Chapter 6
YOU’RE REALLY NOT GOING TO shut up about this, are you?
I stick out my tongue at Alba.
Listen, I tell her, for the hundredth time in the last two days. I’m just saying I could still do it.
It’s Wednesday night after ten o’clock, and we’re in Alba’s truck driving home from seeing a movie in town. We’re supposed to be heading back to her place, but she drives right past the driveway to the B&B and looks at me. Her eyes are direct, devilish.
So prove it, she says, and minutes later we pull into the parking lot of our former high school.
I’ll admit, even to myself, I’ve been a little hot-headed since the run-in with Alistair at the post office two days ago.
I’ve done a lot of blustering about how worried he’d been, how terrified he’d looked when my foot slipped—slightly slipped.
I may have gone a little overboard in my assurances to Alba, and maybe to myself, that I could still climb up onto the roof of our school’s storage shed and live to tell the tale.
Alba only watched me with that calculating stare every time I brought it up.
But being in front of the high school now, I can admit this is probably a dumb idea. I was definitely a thrill-seeker as a teenager and often didn’t think before I acted. But when you’re seventeen life feels vast, endless, like it can go on forever.
I learned only five years later how far that was from the truth.
Now in my thirties, I’m not as nimble or as brave as I used to be. My balance is still pretty good though.
Alba gets out of the truck and zips up her charcoal, knee-length winter jacket.
She saunters over to the shed. It occurs to me there are actually students still going to school here, who would have even been here earlier today.
Something about this seems almost impossible, the idea that life here has continued, even after I left.
I step out of the car and shake my head to try and clear it, zipping up my red parka with a shiver.
Neither of us brought hats or gloves since we were only going to the movies.
I put my already-cold hands in my coat pockets and walk over to Alba, rolling my shoulders back and jutting my chin up in an act of feigned confidence.
This is the spot, right? She gestures to the one corner of the shed where I used to climb up onto the dumpster, and grab the lip of the roof, which I can’t help but notice is currently covered in icicles.
Then I’d hoist myself up from there. But, if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I have the arm or the abdominal strength for it anymore.
Yep, I say, nodding wildly, trying to hype myself up to do this.
Well, go on then, Alba prods, gesturing towards the shed in invitation. If there was no reason for Al to be nervous, why don’t you show me how carefree and talented and freakishly-balanced you still are?
Al. The name slices through me like a razor. I hate that she’s using his nickname, like they’re friends or something.
It occurs to me then that they might actually be friends.
They might grab a drink at the pub together sometimes, he might come help fix things around the B&B or play on her softball team in the summer months.
And I—living what feels like a million kilometres away, on a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean—would have no idea.
This thought gives me a pang of something akin to jealousy.
Has it ever occurred to you, Alba drawls, and I’m already rolling my eyes at whatever she’s about to say. That Al is an excellent judge of when something is, or isn’t, dangerous?
No, I snap back at her. That hasn’t ever occurred to me and frankly, that’s impossible.
Why?
Because he’s a stupid, rule-following cop who senses danger when there is none. I was fine and he freaked out. I try to laugh like this is funny, but it comes out harsh even to my own ears.
Oh my god, why are you so stubborn about everything? She rubs her face in exasperation.
I can’t think of a retort, so I head closer to the large garbage bin, trying not to stomp in my winter boots the whole way over. I don’t even get one leg up before Alba is there, pulling me back down.
Stop, she says, shaking her head. I thought you were done with this shit Flora, and there’s a change in her tone that gives me pause. Refusing to admit you’re wrong at any cost, even if you don’t want to do something. Even if you’re miserable.
I know what she’s referencing, and I feel myself recoil.
Not only did I flat out ignore Alba and her dad about selling the lake house when they insisted that I might change my mind in a few years, but this is also about Justin. About the fight Alba and I had three years ago when she left her job on the cruise ship. Left me on the cruise ship, too.
The year after the pandemic, when we were finally allowed back onboard the ships, felt different somehow.
I could feel Alba slipping away from me.
Like that brief stint at home in Cape Breton had changed something for her—made her see this wasn’t the life she wanted.
I think she was finally homesick, and no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I couldn’t help the resentment that settled into my bones.
I couldn’t relate to wanting to go back to Christmas Island.
Not when so much pain was waiting for me there.
So, as she seemed to pull herself away, I drew someone else in.
Justin was new with our cruise ship company that year. He had a buzz cut that I kind of hated, but his brooding dark brown eyes and undeniably attractive features made up for it. I thought maybe Alba would find relief in seeing that I could be someone else’s problem. Not her burden alone.
But then came the fight.
She accused me of letting him control my life and making all of my decisions for me.
I had become this empty shell and honestly, it was easier not to think so much and let someone else steer the boat for a while.
But to Alba, I remained adamant that I cared about him, that she didn’t understand our relationship.
Alba lost it. She begged me to get out of my own way and break up with him, telling me I deserved better and that I should know that, deep down.
That we should get the hell out of here and go back to Cape Breton, clear our heads, then figure out a path forward.
Together, she kept saying. We can figure it out together Flora, but not here. I can’t stay here anymore.
But it only made me dig my heels in deeper. I didn’t want to admit that I was wrong—wrong about so many things. And I definitely didn’t want to go home. There wasn’t a home waiting for me anymore.
This, I say, and realize I’m breathing heavily, Has nothing to do with that. This is about proving a point.
And what point is that, exactly?
That he is a paranoid, control freak who audibly gasped when I slipped on a little snow. As I finish my sentence, I try again to climb onto the dumpster, but Alba is there before I can get both legs up.
You’re not doing this.
Of course I am.
No, you’re not, she says, raising her voice.
Yes, I am, I say even more loudly. I dart out of her grasp and run to the other side of the dumpster.
I might be faster, but she is definitely stronger than me.
Flora this is so stupid, she yells, pulling me back down onto the ground again. Do you even know what you’re being stubborn about anymore? You’ve lost the plot, babe!
I feel a bit like a feral animal trying to get out of her grip. My sudden urge from earlier to pummel her into a snowbank rears back up. And so I do exactly that: I put her in a headlock and drag her over to the nearby pile of snow.
Get off of me! She shouts, flailing her arms wildly, as I dunk her head into the snow.
I am behaving like an actual child, but I don’t care.
Her strength wins out and suddenly she’s the one who has me pinned down.
She holds me against the snowbank with one arm and rubs my hair into the snow with her other hand, making it into a tangled mess that she knows I hate.
Not my hair! I shriek as I furiously try to move my head away from her.
Admit it, she says through clenched teeth. That Alistair is perfectly nice and you’re just being an asshole.
No, I say, continuing to shake my head to try to get away from her.
Admit that if you climbed onto that roof you’d fall and break your neck!
NO!
It’s at this point I notice a reflection of colour in the snowbank—blue and red, to be exact.
No, I say again, my voice hoarse, as I whip my head to see what I know is coming. Alba turns her head too and spots the police car at the same time I do, as it pulls into the parking lot beside her truck. What are the chances it’s another police officer?
Alba starts laughing like a hyena.
This isn’t funny, I snap, but it’s too late. She howls, rolling around in the snow, tears streaming down her face. I wish her laugh wasn’t so infectious. I really am trying my best not to get caught up in it, but I feel my mouth twitch slightly towards a smile.
What the devil, Alistair says, getting out of his car and walking over to us, is going on here?
He glances between Alba and I, both of us looking disheveled and probably insane.
He looks… perfect, my stupid brain supplies automatically.
He looks, put together, I silently correct myself.
He’s wearing his uniform tonight, the accompanying coat zipped up, his thick gloves probably keeping his hands warm.
He doesn’t have a hat on, his hair looking again like he came from the barber mere moments ago.
I close my eyes and try really hard not to think about my own hair.
Alistair’s eyes fall back to me and he looks almost shocked. I get the distinct sense that he’s trying not to get swept up in Alba’s laughter either, which is still bursting out of her as she continues to roll around in the snow. But of course, he’s hiding it well with that signature frown.