someone else makes him sound hopelessly sleazy. I miss the person I thought he was and sometimes wish I hadn’t met Natalie and found out the truth. But I don’t allow myself to wallow in disappointment; I just want to jump to the end of the process of putting Liam behind me and feel normal again—as normal as I possibly can without Bastien. Being busy didn’t help when I lost Bastien, but I know it will now, and after my shift, when I stop in to check how Marta’s feeling (thankfully much improved), I let her know that I’d be happy to put in some extra hours before I go away for Christmas if she’d like me to. She tells me that she thinks additional shifts would be quite helpful over the season and that she’ll mull over exactly what days and times would be best and let me know soon. Marta raps at my door the very next morning at twenty to eleven, on her way to work, and asks how I’d feel about Wednesday and Thursday afternoons. O’Keefe’s isn’t open as late during the week as it is on Fridays and Saturdays, so she’ll only need me from about one-thirty—when she’ll take her lunch —to six o’clock. I’m glad for the extra hours, which will also translate into extra money for Christmas

gifts, and tell her I’ll see her Wednesday afternoon. As I close the front door, I hear my cell phone ringing in the living room and snap it up, expecting it to be one of my parents or Katie or Yunhee. But it’s Liam’s number flashing across the screen. I stare at it, frozen, and wait for the ringing to stop. There’s nothing I want to hear from his mouth anymore and nothing I want to say to him. We’re done. We were finished five days ago. That’s so clear to me that I jump in surprise when Abigail’s landline starts to ring. Again, I let it continue and I don’t check to see if Liam’s left a message afterwards because there’s no point; words from him will only make my anger and sadness fresher. But at ten o’clock that night, while I’m watching Little Britain and playing with Armstrong, a text message from Liam comes in. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get in touch. I need to talk to you and left a message on your home phone. Please ring me as soon as you can.”

I instantly hit delete but as the night wears on can’t fight the gnawing urge to drift over to the cordless and listen to the message he left

earlier. Hearing Liam’s voice makes me miss the person I thought I knew so much that I dig my fingers into the counter and squeeze my lashes together as he says, “Leah, I know I probably should’ve been in touch sooner and I’m sorry. But I was in the middle of a fucked up situation and I needed time to clear my head afterwards. To be honest, I’m not in much better form now, but I still really want to see you. I want to make the most of the time we have left. I’ll explain everything in person, okay? I can’t…I don’t…want to say it all over the phone like this. Let me know when we can see each other. Bye.” I hang up, feeling worse than before I picked up the phone. Clearly things didn’t work out with Natalie, but I can’t leap back in time and pretend it doesn’t matter that I’m Plan B or that Liam’s likely been hooking up with someone else the entire time he’s been involved with me. I didn’t think or care about those things that night on the pier, but now it’s impossible to forget them. Now he can’t leave town soon enough. *** I don’t sleep well. On top of my Liam problem, I appear to be coming down with Marta’s cold. My throat’s sore and I’ve exhausted my facial tissue

supply; I have no choice but to take a trip to Shoppers Drug Mart and buy more. Outside my window the clouds look heavy and threaten snow. I pull on my leather boots, matching wool gloves and scarf and my long coat and begin marching up the street. My nose is intermittently runny and I miss having access to a car or decent public transportation. Where Bastien and I used to live on Eglinton, a TTC bus coasted by every few minutes. My cell phone rings as I’m hurrying up Allan Street towards the drugstore, and I know without slipping it out of my pocket that it’s Liam again. When we first got involved he seemed so concerned about me being “confused”, but now he doesn’t seem to care that I want to be left alone. I turn off my cell and hope it won’t mean facing a second phone message at home. If Liam’s that desperate for sex he can call someone else. Maybe that same person will be interested in hearing his useless justifications or his sob story about Natalie cheating on him. At Shoppers Drug Mart, I stock up on tissues and pick up lozenges and a nonprescription cold remedy for my nose. As I stride up and down the aisles I grow angrier with every step, thinking about how close I felt to Liam the afternoon we masturbated in front of each other

and he told me that he and Natalie couldn’t have been right. I would’ve sworn that he felt close to me too, and by the time I’ve paid for my items and am walking home my gloved hands are forming fists and my already sore throat feels ragged and raw. I begin to hope he’ll call again simply so I can continue ignoring him and make a statement. But that would be too easy because when I’ve nearly reached home again, and am only two houses away, I see Liam’s car swerve into Abigail’s driveway. At such close range he couldn’t have avoided spotting me. I’m trapped. And I don’t want to do this. Liam gets out of the car and turns swiftly in my direction. I square my shoulders and head directly for him. If we have to play out this scene, I want it over with quickly. “Are you going to pretend you’re not avoiding me?” Liam says, his eyes zeroing in on mine. I shake my head. “I’m not pretending anything—I don’t want to talk to you.” Liam’s face falls. He pulls his chin in close to his chest and stares into the wind. “I don’t want to listen to you lie anymore,” I continue as I stand three feet away from. “And from what I’ve heard of it so far, I don’t think I

want the truth either. It’s not going to be easy with me anymore like you wanted. It’s over. You need to go.” “I never lied to you,” Liam says in a bewildered voice. It’s beginning to snow, like I knew it would, and a downy flake catches in his eyelashes, fluttering up and down as he blinks. “I met Natalie,” I declare, digging into my shopping bag to reach for the tissues. My fingers clutch a wad and raise them to my nose. “When?” Liam’s face is ashen. Without the sun to brighten his eyes his pupils appear nearly gray. “Last Wednesday before I had a chance to read your text message. I had some things to do in downtown Oakville and went by your apartment hoping to pick up my earrings.” I pull my scarf to my mouth to cough into it. “Are you sick?” Liam asks. I nod dismissively but he adds, “You shouldn’t be out here. Let’s talk inside.” “No.” I raise my gloved hand. “You’re not coming in.” Liam lowers his shoulders, his mouth falling open. “At least hear what I have to say before you decide who’s lying.” I don’t repeat myself. I stand motionless in place, feeling anger flood my face. Liam swears and glares at the ground. “This

isn’t fair,” he adds. His hands clamp onto his hips as he chews the inside of his cheek. “Would you at least get in the car for a minute, or are you going to make me tell you my life story in the front garden where your neighbors can hear it?” My gaze shifts to Marta and Deirdre’s living room curtains. They’re closed and there’s no other sign of movement from within. Marta would be at work now but Deirdre’s car is in their driveway and Liam’s right about one thing: I don’t want her to hear what he’s about to say. “Fine,” I snap, walking around the front of the car and pulling open the passenger door. Liam climbs into the driver’s seat. The car’s still warm from his drive over and it makes my nose run worse. I press a tissue to my nostrils and shake my head, bracing myself for more welltold lies. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw her?” Liam says. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” I fire back. “You said it was over. You said you couldn’t be with her again.” “I can’t.” A patch of red is creeping up Liam’s neck. He faces forward, as rigid as stone. “Is that what she told you? That we were back together?” “That you were going to try, at least.” My

heart’s thudding painfully in my chest. I don’t want to be this close to him. I felt stronger out in the cold. “That was her idea, not mine.” Liam barely looks at me as he continues. “She showed up on my doorstep on Wednesday morning. At first I didn’t want to hear a word she had to say. I walked out on her and left there. And when I got back that night after the play she said it was over with Shane—that when she saw that picture of you and me on the Internet something clicked and she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. She said she didn’t really know until that moment and then she couldn’t stay away.” Liam’s voice is weary. He presses his head back against the car seat and says, “But it wasn’t just that. She’d lost the baby.” He eyes me briefly as he adds, “I didn’t tell you about that part, that they were having a baby. She rang me to tell me about a month ago. She wasn’t sure when it would hit the press and she wanted me to know first. And when she lost it, I don’t know…” Liam shrugs, his face long. “Maybe what she and Shane had together didn’t seem as solid anymore. She was in bits. Really depressed. Probably more because of the miscarriage than anything else, but I couldn’t just toss her out in the state she was in.” I stare out the window, watching the snow.

I don’t doubt that he’s telling the truth about the baby and Natalie’s depression. No one would lie about those things. “How is she now?” I ask. Liam tells me that they spent a lot of time talking and that she seemed a bit more together by the time he took her to the airport on Friday. “But it wore me out,” he says. “The emotional rehashing of our relationship. I couldn’t walk straight from that back to you. It was doing my head in—it was everything I’d wanted to get away from.” I drag my fingers across my forehead and glance at Liam from the corner of my eyes. He was the one that said he didn’t want an ounce more confusion in his life, but now I’m the one who wants this to stop. “She said other things too,” I tell him. “She said you always have a few women on the go at the same time—that you’re just like that—and she was sure I wasn’t the only person you were involved with over here.” Liam’s face whips around so we’re staring directly into each other’s eyes. His are a furious ice blue. “Do you believe everything anyone tells you, Leah?” I raise my chin and will my nose to stop running so that I can do this right. “We never said we wouldn’t sleep with other people.” “No, we didn’t. And you didn’t seem to care

about that the night down by the lighthouse. You didn’t ask. So it’s a bit hypocritical to bring it up now, isn’t it?” That’s not a genuine question and I don’t answer him. Liam slumps in his chair. “But Natalie lied about that too. And I never cheated on her either; I wasn’t with anyone else until I found out about her and Shane, and if I’d known she said those things to you I wouldn’t have been as sympathetic to her. I should have never let her in the door.” Hearing him deny it should be a relief, but there’s no proof that Liam’s telling the truth, and after spending the past six days believing that he deceived me, I’m worn out too. Blistered and bruised. This was only supposed to be physical with a little room for casual friendship, and now I’m wound up in it with a gravity it was never meant to possess. My throat tightens as I look away from him. “You don’t believe me?” he asks. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice wavering. “I don’t know what to believe. I read some things online and they’re not good.” The press and Liam’s former fiancée have done a decent job of making him sound like a womanizer. “After I talked to Natalie, part of me kept thinking it shouldn’t really matter whether

there were other people because it was always going to be over soon and it was only supposed to be sex, but”—this is the last time I’ll see him and so I tell the absolute truth—“it still felt like it mattered.” Both Liam’s hands slide into his hairline. “Those things you read in the press are history, mostly things I told you months ago. I was gutted when I found out about Natalie and Shane and went off the rails, but that doesn’t have anything to do with the present.” Liam’s chin arches up as he stares imploringly at the ceiling. “Leah, I don’t know what else I can do. You either believe me or you don’t. And nothing can ever only be sex, can it? Otherwise it wouldn’t matter who you were having it with. And I like you. We’ve been friends too, haven’t we?” I nod slowly. We had some great times together and I’ll never forget how he stayed the night with me when Yunhee was in hospital. For that alone, maybe I should’ve given him the benefit of the doubt despite Natalie’s harsh words. He’s made me smile so often over the past couple of months, broken down my resistance so that I allowed him to get close to me at a time when I thought I wanted to keep everyone away. “But you still look unhappy,” Liam says. The cold’s beginning to seep into the car and I keep scrunching up the tissue between my

fingers and then neatly refolding it, wishing that somehow we could start over minus the bad feelings we dragged into this with us. But any idea of ‘us’ feels intensely complicated now. I can’t climb back into bed with him like the past six days didn’t hurt. We’ve evolved past that into some relationship stage of injured discussions and wounded trust, but without the actual relationship. This isn’t fun anymore. Neither of us are distractions from real life any longer; we’re in the middle of each other’s mess. The silence crowds in on us until Liam, his head tilted tiredly, says, “Can we go somewhere? Someplace we don’t have to think about any of this shite? A film or something—wherever you want, wherever you say.” “I don’t…think so, Liam.” I feel raw enough just sitting next to him; I can’t let myself in for whatever might happen next. “I’m sorry.” I want to believe him about there not being anyone else, but I can’t toss aside my doubts that quickly, and either way I can see that Liam’s so drained by the days he spent with Natalie that there isn’t enough of him left for me. And he’s going in less than two weeks. It doesn’t make sense to try to work this out. He’ll either disappoint me again or I’ll end up more attached to him than I was before. “I really liked you,” I say, fighting to keep

my voice level. “I liked you more than I meant to. But I can’t handle all this. I wanted it to be simple, like you said, but I can’t pretend none of this has affected me.” Liam shakes his head and exhales aggravation. “Natalie’s filled your head with lies, but the truth is nothing’s changed from the last time I saw you. Can we not just spend some time together and you’ll see that for yourself?” “For what?” I ask with an emotional shrug of my shoulders. “What’s the point? It’s not like it’s building into anything. It was never supposed to be this much work.” Liam blinks slowly, his expression turning distant and pensive. “I knew it would be like this with you,” he says quietly and with a measure of regret. “I could see it a million miles away and I walked straight into it anyway.” “Don’t hang this all on me, Liam. The amount of baggage you’re carrying around behind you wouldn’t be easy for anyone to deal with.” Liam’s gaze is dismissive and angry. “Everybody has a past. Maybe not your saint boyfriend, but everyone else.” My fingertips tingle and my face smarts. “The problem with your past is that it isn’t actually past,” I counter. “It’s still here in the present. Your ex isn’t finished with you and for

all I know the others aren’t either. And you have people stalking you, snapping pictures, ripping into the details of your life. Who would want that?” Liam, unsmiling, chuckles wryly. “If there’s one of us whose past is overshadowing the present you can be sure you win the crown, Leah.” I swing the car door open before the conversation can descend into a full-fledged argument that neither of us will win. In a heartbeat I’m standing on the driveway, slamming the door behind me and striding for the house, but Liam, on the driver side, is closer to the front door and he intercepts me by the porch steps and says, “Is this really it then? Is that what you want?” Flakes fall softly all around us, lending the scene a dreamlike quality it shouldn’t have. Liam grasps my arm, cutting through the atmosphere with an electric glare. “I stayed these extra days for you,” he tells me. “I’m sorry about Natalie and sorry it hasn’t been easier, but it doesn’t have to end like this.” I don’t want it to end badly either but it feels as though that’s already happened, and I know I can’t climb back into his car and let him take me somewhere. That would feel more wrong than this, like a betrayal of myself.

“I’m sorry,” I say, his hand still on my arm. “I can’t.” “You won’t,” he corrects, releasing me with a burst of disdain. Liam cocks his head up with a finality that signals we really have reached the end. “The minute you have to try at this you don’t want it. So all right then, have it your bloody way. I hope you’re easier on whoever you take down to the lighthouse next.” He turns his back to me and shouts, in the direction of the road, “Have a nice life, Leah!” I tromp inside without giving him another look. From behind the front door, where I’m pulling off my leather boots, I hear Liam start the engine and reverse down the driveway. Then I take my tissues and my cold remedy and climb into bed with my eyes dry but a knot in my throat that I feel as if I’ll never be able to untie.

Twenty-Six The snow continues to fall all day as I sleep, but by the next afternoon when I walk to work, it’s turned into puddles. My nose is still stuffy, but for the most part the other cold symptoms have subsided, and for several days after that I’m sure I did the right in letting Liam go. Yunhee agrees, confessing that she’s looked Liam up on the Internet and that he sounds like trouble. She says that whether that’s due to his fiancée running around on him or not, the fact of him being trouble remains. But I know if there was an article about me up on the Internet many people would be judgmental about my actions since Bastien died too. Still, my head feels clearer after leaving Liam behind. Or to put my feelings into terms Liam himself could relate to, he’d become a source of confusion and I can’t have that. Life is quiet for a while and then, three days after our break-up, Liam calls my cell. I don’t pick up and he doesn’t text me or call again. I occupy myself with work and another night out with Katie. O’Keefe’s is busier than usual and stocked to overflow with special Christmas collections of chocolates and biscuits. Marta’s ordered a more extensive selection of

DVDs for the season and package upon package of Christmas pudding. Louise buys one to bring to work for her fellow employees to enjoy, although she also plans to bake one from scratch for her and Simon. Ananya, a regular who grew up in London, buys two to serve to her extended family. I also purchase two and set them aside to bring home to my parents and Bastien’s family. In less than two weeks I’ll be with them all, and on Sunday, after work, I call Bastien’s mother in Burnaby to tell her I’m looking forward to seeing them soon and will bring a couple more of Bastien’s things with me, including some of his sketches and laptop. Joyce asks if I would like to come for dinner on Christmas Eve. She says that each Christmas Eve they go to midnight mass and that if I would like to attend with them, they would be happy to have me along. I say I’d like that because I want to do something that will bring me closer to Bastien’s family. With them being on the opposite coast I’ve never gotten to know them like I would’ve if we’d stayed in Burnaby. Last year Bastien went to midnight mass with his family while I stayed home with mine. He told me his favorite part of Christmas Eve mass each year was listening to the choir sing carols, in particular “Carol of the Bells” because of its intensity.

Last December my life was entirely different, and yet, even with Bastien missing, the present manages to feels like Christmastime. Marta has brought in a stack of Christmas CDs to play and whenever I’m at O’Keefe’s now my ears are filled with the sound of the Spice Girls singing “Sleigh Ride,” Nat King Cole’s rendition of “Frosty the Snowman” or Sinead O’Connor’s beautifully haunting version of “Silent Night.” Festive lights line the streets and trees. An enormous fir has been erected in the square near Liam’s apartment. I think of him when I stroll by it. I think of him, too, whenever anyone comes to the counter with Bourbon Creams or when I hear Sinead O’Connor singing “all is calm”, because she sings the word ‘calm’ with what I now recognize as an Irish pronunciation. I wonder what Liam’s Christmas back in Dublin will be like and find myself hoping it will be a happy one. There’s no question that my life is more peaceful without him, but when I’m lying in bed at night and there’s nothing to stop me thinking except my own willpower, sometimes I cave in and let my mind rest on him for a while. How he held on to me that night on Abigail’s couch. How he talked about his niece Jack. And how completely mesmerizing he looked when he touched himself not so very long ago. I wish I’d gone to see him in Philadelphia,

Here I Come regardless of what Natalie said. I feel as though I missed out never having seen him play Gar. One of the other things that I think about in relation to Liam is how in the end I couldn’t play by our (mostly unspoken) rules about keeping things simple. I’m not ready to be serious about anyone like I was about Bastien, but it turns out that I don’t want to share Liam either. As short-lived and casual as we were meant to be, I wanted to be the only one. We never said we’d be monogamous—and maybe he was anyway—but pondering that always leads me to the conclusion that whatever Liam has or hasn’t done, he was right about me being confused. I shouldn’t have leapt at him that night on the pier, shouldn’t have asked him to come over and keep me company when I was waiting for word on Yunhee, and shouldn’t have argued with him when he said I didn’t really want this. Because it turns out that was true. I wanted him to be exactly what I needed and nothing else. The physical part was easy, because I always wanted him so much, but I wanted to keep the rest of my feelings safely contained. I wanted him to be likeable but straightforward and ready to fade into the distance before I had a chance to become too fond of him.

He was never supposed to matter. He was meant to be my version of a rebound guy. I don’t know where the real fault lies for what happened to us—it could well be that half of it is mine—but I know Liam’s leaving in four days and that if I don’t see him again and say goodbye properly, like I’m saying goodbye to someone who was my friend for a time, I’ll regret it. And life is too short for that. He or I could be dead tomorrow. So on Thursday after work when Marta would ordinarily give me a ride home I tell her I’m heading over to the library for a couple of hours. Then I call Liam’s cell phone. It goes directly to a generic systems message that says: “The customer you have dialed is currently not available. Please try your call again later.” Having made my decision, I don’t want to wait for later. I walk straight to Liam’s apartment and tap in his buzz code. There’s no answer there either, but soon an older woman with long silver hair and a Toy Poodle in her arms brushes by me, opening the security door with a swipe of her key card. I follow her into the lobby where she narrows her eyes in reproach as she looks at me. I ignore her and climb into the elevator, along with her and her dog, where she continues to give me the evil eye until I step off the

elevator on the third floor. There, I rap firmly at Liam’s door, aware that he may prefer to ignore me if possible. Across the hall, a heavyset man of about fifty pulls his own door open and asks, “Are you looking for the Irish guy that lived there?” I nod, momentarily sorry that I’ve been so aggressive about knocking that apparently the entire floor has heard me. “He’s gone back to Ireland,” the man tells me, watching my chin drop. “Are you sure?” I ask. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to leave until the nineteenth.” I’m certain that was the day Liam told me he’d booked his flight for. “Didn’t talk to him myself but the wife said she ran into him in the elevator a few days back with his suitcase. She thought maybe he was heading someplace sunny for a winter vacation, but he told her he was going home. Moving out.” Once I found out Liam wasn’t back together with Natalie it never occurred to me that he would change his flight. I’d assumed he wanted to stay away from Ireland for as long as possible—with or without me. But now I understand why my call didn’t go to his voice mail like it usually would’ve. His local cell phone service must be in the process of being canceled. “Thank you,” I say to the man.

“Sure. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” I offer the man a stiff smile and turn to walk towards the elevator, disappointment stealing into my limbs. I’m too late. How is it that I can move both too quickly and too slowly with the same person? I can’t believe that I’ll never be inside that apartment with Liam again. It’s strange to imagine someone else inhabiting the place where we shared such good times together. It feels wrong. I’ve believed it was over twice already—the day I met Natalie and the day Liam and I fought in my driveway—but this third time is the hardest because he’s thousands of miles away, where there’s no chance I’ll run into him in the street, and not much more of a chance that he’ll ever call. I think back to the phone call that came in from him on my cell last Saturday. Maybe he would’ve told me he was leaving if I’d picked up. My eyes smart with tears as I begin to walk up Allan Street, remembering everything from the very beginning—the day he glanced down at my T-shirt and then swiftly looked away. There has to be something I can do to change the note we ended on. Liam’s not dead; he’s only in another country. He’d have an agent in Ireland that I could email or write to him in

care of, but he’d probably never receive the message and any correspondence sent to him via Six West’s mailing address would be even more likely to go unnoticed. Liam said he lived in an area of Dublin called Dundrum, but I’m sure his phone number would be unlisted. However, he has a sister named Alison with a cupcake business in a section of Dublin he referred to as Temple Bar. That’s the most useful bit of information I have and when I reach home I grab my laptop and hurry to Starbucks to jump onto the Internet and search out Alison. An article about a store called Fairy-Bit Cupcakes pops up in response. It appeared in The Irish Independent over two years ago and lists Alison’s surname as Byrne, but mentions that her brother Liam Kellehan is one of the stars of Six West. I look up Fairy-Bit Cupcakes in Temple Bar and land on the company website, where I head straight to the contact info. The complete address is listed as: Fairy-Bit Cupcakes Ltd 15B Crown Alley Temple Bar Dublin 2 Co. Dublin

There’s also a Fairy-Bit Cupcakes phone

number and an email address that begins with “info@.” But if I call or email the store the person I’ll end up speaking to could just as easily be someone other than Alison. In the event that I was lucky enough to get her on the phone she’d probably write me off as a rabid fan anyway. The sanest thing to do is send her snail mail, and once I’m back sitting on Abigail’s couch with a pen, paper and two envelopes, I write Alison Byrne’s name on the first envelope along with the Fairy-Bit Cupcakes address. Then I jot out what I hope is a convincing letter to Alison explaining that I became friends with Liam while he was living in Oakville and starring in Philadelphia, Here I Come, but that I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye and that I would very much appreciate it if she would pass on my letter to him. I apologize for having to contact her but say that he’d mentioned her and I didn’t have an opportunity to get his Dublin address before he left. I don’t tell her we were involved or stress that it’s important she give him my note, fearing that any urgency on my part will lower the odds that she’ll give him my letter. I sign my name, along with Abigail’s full address and my cell phone number and email address, in the hopes that my contact information will lend my request some credibility. Then I begin a rough draft of my letter to

Liam. It’s an hour and a half before I’m satisfied with it and composing it makes me cry a little again, but it also makes me feel as though I’ve done what I can to push things closer to right. Dear Liam, I hope this letter reaches you. I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you and if your sister’s passed it on, I’m very grateful. I tried to come see you at your apartment today and when I found out you were no longer there it was hard to take. I wish I’d tried to reach you sooner —I hate to think of the way we left things. I’m sincerely sorry if I blamed you for things you didn’t do. Either way, I know we didn’t place any boundaries on our relationship. I wasn’t in touch with my own expectations and that wasn’t fair to you. The last time you came to see me was very difficult. I couldn’t get things clear in my head and I’d been very hurt by what Natalie told me and had assumed we were already through. When you showed up, finishing things there and then seemed like the best way to handle it, but I’m not sure about that anymore because I miss you and, like I said the last time I saw you, I care about you.

I hope your Christmas in Dublin with your family is a happy one and your time back at Six West passes quickly, uneventfully and as painlessly as possible. And then I hope London does everything for your career that you want it to and more. I regret, on top of the other misunderstandings, not coming to see you in Philadelphia, Here I Come. I’m sure you were wonderful. But I don’t regret our time together this fall and I hope you don’t either. There are a lot of things about you and us that I won’t forget and I did think of you as a friend too. I hope in some sense that we still are friends. Leah

I slide my completed letter into an envelope addressed to Liam, seal it, fold it in thirds and then insert it into the envelope made out to Alison along with the brief note I’ve written her. I don’t have a stamp and have to wait until the next day to buy one, coincidentally at the very same post office I gave Liam directions to the first time we spoke. Then I drop the letter into the mail slot at the side of the post office counter along with a wish that Liam will read it someday soon.

*** When I leave Toronto on the night of the twentythird there’s a layer of hard-as-plastic snow blanketing the ground, and still falling, that I’m nervous will cancel my flight. My first stop, in the cab, is to a family five minutes away from Abigail’s house whose pet care ad I found on a local supermarket’s community bulletin board. For the bargain price of twenty-five dollars they’ll take care of Armstrong for the entire time I’m gone. Once I’ve handed his cage over to them, I’m still loaded down with presents for my family, Christmas pudding and Bastien’s laptop. When that’s been checked in at the airport, my plane’s been de-iced and we’re at last roaring into the air, I feel like applauding the way some passengers do once a pilot has landed a jumbo jet at its destination after an especially turbulent flight. My mother, father and grandfather meet me at the Vancouver airport four and a half hours later. I note how my father, with his widow’s peek and deep laugh lines, looks ever more like my grandfather; I never really used to see the resemblance between them. There are other similarities too. My father and grandfather aren’t comfortable discussing emotions. That must have made my breakdown tougher for my father

to deal with than it was for my mother; it forced him to connect with me on a level he wasn’t used to. But unlike my grandfather—who will only give and/or allow a peck on a cheek when I first see him or am saying goodbye—my father’s physically affectionate and is the first one to reach out and throw his arms around me at the airport. When I lived at home I hugged my parents every night before going to bed and I realize, as my father releases me and I reach for my mother, how I miss this ritual and how glad I am to be with them. Then my grandfather kisses me, tells me that I look well and wants to know what the weather was like in Toronto. Before he retired he often used to fly out there on business, and he still speaks highly of the level and variety of cultural activities to be found in the city. If he had his way I would probably currently be growing into a concert pianist rather than an anthropologist. My grandfather, having come over on the ferry from Victoria earlier today, is tired and heads up to the spare room early, leaving me alone with my parents. I present my mother with one of the Christmas puddings I bought at O’Keefe’s and, before she or my father can start in on me about returning to school, share that I

intend to make an appointment with an advisor at the university in the new year with a view to taking summer courses and then continuing with my degree in the fall. My father and mother exchange looks of relief which simultaneously satisfy me and make me feel guilty about the worry I’ve caused them over the past year. My house seems smaller than when I left it last Christmas and when I lie in my bedroom at the end of the night it feels like a child’s room, although I was eighteen when I went away to university. Between those four walls, Bastien feels neither closer to me nor farther from me, but when his brother Jeremy answers the door for me at the Powell house the next day, my heart pounds. The year has made a dramatic difference in Jeremy’s appearance. He’s shot up several inches and his shoulders and chest have begun to fill out too. Now fourteen, he doesn’t look like a boy anymore and has passed into teenage territory. But his eyes haven’t changed at all. I feel Bastien’s stare on me through Jeremy’s brown pupils. “Hey,” he greets as he opens the door wider to allow me in. “Hey,” I reply, stepping inside with him. “How’s it going?” “It’s all right,” Jeremy says in noncommittal tone.

I hand him the Christmas pudding I’ve lugged thousands of miles. “I didn’t know what to bring, so…” Abigail, who will not be here tonight but I hope to see in a few days, warned me weeks ago not to get any presents for the Powells as they don’t want to celebrate the season the way they normally would, but as practicing Christians didn’t wish to ignore it either. Jeremy holds the pudding. “You should’ve taken it out of the package and pretended you’d made it from scratch. No one would know.” His smile is totally unlike Bastien’s and for some reason that relaxes me. Jeremy leads me into the Powells’ sunken living room, where his father and four other people—a man and woman in their forties and two children who I estimate are both between the ages of ten and thirteen—are already seated. Jeremy veers off into the kitchen without a word and Mr. Powell, who I have to remind myself to address as Henry, gets to his feet and stands with his right hand resting lightly on my back as he introduces me to his cousin Noah’s family as Bastien’s girlfriend. The cousin’s wife says we met at the funeral, but that I probably don’t remember. That day—and the ones directly before and after it— was a blur of grief. Without the medication my

mother had the doctor prescribe, I doubt I would’ve been able to make it through the ceremony. I apologize and lie by saying that they do look familiar. Mr. Powell urges me to sit down and asks if I’d like something to drink. I take a seat next to the youngest child, who is tapping her toes on the living room carpet as if to invisible music. In a minute Jeremy returns with my drink instead of his father. It’s a tall glass of burgundy liquid on ice which I remember Bastien referring to as ‘Sorrel.’ As he places the glass in my hands, Jeremy says, “My mom says it only has a dash of rum in it to help preserve the drink.” He shrugs as though the fact is meaningless. I sip my Sorrel, which has a deliciously sweet tartness to it, and make small talk with the cousin’s family and Jeremy. When Mr. Powell reclaims his seat, I announce that I’m going into the kitchen to say hello to Joyce and inquire whether she wants any help. “She’s got Noah’s eldest, Claudia, in there helping,” Mr. Powell tells me with a wave of his hand. “They have it under control. But you go in and say hello.” Invisible goose bumps gather on my skin as I stride towards the kitchen. I’ve been afraid to come here, even as I wanted to feel closer to

Bastien’s family, but aside from the jolt I felt when Jeremy opened the door this is not how I imagined the night would be. I don’t feel magically closer to Bastien’s family or that we have some shared purpose because of him. If anything, being here reminds me that we barely know each other. In the kitchen the girl who must be Claudia is stirring the contents of one pot while Joyce peeks into the oven at a roasting ham. “Ah, Leah,” she says as she closes the oven door and notices me hovering by the counter. “How are you, child?” The tenderness in her voice reminds me of Abigail and tears spring to my eyes, though I hadn’t felt them lurking. I blink them away but can’t steady my voice enough to reply for another few seconds yet. “I’m okay,” I say finally. “How are you?” Joyce nods and takes a step closer to Claudia. “Abigail said you were doing better.” As an aside to Claudia she says, “We’ll mind this for a few minutes—you take a break and join the others, okay?” Claudia dutifully leaves the kitchen and when it’s just the two of us I tell Joyce that I have Bastien’s laptop, a few more of his clothes and one of his sketchbooks in my dad’s car for her. These things don’t seem enough to bring her. I’ve often felt, because Bastien and I had

knit our lives together, that I was the one who lost him when he died. But we were only together for a little over a year, and much of what I lost was the future we’ll never have. Bastien’s parents watched him take his first steps, say his first words, pinned his earliest sketches to their refrigerator. One of them would’ve brought him to take his driver’s test. Always there would’ve been someone to take care of him when he was sick, or cheer for him when he came home with good grades, or lecture him when he acted up. With Joyce I sense his loss most strongly. She wears her pain closer to the surface than Mr. Powell or Jeremy—not in the all-encompassing way that I once did, but in what feels like a deep wistfulness which spikes when I mention Bastien’s things. Joyce wraps her fingers around the locket hanging from her neck and says, “Henry doesn’t like to talk about him very much. It seems to make it harder for him, but I feel the opposite.” In the beginning I didn’t want to talk about anything else or to anyone else. I’m no longer surprised that Bastien’s gone, but I’ll never stop feeling his absence. “I prefer to talk about him too,” I say. “He used to…” I hesitate for the same reason I was never able to finish my last letter to Joyce; I don’t want her to think I sound

unbalanced. People think of being in love as existing in some kind of altered state which they revere yet are quick to place limits on. “What?” Joyce prompts, her eyes lingering on mine. “I’d…hear his voice wherever I went and whatever I was doing. I’d have entire conversations with him in my head because I couldn’t be without him.” “I do that too,” Joyce says quietly. “And he comes to me with messages in dreams.” “What kind of messages?” I ask, curious. Joyce stares at the steam rising from the pots on the stove, but doesn’t make a move towards them. “Things about his father or his brother most often, and things that make me feel better too.” “And he’s well in the dreams?” I ask, my eyes damp again. “He’s well and happy.” Joyce touches my hand. “He’s fine, Leah. I believe he’s only sad when he thinks of how we unhappy we are here without him.” I want to believe her; I wish I had that kind of faith. But it helps to think that she believes this. And Bastien would come in dreams if he could, I know he would. He’s come to me too; it’s just that I can never entirely trust whether what I experience is him or something of my own

making. “This is why we’re here tonight,” Joyce says firmly. “For him.” I feel Bastien in the air between us, a force of light and warmth. It’s as vivid a feeling as I’ve ever experienced when he’s come to me alone, only those times were usually in or near sleep. I rub the corner of my left eye casually, as though I’m battling an eyelash rather than tears. Always, I’m happier when he comes, and it’s right to sense him here, no matter who the experience is springing from him. I bob my head in acceptance. “Is there anything I can do back here to help?” I offer as I find my voice. A smile flirts with Joyce’s lips. “Bastien said you couldn’t cook.” “It’s true—I’m pretty useless in the kitchen.” Cheer leaks into my mouth and cheeks. Joyce pushes up her sleeves, grabs a wooden spoon from the top of the stove and then pauses to look at me. “So was he.” “I know. We were both awful.” “A good match then,” Joyce declares and accepts my offer of help anyway. Eventually Claudia returns to help also, which makes up for my ineptitude in the kitchen. After the meal and the dishes, and after

Noah’s family have gone, Bastien’s family and I climb into his father’s car and go to midnight mass together. They might have been my family too, someday, and I notice how restless Jeremy is during the mass, like he wishes he was someplace else, but that Joyce and Henry listen intently to the minister. Like Bastien, I enjoy the carols the most and when the choir raises their voices to sing “Carol of the Bells” I listen with extra care, trying to find him in the notes.

Twenty-Seven Christmas Day is spent at my Aunt Ruth’s house, as usual, and everyone except my cousin Evan and his girlfriend Daisy studiously avoids asking what I’ve been doing with myself out east, like they don’t want to have to deal with any tricky topics over the holiday. This both surprises me and works to my advantage, but I’m happy enough to discuss my job and summer school plans with Evan and Daisy, who I know won’t judge or worry about me the way any of my older relatives might. Watching their twins alternately sob at imagined injustices and dart energetically around the living room throughout the day keeps us all occupied and distracted. My grandfather (the one from Victoria) isn’t accustomed to being around young children anymore and it’s amusing to watch him struggle to contain his grumpiness at their antics. A couple of days after Christmas I have lunch with Joyce, Abigail and my mother, who I made the mistake of insulting by not asking her along initially. I also take the opportunity to phone Iliana Lazaroy while I’m home, knowing that she, too, will be back in Burnaby for Christmas. We meet for coffee one afternoon and

she says she tried to call me a couple of times after she heard about Bastien’s death. I tell her that there were many messages that I didn’t reply to at the time and briefly explain what the past year of my life has been like, Liam excepted. Iliana has been busy with student government, which comes as no surprise, and has been thinking of going into law, like Yunhee. We exchange email addresses and cell phone numbers and when I hear a text message come in later that evening I presume it’s either from her or Yunhee. When I pick up my phone to look I don’t recognize the long string of numbers the text’s been sent from, but the content instantly reveals who it’s from: Leah, thanks for your letter. I’m glad to hear that there are no hard feelings. I think most of what when wrong was down to timing and both of us not being in the best headspace. I want to wish you the best too. I hope you’re still planning to go back to uni soon and I hope you’ve had a very happy Christmas. I want you to know there wasn’t anyone else while I was in Canada. I was angry with you when I left but I’m not anymore. I only wish we’d had more time but I would happily still consider you a friend. Maybe someday our

paths will cross again.

I immediately type back: It’s really good to hear from you. Thanks for being truthful with me. It means a lot to me to know that and I’m relieved that you’re not angry anymore. Uni is definitely still on the cards and Christmas was happy, although different than I expected. I wish we’d had more time together too and I hope you’re right about our paths crossing again someday.

I send the message off and stare at the screen, hoping he’ll reply a second time, but it’s not until the early hours of the morning of the thirtieth, when I’m zipping my suitcase and preparing to leave for the airport to catch my return flight to Toronto that I notice a text message has come in while I was sleeping. Leah, I just need to know—is it still there for you?

A shiver slides down my spine and tickles the small of my back. Why would Liam write that? Is he trying to torture me by keeping himself on my mind?

The truth is that I haven’t thought about him as often since I’ve been home, but that’s only because I’ve been distracted by my efforts to catch up with people and the place itself. I know that I’ll think of Liam every time I walk by the square in Oakville and every time I pass The Rose and Crown. I’ll crave him when I get into bed alone at night and think about his warm hands and mouth on me, melting me inside, and his cock pushing into me, turning me hotter still. I feel warm and ready for him, remembering how wild I felt seeing the lust in his eyes when he watched us in the mirror. I don’t know why he’s asking now but I type back: Yes, it’s all still there.

I hit send before I can chicken out and at least delete the ‘all.’ After the message has been transmitted across the Atlantic I realize that in my haste I forgot to pose the same question to him. I text a second message hot on the heels of the first: Is it there for you?

Shortly afterwards my mother and father drive me to the airport together (my grandfather

took the ferry home to Victoria yesterday) and along the way I ogle my phone with such frequency that my mother comments on it. I laugh off her words and say that Yunhee and have I turned into texting addicts. There’s an eight-hour time difference between Dublin and Vancouver, which means it’s the middle of the night in Ireland and I could be waiting awhile for a reply. With Liam so many thousands of miles away what he has to say won’t make any practical difference, but the answer still matters. I want him to have me on his mind for a while yet, like he’ll be on mine. I want to believe it hurts a little to think he’ll probably never see me again. I can’t see that in his first text message, but I know he would’ve seen it in my letter, and when I think about how I’ve been the first one to reveal my feelings to him, so many times now, I feel like a fourteenyear-old with a persistent crush on a guy she’s not sure really knows that she’s alive. It’s only when my parents hug me goodbye just outside the security gate that I stop actively anticipating Liam’s return message and focus on them. My mother skims a hand over my hair and says, “It was so nice to have you home for a few days over Christmas, but what makes me even happier is knowing that you’re going back to school this summer.”

I’m well aware that my parents feared that I may never get it together again. At my worst I couldn’t think far ahead enough to consider what would happen to me. Making myself eat in the mornings was all the challenge I could handle. Now there are several larger challenges ahead of me. Summer school. Finding an illustrator and then publisher for Johnny Yang. Searching out a new place to live for when I head back to school full-time in the fall, and then a new part-time job to accompany my new location. My brain isn’t as sharp as it used to be —my critical thinking muscles have grown flabby —and grades could be a challenge too. Once I get off academic probation I want to remain in good standing. But for the moment I smile freely at my mother and say, “I knew that would make you both happy.” “But it’s what you want too, isn’t it?” my father asks, with a hint of worry in his voice. “Yeah, it’s what I want too.” Very much so. I want to stretch myself intellectually again. Learn. Grow. My body isn’t the only part of me capable of feeling greedy. My brain feels it too. I fold my arms around my father and hug him goodbye. “I love you guys.” “We love you,” my father says. “Send me a text later so that I know you got home, okay?”

I tell him I will and after I’ve landed in Toronto, reclaimed my baggage, picked up Armstrong and am cruising towards Abigail’s house in the back of a cab, the first thing I do is text my father. There’s just enough time for me to hit the shower before heading out to O’Keefe’s for my shift at four o’clock (an hour later than my usual start time because of the flight); the unpacking will have to be done when I get back. Because of the time difference between British Columbia and Ontario, I feel a little strange when I’ve freshened up and am walking to work, like the position of the sun in the sky doesn’t match the hour in my head. Once I’ve been back in the shop for a couple of hours, though, Marta and I filling each other in on our respective holidays, my mind slots neatly back into Eastern Standard Time. There aren’t many customers and after Marta’s left for the day I spend a lot of time sitting down, reading through the paperback copy of Oryx and Crake that I picked up at the mall in Burnaby; if I want to go back to school this summer it’s time I stop rereading the same book and experience something new—and periodically checking cell phone messages. So far there’s one from my father and another from Yunhee, but not a single word from Liam. I don’t think he’d ask me an intimate

question like that and leave me hanging forever, but I’m impatient and worried that his answer will be different than mine and that it will make what hasn’t ever really stopped hurting—in one way or another—since the day I met Natalie ache worse. Every once in a while I hear someone come through the front door and raise my head up from Oryx and Crake to acknowledge them. On one occasion it’s a lady desperate for a copy of the Downton Abbey Christmas special and on another it’s a trio of teenage girls huddled around a cell phone, giggling, who ultimately buy nothing. As the time creeps near to eight o’clock I begin tidying the shop in preparation for closing, and with only five minutes to go I hear a customer, likely the final one of the night, saunter through the door. I whirl around to smile at the late arrival and he’s standing there in a gray wool coat, stunning and larger than life because he’s the last person I expected to find there. His cheeks and chin are flecked with stubble like they would be when we’d meet in the afternoons before he’d shaved, his hands are buried in his pockets, and he has a tentative, almost lost, look in his eyes, like he’s not sure how I’ll react. I walk slowly towards him, my feet silent on the floor underneath me, as though I’m gliding.

“Hey,” he says, and even that one word sounds Irish in its intonation. Irish and uncertain. I can’t believe he’s here. My heart’s skipping savagely in my chest, like it means to kill me. My body aches through and through and my face has been frozen in an expression of unsmiling shock. “Hi,” I say, my voice hushed because I can’t wrap my head around his presence. “I thought…you were in Ireland.” “I was.” Liam’s vivid blue eyes hold on mine. “And I will be. I have to be on set on the third. But…” He slides his hands out of his pockets and holds his arms stiffly at his sides. “It’s…only the thirtieth.” I don’t know why I’m afraid to touch him. Maybe it seems too good to be true, like if I step forward he’ll dissolve. “So, Leah, you’re starting to make me nervous,” he continues. “I thought —” I nod decisively as I interrupt him. “You thought right.” This turn of events is harder to think my way through than a text message reply would’ve been, but so much better that it never would’ve occurred to me to even wish for it. My emotions are tearing ahead of my mind, leaving it in the dust. “Yeah?” he asks, his head tilting like he’s

beginning to relax into the moment. There’s still an unbridged gap of several feet between our bodies. I stare at him from my side of the divide, exhaling carefully, like I’m made of porcelain. “Yeah,” I say. “The third is…” “The third is Tuesday,” Liam says sensibly. “I have a flight back to Dublin via London on the evening of the second. So, Leah”—Liam steps forward into the gap he’s just eliminated and runs his fingers through my hair, his hand softly stroking my neck—“is it closing time yet?” I pull his mouth down to mine and kiss him in a way that leaves no doubt how much I’ve missed him. I kiss him until I’m forced, by the need to fill my lungs with oxygen, to stop. “Where are you staying?” I whisper. “The Holiday Inn down the road from the train station,” Liam says, one of his hands resting lightly on my ass as he tries to catch his breath too. I smile with a glow that feels as though it could rival the sun. “So you did miss me.” Liam breaks into a grin every bit as brilliant as mine. “Of course I missed you. How could you not know that?” I shake my head casually, signifying that I don’t have a good explanation for my ignorance. Obviously I was confused.

“Okay, so let me lock up,” I tell him, and it’s literally become impossible for me to stop grinning. “All right then,” Liam says happily. “Hurry it up. We have weeks to make up for.” Yeah, we do. And I have so many things to work through, a life to rebuild, but what I’ve been doing with Liam is part of the process, and the rest of it can certainly wait another three days. “I know,” I say, curling my hand around his waist because I’m not afraid to touch him anymore. “Thanks for coming back.” Liam’s eyes gleam like he was glad to do it. Then he fixes me with that special voracious look of his that always makes me feel like a wild thing. My heart begins to race again as I reach around the front door and flip the ‘open’ sign over to read ‘closed.’ I have no idea what will become of us after the next few days, but suddenly I absolutely believe that when it comes to Liam and me, things will turn out exactly as they should, whatever that’s supposed to be.

Acknowledgments Can you thank a town in your acknowledgments? If so I’d like to thank Oakville for its many charms, which have often made me want to write about it…and now I finally have. Enormous thanks to fellow Canuck writer Courtney Summers for reading Come See About Me, offering her sage opinion and inspiring me to move forward with it.

Special thanks to Nicholas J. Ambrose (everythingindie.com) for casting his eagle eye on my words, Jack Blaine for answering my many e-book questions and Victoria Marini for her enthusiasm and doing everything within her power to bring

Come See About Me to bookshelves.

Finally, thanks to my mom for talking through some of the book’s medical material with me and my husband, Paddy, for his continual support in reading my work and cheering me on.