Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
T he real estate sign in the yard feels like it’s mocking me—the bright red SOLD topper sits on the arm like a warning. I press my forehead against the cold glass of the window, leaving a gross oily smudge and a small fog spot where my breath had lingered. I sigh, wiping it away with my sleeve, then I blow another breath to clean it better, but instead of wiping it, I write a certain four-letter expletive in the mist, my finger squeaking across the glass as the sound echoes in the room.
From behind me, Mom’s voice cuts through my downward spiral of dread.
“Stop being so dramatic, Soleil,” she huffs as she walks into my room, arms loaded with packing tape and fresh cardboard boxes ready to be taped up and filled.
I swipe my hand across the glass, erasing the word. Mom exits, mumbling something in half French, half English about me being a pain in her “hass.”
Most of my things are already tucked away, stacked against the far wall. All I have now, besides my bed set, is a closet full of clothes and shoes. And I have no idea where all of that is going to go.
Dad’s voice calls from the hallway. “Soleil, this one’s yours.” He steps into the doorway, placing a box at my feet with a soft grunt. The box is labelled Soleil’s Stuffies , written in the scrawl of a younger me. I’d shoved them into the attic years ago, tired of seeing my old stuffed animals cluttering up my teenage bed.
“Do you want to sort through this, or donate what’s inside?” Dad asks, while peeking into the box. “Or should we load it into storage with the rest?”
I stare at the box, hesitating for a moment. “Donate the whole thing,” I say, taking a quick look inside. “There’s nothing in here worth keeping.”
Mom’s voice drifts in from the hallway—she’s carrying an overstuffed tote bag full of old clothes she’s probably collected to donate to the women’s shelter. “Are you going to donate all of your stuff?” she asks.
“Where else am I going to store it all?” I counter, letting out a hollow laugh. “Once you two jet off to Portugal, I’ll be couch-surfing until I can find a place… and a roommate.”
Mom sighs, her face softening in that gentle, motherly way that always makes me feel guilty. “I told you we’d support you for a few months until you find a roommate you like. Have you even looked for places yet?”
Honestly, the last thing I want is for my parents to foot the bill for my rent. I’m almost twenty-five, a university grad—I should be able to afford my own place. But I can’t. Not in Montreal, where listings get swarmed with applicants the second they go up. Some of the better listings have line-ups out the door for the viewing appointments. To get anything even remotely close to downtown, you need either a rock-solid bank account or a few roommates splitting costs.
Add to that the fact I’m still stuck doing contract jobs instead of working full-time in the biology career I studied for, and it pretty much disqualifies me from renting anywhere on my own.
“Or you can stay with your Auntie Rachel in Saint Catherines for the summer,” Mom suggests casually.
I fight back a groan—Aunt Rachel’s place sits on the edge of a tiny town swallowed up by endless farmland and gravel roads, basically in the middle of nowhere. And as if that weren’t enough, Aunt Rachel chain-smokes a pack a day and keeps three near-feral cats cooped up indoors, so staying with her is my last resort.
“Sure,” I say lightly, forcing a smile. “But that’s a Band-Aid, not a solution.”
Mom presses her lips together. “Someone’s bound to hire you eventually. It’s not like you’re unqualified.”
I roll my eyes. My parents’ generation is so naive when it comes to finding “work.” Sure, back in their day, you could walk into a business, dressed sharp, flash a firm handshake, and land the job—probably without much formal education or experience. That doesn’t even come close to cutting it anymore. Real life doesn’t just sync up with well-meaning optimism.
And let’s be honest: every so-called “entry-level field position” wants two years of hands-on experience. Classic catch-22: I can’t get a foot in the door without it, but no one’s willing to give me a chance to build that résumé.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck grinding through a mind-numbing data-entry job just to pay my overpriced phone bill. The position I’m actually hoping for? A role at écoForêt Inc.—a Quebec-based firm that specializes in sustainable forestry management and environmental impact assessments. It’s exactly the kind of work I’ve spent my entire undergrad preparing for. Unfortunately for me, they’re not hiring right now.
I grin and nod at Mom’s spiel, but inside, I’m secretly dying a little.
Dad clears his throat, fiddling with the watch he wears even though he’s retired. It’s an old habit he can’t entirely give up, a shiny reminder of three decades spent at a job that rewarded him handsomely—both in respect and in the enviable pension he now collects. A job he probably got with zero experience and zero education.
“Ken called a few days ago,” he says, trying to not sound too invasive. “Emma’s looking for a roommate in the fall. He also mentioned she’s heading out West to go tree planting again in a couple of weeks. I can ask him if Emma could get you a job?”
Of course Ken called. He’s Dad’s oldest friend from high school, who’s always cooking up some wild plan, from bikepacking across Mongolia to living in a van and driving to Baja. He raised Emma as a single parent with the same free-spirited energy, and now she’s found a calling for her summers—planting trees in the backwoods of Alberta.
I purse my lips, frustration flaring. “Dad, can you please not plan my life like I’m twelve? I’m not looking for babysitting gigs.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and before he can respond, I march into my closet and start sorting out what clothes can get packed and stored. Turning back to Dad, I try to lower my tone, but annoyance still seeps through every syllable. “And you brought up jobs with him because you knew I’d be left high and dry once you sold the house, right? That you’d feel guilty about your retirement plans?” I want him to admit I’m the one getting the short end of this stick.
An awkward silence fills the room.
“I just want to make sure you have something to fall back on until you find something better,” he says cautiously, like he’s talking to a frightened puppy. “Of course we feel bad about everything moving so quickly. We just want to make sure you’ll be okay once we’re gone.” He doesn’t add the part about not wanting to spend the whole trip worrying about me, but the thought certainly hangs there.
Then he tosses his last firecracker: “Emma’s a good kid. Remember when you were little and called her your cousin because you swore you looked alike?”
Back then, Dad and Ken would take us to the lake, and we’d pretend to be related. Nobody had the heart to point out that we looked nothing alike—Emma with her flaming-red hair and freckles, me with my caramel-brown hair and hazel eyes.
“And she’s responsible for her age… considering her circumstances of being raised by one of the craziest guys I know.” Dad adds.
Are you freaking kidding me? I bite my tongue. Hard. Because if I so much as hint at the truth? Let’s see, how about when I was supposed to be “babysitting” her at thirteen? She brought over a group of high-school senior boys to smoke pot in the backyard shed. Or the time she got her car wedged on a parking lot cinder block—she was sixteen, freaked out, and called me to help hoist the thing free. Luckily, I had a few friends who helped us handle it. And the grand prize: the night I found her in a bathroom at my twenty-first birthday party with my then-boyfriend’s best friend and a specific body part down her throat. She had just turned eighteen; he was twenty-three. Luckily, I got her home safely and gave him the “women who are barely legal shouldn’t be where we put our penises” talk.
On paper, Emma’s a good kid. She’s that “friendliest person in the room” type—big grin, ready to laugh, the sort who can charm your entire friend group in thirty seconds. But for me? She’s best digested in small doses. She’s an endless ball of wildfire energy, and if I stick around too long, the flames will get me.
Last summer, she posted endless photos of herself in dirt-stained planting gear, beaming like she’d won the lottery. Her captions sometimes read, Living my best life. From the outside, it’s hard to argue—she certainly looked like she was having a blast. But as enticing as her Instagram posts may seem, I can’t shake the memory of what I learned about tree planting a few years back.
“Dad, think about it for a second; really, go back and digest what you’re asking me to do here.” I say the words like I’m talking to a toddler. “Tree planting? Do you really think I can handle that? Me —the girl who despises wet socks, freaks out at the tiniest spider, has zero physical training—going tree planting ?” I echo, letting the words settle.
My mind wanders back to that CBC documentary I watched in my second-year biology elective. The camera had zoomed in on planters trudging down dirt roads, each strapped into these bulky planting bags stuffed with seedlings. The narrator outlined in detail what they were required to do daily, that workers were being paid per tree, planting rain or shine. The lifestyle itself looked traumatizing: ten-hour workdays, working six days on and only one day off, in remote areas with zero civilization around.
I distinctly remember thinking, those poor bastards , as I watched them drag themselves back to makeshift tents at the end of each day, sweaty and caked in dirt. They lived out of duffel bags, showered when they managed to hitch a ride into a nearby town, and ate questionable-looking meals prepared by someone designated “camp cook.” It felt more like a reality survival show than a documentary about a summer job. Everyone on screen seemed resigned to it too—like it was this weird badge of honour to push your body to its limits and still get up at dawn to do it all over again.
The documentary tried to be balanced, though, and I recall the planters calling it “life-changing.” Maybe there’s something about a sense of accomplishment, earning decent money, and forging intense friendships in the middle of nowhere. The narrator called it “a unique subculture of hard work and revelry.”
But all I remember were the swarms of bugs, the inevitable blisters, and people practically breaking their backs—though, to be fair, that documentary was from the early 2000s, when things were a little loose concerning health and safety. But not once have I ever imagined I’d join that crowd. So why is Dad now suggesting I catapult myself into this unfamiliar world? It’s light-years from any plan I’ve had—or thought I had—for my life.
Dad crosses his arms, leaning back like he’s about to deliver sage wisdom. “It’s good money. Tough work, sure, but at least you’d be earning a lot while you figure out your next move. You’ll be away from the city, surrounded by nature, which might do you good. Plus, it’s only a few months—it gives you time to keep sending out résumés and line up roommates once you get back. By then, more students will be looking for people to share lodging with, so it won’t be such a scramble.” He adds, “And if Emma can do it, how hard can it be?”
I chew my lip. It’s hard to argue with those positives.
But…
“It’s such a big leap from my current job,” I say—which is the least physical job I’ve ever had—as a glorified data-entry bitch. “I was kinda hoping to get a job as a research assistant for the summer—monitoring nesting sites or doing more lab work, not some dirty planting camp working ten-hour days.”
He levels me with a pointed look. “Have you been applying?”
“Of course,” I say, a little too fast.
“Any word yet?”
I pause. “Well, no.”
“Fieldwork comes in all flavours, Sunshine. If nothing else, a summer of planting will tell you whether you want to be out there—rain, bugs, dirt, sweaty socks—or if you’d rather, you can stay here and sit at a desk all day.” He glances at Mom, who fiddles with the few open boxes.
Mom steps closer, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Soleil, you’re not happy with what you’re doing now, so it doesn’t hurt to try something different. Sure, this job has been great while you stayed with us for a while, but you’re going to need to get experience somewhere to open more doors for what you really want to do with your degree.” Her eyes soften with understanding, but the corners of her mouth pinch slightly. “Tree planting could be a good option for you. You could get references to show your understanding of fieldwork.” She gently squeezes my arm, and I feel the knot in my chest loosen slightly.
“Mom, I seriously doubt it’s the same kind of fieldwork I’m aiming for,” I say, and then let out a long, measured breath. It’s hard to stay mad at them when they look so excited—and, annoyingly, so sure of me. It just feels like everything is moving so fast…
Mom clears her throat again. “Look, you’ve been here since you moved out of Jared’s last October.” She says it gently, but it still stings. “We know it’s been… not ideal for you…”
A memory floods in—Jared, my first real love—or so I used to believe—and how our relationship ended on a sour note. We met during our second year of undergrad, bonding over lab assignments in an online study group for bio majors. He was sweet in a shy, almost apologetic way, a total nerd who never minded explaining the same DNA replication diagram to me ten times if I needed it.
He wasn’t a rugged, outdoorsy type, not the “manly man” Dad always teased I might bring home someday, but a gentleness about him drew me in. He used to spend hours hunched over our kitchen table, cross-referencing research articles or mapping out data for future grad school projects. His passion for biology matched mine, but differently—his was methodical, as if every living cell was a puzzle he wanted to solve piece by piece.
In hindsight, maybe that same methodical streak allowed him to move on so quickly—like he’d broken our relationship down into pros and cons and decided it was no longer worth the investment.
It happened so fast—one minute, he was excited about a short-term job in Newfoundland, and the next, he phoned to say he’d met someone new, and that he felt we’d been drifting apart for a while.
At first, I was too stunned to question it; I nodded when he asked me to vacate our apartment because he knew I couldn’t cover the lease alone, being fresh out of university. It wasn’t until I’d moved back into my parents’ house, sifting through boxes of our photos, that I realized I’d never really been in love with him. I loved him, sure—he was kind, supportive, and comfortable in the often-busy life of two undergrads. But it was more like a fondness rooted in habit than the spark I had naively believed would lead to marriage and kids.
The day we broke up reshaped everything for me. I had to confront the end of a relationship and the reality of my life ahead; it was like being thrust into a world I wasn’t ready to face. My parents welcomed me back home with open arms—their empathy a crutch, but not a solution.
I shake my head and try to clear the memories from my mind, and as I do, I can hear my mother’s voice in mid-conversation—presumably with me: “…But you’ve gotta hop back in the saddle, so to speak.”
“Mom, please—do not phrase dating as ‘getting back in the saddle.’ Gross,” I protest, mortified.
“Just get out there and meet people,” she says. Although she doesn’t explicitly state it, I know what she means—get back out there and meet a guy. “You’re still so young, there’s no need to force anything. But maybe it’d be good to get out there and do something fun—something outside your comfort zone,” Mom says, her tone gentle as always.
I nibble on my cheek, considering. An awkward silence stretches before I finally answer, “I’ll think about it.”
Dad nods. “Good. Emma has that fiery energy—maybe some of it’ll rub off on you,” he jokes.
I roll my eyes. “We’ll see.”
By evening, the house is eerily quiet. The echo of my footsteps on the bare hardwood floors feels wrong—as if the house is holding its breath. Mom and Dad retreat to their room early, no doubt exhausted from the day. I linger in dad’s office, sitting cross-legged on the floor where my favourite lounge chair used to be, staring at the walls that now seem impossibly blank. The house isn’t just empty—it’s hollow.
My phone vibrates against the floor, breaking the silence. I pick it up, squinting at the screen—a text from Dad.
Dad: Ken sent Emma’s number, just in case.
Soleil: I already have her number
Dad:
I sigh, closing the message without replying. But as I sit there, staring at the blank walls, I think about how much I hate this feeling. The stuck-ness. The not-knowing about which direction to go in. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I change my mind and shove the phone into my pocket. I’m not ready to have this conversation yet…
The next morning, the house is buzzing with activity again. Dad’s outside, purging and cleaning what seems like many years’ worth of junk from the car to get it ready to hand over to me. Mom’s in the kitchen, carefully swaddling the last of the silverware into yesterday’s newspaper. The rich smell of coffee hangs in the air—ordinarily warm and comforting, but today, it feels more like a reminder that it’s one more thing that needs to get packed up. I pour a cup, hoping to wake myself up with caffeine.
I spent most of last night tossing and turning, replaying Mom and Dad’s idea of heading out West in my mind. I also couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if I stayed here: I’d be stuck at my job, probably have to ask my parents for money to cover rent, and I’d need to start hunting for a new place, like yesterday…
Mom looks up from where she’s standing by the table. She’s my taller version—by maybe an inch or two—slender and poised from her three-times-a-week workouts. We share the same chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes, only hers are framed by a few gentle lines at the corners and silver streaks thread through her ponytail. She’s always taken her health—and her Botox—seriously, and it shows in her toned arms and steady posture.
Meanwhile, I’m over here at five-four, slim-ish curves, but mostly because I’ve inherited it from her. Hiking or skiing with Mom and Dad once in a while is about as athletic as I get. The idea of tree planting—intense physical labour in remote conditions—feels as likely for me as running a marathon tomorrow.
“You okay, sweetheart?” she asks, her voice low and soothing.
I shrug, taking a long sip. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
She doesn’t press, but I can see the question in her eyes.
Dad steps into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. “I’m so tired of these cold Canadian mornings—I can’t believe we’ll get to live somewhere warm next spring. In a few weeks, I’ll be sitting on a beach enjoying sun and sand, instead of frosty mornings and cold.”
Mom smiles at him. “The moving company just called to confirm our pick-up date,” she says, trailing off as her smile softens. “They’ll be here in a week to grab the mobile storage units.”
“Great,” Dad replies. “That’s really exciting. Sunshine… you still taking our car?”
I nod.
“Maybe leave it with Ken if you decide to go anywhere.” he adds, and I know by “anywhere,” he means if I decide to go tree planting.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
They exchange a look—one of those silent parent conversations I’ve never quite been able to decode. Finally, Mom breaks the silence.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” she says gently. “But if you want to call Emma, you should do it soon. I think she’s leaving in a few weeks.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice hollow. “I know.”
By the time the sun sets, the house feels even emptier than before, and I’m no closer to pulling the trigger on this tree planting thing. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone. Emma’s number is still sitting in Dad’s text, untouched.
I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen. Should I make this call to see what planting’s all about? Or should I keep plugging away at my dead-end job, dodging Helen from HR’s request to sign up for the company potluck next month?
I hit call. Fuck Helen’s potlucks.
The phone rings twice before a bright, familiar voice answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Emma,” I say, my voice tight. “It’s Soleil.”
She squeals—the sound so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Soleil! Oh my God, it’s been forever! What’s up? Dad said you might be interested in coming planting.”
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. “Maybe,” I manage. “I just… wanted to hear more about it. What’s it like?” But before I can ask her to tell me the details over coffee, she interrupts in a frenzy, her voice light and excited.
“Oh, it’s hard as hell, but, like, in the best way. You make crazy money, meet amazing people, and you’re outside all the time. It’s… life-changing,” she says, echoing the thoughts of the tree planter on screen when I watched that documentary. Life-changing . The words feel heavy, like a promise and a threat all at once. What could be so life-changing about walking around with fifty pounds strapped to your hips all day? Long-term back pain?
“But,” she adds, her tone more serious now, “it’s not for everyone. It’s rough. Bugs, rain, blisters—you name it. You’ll hate it sometimes. But if you stick it out…” She pauses, her voice softening. “It’s worth it. I promise.”
I swallow hard, my grip on the phone tightening. “I’m really not in shape. I can’t even run a kilometre without gasping, and I can barely lift anything.” I’m immediately reminded of the boxes I had to set down earlier, convinced I was about to drop them.
She dismisses my worries. “Nobody shows up to this totally ripped, trust me. Some planters might train all year, but not me. I’ve been way too swamped with classes to do much else. Seriously, you should do it—you won’t regret it.”
Her confidence is infectious, even through the phone.
“Can we meet for coffee tomorrow? I just have a few more questions before I make a decision.”
“Of course!” she chirps, sounding as if she’s already two steps ahead of me. “Text me where and when.”
We hang up, and I’m left staring at the phone. It’s one thing to talk about tree planting in theory; it’s another to actually pack up and leave home for an entire summer.
I lie awake in the crisp linens of a bed that no longer feels like mine. When I first moved away from home and in with Jared last year, Mom and Dad swooped in, stripping my old room of all traces of teenage me. Gone is the scuffed desk and the cracked mirror I tried—and failed—to decorate with fairy lights. In their place sits a chic, neutral-toned dresser and a tacky portrait of a brown highland cow where my Starry Night poster once hung, crooked and pinned by tacks.
I roll onto my side, the hush of the house pressing against my thoughts. I can practically hear the clock ticking: in one week, the movers will arrive to bring all our belongings to a storage yard, and then, shortly after, my parents will fly off to Portugal, where they will start the first leg of their European life. My plan? No fixed address, no steady job—just this simmering sense of dread and the prospect of a summer spent bending over in the middle of the Alberta wilderness.
A soft knock on the door breaks my train of thought. Mom peeks in, her brown hair a little mussed from a day of packing. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” she asks, stepping into the room.
I push myself upright, hugging my knees. “It’s weird,” I say quietly. “I’m so excited for you both to travel and finally embrace your life, it’s just… now that the house is sold, I—I kind of feel stuck.” I sigh. “I’m happy for you—I am. But it’s a lot, y’know?”
She comes in and sits, enveloping me in her familiar lavender and vanilla scent. “Yes, your dad and I are thrilled, but you’re not stranded. You’re twenty-five?—”
I interrupt. “In July, technically.”
She huffs a small, annoyed laugh and continues, “You’ll figure it out… but this tree planting might be a good option. And if you hate it?” She shrugs. “It’s just one summer.”
“Mom, I’m not sure I can handle the bugs, the hours outside, the tent, the torture,” I whine dramatically.
Mom waves off my worry with a knowing look. “Soleil, you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Aren’t you meeting with Emma to talk about it? I’m sure she’ll tell you it isn’t as bad as you think.” Her lips quirk into a small smile.
I exhale, letting my thoughts settle. Maybe I am ready for a challenge, or perhaps I need a summer to reset and enjoy life a little. But I swallow the urge to tell her I’m considering it. I don’t want my parents getting too excited, like they’re booking their family dog into summer daycare.
Mom pats my knee, then stands. “Sleep on it.” She flips the switch by the door, plunging the room into darkness except for the faint glow from the hallway. “Good night, Sunshine,” she says softly.
She leaves, and I’m left alone in my half-emptied-out room. Maybe Dad’s right: I keep talking about wanting to work for a forestry consulting company, and tree planting falls into “field” experience that could help me get my foot in the door. It’s just not the type of experience I had envisioned.
I settle against the pillow, letting my eyes drift shut. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and realize it’s a terrible idea, or perhaps I’ll realize there’s nowhere else to go but west. Either way, I can’t stay here. And under no circumstances am I going to Aunty Rachel’s in Saint Catherines.