12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Ryan
M y physio appointment on Friday went fine. I did mention the work I’d done the day before—which had been pretty easy in comparison to what the three other men had accomplished.
Marcus was pleased I’d gotten some exercise without exacerbating my injury.
I did not ask him about the guy I’d seen him kissing earlier in the week.
He assigned me more exercises and sent me on my way.
Marnie, the assistant librarian, had convinced me to try a J.D. Robb book set in the future. She explained about the woman police detective in New York, some criminal she was investigating, and that there were nearly sixty books with two coming out each year. In other words—if I liked book one, I was set practically forever.
I had enjoyed book one, so she found me the next twelve and let me check them out. She casually mentioned the library had eReaders and MP3 players—donated by a generous patron—so people could check out digital material. I thanked her for her consideration, said I wouldn’t want to deprive someone else of the opportunity, and headed out with two bags of books.
She said she’d collect the next twelve for me.
I thanked her. Her vibe read cautious, but friendly. Sort of like myself. I was open to being friends with someone—in a superficial way—but I wasn’t interested in being someone’s best buddy.
Liar. You would totally be Simeon’s best buddy if he wanted.
As I sat at home in my recliner, I reflected on the past week and all that had happened. The ranch, the little house Simeon was building, as well as Maddox and Ravi’s home.
Then I thought about all the people I’d met.
Obviously I’d known Justin, Gio, Mercer, and Maddox were gay. Plus, by logical extension, Justin’s husband Stanley and Maddox’s husband Ravi. Or at least bi or pan or something. Now I suspected my physiotherapist was gay. Okay, so that was a good number of queer guys in my life. Likely there were more, and certainly there might be lesbians as well.
Simeon’s gay .
That I hadn’t expected. I knew better than to stereotype. One of the buffest, beefiest, and most hardcore soldiers in our unit had been gay.
He died.
Four men dead. Four men I would’ve given my own life for. Because they had families who cared about them. People who missed them. People who mourned them. If I’d taken any one of their places, no one would miss me.
Trying not to feel sorry for myself was a challenge. A crappy father just really made for a shitty recovery. Who was I doing this for? Him? Yeah, no way. Myself? That was logical, of course.
I eyed the clock on the wall. Seven o’clock on Friday night. I didn’t have an appointment on the ranch until Monday morning. I’m going to go out of my mind . My gaze wandered to the pile of books Marnie had sought for me. With the promise of more. I hadn’t been a big reader before I’d gone overseas. Playing games took up all my time. During my time in the war, we’d been constantly on edge. Reading had been impossible there as well.
Sitting in this chair, as comfortable as I could get, wasn’t helping my disposition. Night had long fallen. We were just a month away from the winter solstice.
My flip phone sat on the side table, hooked up to the charger. Which was a bit of a joke since I never called anyone. My power barely went down each day. Still, phones were a lifeline I’d never take for granted.
Damn .
I wasn’t certain I’d ever felt so alone in my life. So disconnected. So…lonely.
This wasn’t how it’s supposed to be.
All the physio in the world was not going to make me well enough to go back to Ukraine. Canada had basically swept my involvement under the rug—as they should. I certainly didn’t want Canada drawn into that war. I wanted the Ukrainians to win—but I didn’t wish for a world war to accomplish that.
Even I understood geopolitics.
But I didn’t know how things were going. I read the Mission City Gazette once a week. If I had a computer, I could check the articles that were only posted there.
Even the library was closed—if I wanted to go down and read the Vancouver Sun or find the courage to sit at a computer.
Nope. Not doing that. Just the idea set off a panic within me that I could barely control.
Slowly, I lowered the footrest. After a moment, I rose.
Hey, no dizziness. That’s great . The head rushes didn’t always happen, but when they did, I found them disconcerting. The doctor said eventually they should pass. Like eventually the pain would lessen. Eventually the scars would lighten. Eventually I’d get some—but not all—of my life back.
I liked the doctor I’d secured in Mission City. Dr. Marco Raymond was in his mid-forties with graying brown hair and an infectious smile. I liked him. And I should be listening to him more often.
A gentle stroll down First Avenue will do the trick . Surely some businesses would be open. I’d spotted a Greek Restaurant. Subway would be open. Oh, and Timmie’s, of course. I couldn’t have a coffee, but I could have an herbal tea. Or I could get in the car and drive to The Junction to go to Starbucks—
Nope. Walk. Walking to The Junction was an eventual goal. A healthy person could make the walk in just over twenty minutes. I figured I could, one day, make it in about an hour. And, fortunately, I could take a shuttle bus home. Or a cab. Or I could sit at the White Spot for two hours, get my strength back, and return to this tiny apartment. To what end, I had no idea. To say I’d done it? To feel a sense of accomplishment? That I was human?
Folly .
Still, Marcus had asked me to draw up a list of ten goals, and that walk was on it.
I snagged my peacoat and headed for the door.
Phone.
I nearly left it behind but, like, shit could happen. Bad things could happen…even in small towns in Southern British Columbia. After I locked the door, I pocketed my keys, took a lungful of air, and headed down to First Avenue. Having an apartment so close to the center of town was nice. Mission City’s downtown was nothing like Vancouver’s in terms of business and vibrancy. As I passed the little car dealership, though, a sense of rightness settled in me. A sense of peace I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Only a few tables in Timmie’s were occupied. I caught sight of a cute guy with his nose buried in a newspaper. Old-fashioned or technophobe? As much as I wanted to ask, I’d never be so bold. Even as a tuft of hair fell across his forehead, I headed toward the counter.
A young woman in a hijab smiled at me.
“Uh, small herbal tea and one chocolate Timbit.”
“Great.” She rang up my total, and I swiped my card.
Three minutes later, I was heading out of the store after giving the cute guy one final perusal. A missed opportunity? You were never social before…why might you be now? Right. Except…he looked lonely. I felt lonely.
I passed Stavros’s, but no scent of Greek food reached me. When I reached Subway, though, the smell of fresh bread assailed me. I’d eaten a fresh salad and a hot dog for dinner.
Some bad habits died hard. I figured the healthy salad shit zeroed out the nitrites. I was supposed to see a nutritionist eventually as well. Dad offered to have someone cook meals for me. I’d put my foot down—having a cleaner was one thing. I really would’ve struggled with housework. I did not, however, need someone preparing my meals. That much, I could handle. I bit into the soft Timbits goodness and a rush of nostalgia hit me. My dad wasn’t much for traditions, but he’d allowed me to ride my bike to Tim Hortons once a week to buy a six-pack of Timbits. If they didn’t go stale, I might’ve tried to make them last. Alas, they needed to be consumed in the first day or two.
I’d never offered one to either my father or any of the staff. Nope, like the little selfish brat I’d been, I’d hoarded them for myself.
Move on.
After folding the paper wrapper, I tossed it into a recycling container.
Except I couldn’t move on. In order to accept what happened to me in the war, I had to reconcile who I’d been, why I’d gone, and what I’d thought I could accomplish. Only then could I accept that I’d failed in my mission.
Not fail.
Justin’s soft voice carried through my consciousness as I crossed the street.
Reframe.
I finished my tea and tossed the cup into another recycling container. Then I passed a gift shop showcasing plenty of lovely things. I had no one to buy something for, but I still stopped to gaze into the window. Such pretty things. Some sturdy. Some delicate. All destined, hopefully, to good homes. I was about to move away when a painting caught my notice. I opened the door and stepped inside.
While outside the weather was misty and chilly, a blast of warm air greeted me.
A woman at the counter glanced over—likely because some bells rang when I entered. She waved. “I’m Lena. Whatever you need, you just let me know.”
“Uh, thank you.” I made my way over to the painting. “Is this a print?”
She came to my side. “No, that’s a Tessa Carlyle original.” Lena pointed. “She brings me smaller pieces and gives me a discount. Still, they’re…expensive.”
I squinted to read the price tag. I whistled. “Is everything in here that expensive?” This wasn’t an art gallery by any stretch of the imagination. She did have one display that appeared to be original artwork of various kinds. Scarves, earrings, necklaces, sculptures, and a number of other clearly unique items.
Lena appeared to follow my gaze. “We have a decent-sized Indigenous population in and around Mission City. They’re specifically from the Stó:lō people. Several of those items are from a Matsqui artist who lives over in Abbotsford.”
“They’re amazing.” My mind wandered to Kennedy, Rainbow, and Avery. Surely I’d be allowed to give them little gifts, right? They weren’t my therapist. Justin was out but maybe something for Simeon?
I’d never bought a gift for anyone before. What did one buy for one’s father when the man had everything? His derisive and dismissive treatment of my kindergarten art project ensured I never did that again. I told the teacher that my dad loved my art. Meanwhile, I tossed all my projects into a garbage can on Granville Street so they never even made it into the house.
“For certain I want the painting—it’s stunning.” And would fill my apartment with something vibrant. The nature scene was of a falcon scooping a salmon out of the river. The motion leapt off the canvas in a way that stunned.
Lena grinned. “She also does risqué paintings as well. Those are way more expensive.”
I managed to smile back. “I think one painting is enough for now. Although…” I curled my hand around my phone. “If she replaces that one, could you let me know?”
“Sure.” She held my gaze. “Or I can just give you her card and you can email her. She actually answers the damn thing herself. She’s not as well-known as she should be outside of the Lower Mainland of Vancouver and Cedar Valley. I think when word gets around, she’s going to be in high demand. As it is, she teaches classes at the university. So freaking talented. Let me get her card for—”
“No.” I winced when Lena jumped a little at my vehemence. I tried to smile. “I’m happy for you to get the commission. It’s only fair…you introduced me to her.”
“Sure.” She said the word uncertainly.
I pointed to the display of various Indigenous items. “I have several special women in my life…perhaps you could help me select a few things?”
She beamed. “Of course.”
Forty minutes later, I left with a woven cloth bag full of various things that I might or might not be able to gift, as well as the painting—wrapped securely against the elements.
Lena’s unrelenting smile brought me warmth.
The fact I was charging this to my father’s credit card brought only a moment of hesitation. My finances weren’t sorted yet. He’d given me the card to use it however I saw fit, with a limit that would’ve fed a village in Ukraine for more than a week. Since I’d…encouraged…him to make regular contributions to humanitarian causes in the region, I could buy these things for the women who worked at the ranch on my father’s dime and not feel guilty. Given how much the man was worth, this was nothing to him. Literally.
I strolled down the street until I arrived at The Owl’s Nest.
Oh good, they’re still open. I should’ve checked. Oh wait, I can’t.
Stupid internet being connected to stupid computers and smart phones.
Speaking of phones…you have one. The store has an ad in the paper. Put two and two together and you make a phone call to find out their hours of operation.
The door swung open with Rainbow’s nearly identical sister standing there in a billowy royal-purple cotton blouse and a gypsy-style red-and-gold skirt. “Are you coming in?” She met my gaze. “Your hands are full, and so I figured if you were coming in, then I’d open the door, and if you weren’t, then I could just wish you a good night and close the door again because all the hot air’s being sucked out, and Dickens gets really cranky when he pays the electric bill—”
“Hey!” A disembodied voice came from some direction I couldn’t pinpoint.
My gaze met a soft-blue one. She grinned.
I stepped in from the cold and damp.
The bookstore was much as it had been just over a week ago when I’d been here picking up the RD Watts young-adult fantasy novels.
My mouth opened to speak when Sunshine snapped her fingers. “You’re Ryan. Dickens got Raven to sign those books for you. I remember. Sorry.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “It’s been a bit of a crazy week.” She pointed around the store.
Aside from the cat who lay atop a cat tree and was cleaning itself—and alternately staring out the window to the street—I noticed the decorations. I grinned. “You have been busy.”
She nodded. “We always wait until after Remembrance Day. But soon after, we go nuts because Christmas is, obviously, our busiest season.” She eyed my bag and painting. “Would you like me to tuck those behind the counter for you while you browse?”
“Uh, sure.”
The gorgeous blond guy appeared from behind a door. “Don’t let her bulldoze you.”
Apparently undaunted, Sunshine gently took my painting and the bag. “Dickens, you want me to sell books…right?”
“Well…yeah…” He frowned. “But I also want people to feel free to come in and browse without pressure.”
“Weren’t you heading home for dinner with Spike?”
He pursed his lips. Then he whistled.
The cat leapt down from its perch and sauntered over to him.
To this point, I hadn’t noticed how big the cat actually was. Not necessarily fat…but sturdy.
Dickens waved. “Spike and I appreciate you being willing to close up on a Friday night.” He turned his attention to me. “Although I always appreciate a purchase, I’m more interested in forming relationships with people living in Mission City. You’re new…beware the Dixon sisters.” With a wink, he and the cat departed, closing the door behind them.
“Well, I never…” Sunshine pressed a hand against her chest in clear mock offense.
With a smile, I wagged my finger. “Rainbow warned me about you. I’m not sharing any of my secrets.” Because this was the gossipy sister.
She arched an eyebrow. “That almost sounds like a challenge. I’m going to find you something special.”
And so she did.