Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
T his morning, I wake to a mild headache pulsing in sync with the camp’s generators outside. The sun has already transformed my tent’s thin nylon walls into a stifling greenhouse. My hair is plastered to my forehead, damp with sweat, and my lips feel cracked from the hot, stale air.
The smell of bacon and pancakes wafts through camp—normally a comforting aroma, but this morning, it only churns my stomach. Emma’s late-night concoction of cheap, no-name brand vodka and grape juice was stronger than expected, and I realized too late that hydration hadn’t made the roster before I passed out.
Outside my tent, the steady hum of idling quads, layered over the clatter of planters shuffling toward the breakfast line, makes it impossible to catch even a few more minutes of sleep. Everyone else seems ready to refuel for their rest day, but I can’t stomach the idea of camp food just yet. The thought of greasy fast food in town, however, feels like the only plausible cure for my small hangover.
I push myself upright, ignoring the queasy pang in my gut, and force myself to peel off my sweatpants and sweater—both reeking with stale body odour—and change into something less suffocating. I gather my things, slip on a pair of sandals, and head out of the tent to find a ride to town.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the back seat of an old Volvo, praying we’ll arrive before I get car sick from the smell of Rolland’s musk—weed and bacon—and the aftertaste of last night’s questionable beers.
The car is packed front to back with laundry—and it includes me, Jake, and Rolland heading into Rocky Mountain House. Emma would have joined us, but she told me she was still drunk from last night and needed the day to “not die.”
Before I left, she threw in one last heads-up about what I was getting myself into: “The town’s decent—assuming you don’t mind buying jeans and flip-flops from a grocery store.” Then she reminded me to steer clear of local politics: “It’s super conservative, and we’re just the hippie tree planters passing through, so… tread lightly.”
I clutch my overflowing laundry bag—stuffed with muddy shirts and socks from four days of camp life. I glance at Rolland in the passenger seat. He’s a sight: camo shorts, a ragged cutoff T-shirt from some nineties French-Canadian band, and a shaggy mane of hair that cascades to his shoulders. A scruffy beard covers half his face, but it can’t hide his constant, easy grin. He’s Francophone, though you’d hardly know it, except for the occasional “tabarnak” that slips out mid-sentence.
About fifteen minutes into the drive, Rolland meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, “Do you have any weed on you? I ran out yesterday—totally didn’t bring enough to camp this shift,” he says lazily. From what I can tell, he’s perpetually stoned—shows up high, plants high, leaves high. It’s almost impressive. Still, he’s one of the best planters on our crew. Part of me wonders how much faster he’d be if he eased up on the weed, but then again, maybe that’s what keeps him from losing his mind.
I shake my head to answer his question, a silent “no,” to which he nods in understanding.
After a long bend in the highway, we finally spot the industrial outskirts of Rocky Mountain House: a Canadian Tire, a few boxy chain restaurants, and—praise be—a laundromat. Rolland pulls up in front of it and parks. I clamber out, relieved to stand on flat pavement for the first time in a week.
“Let’s meet back here around two,” Jake says, leaning out his window. “We’re gonna grab some weed first, then pick up socks—since my old ones doubled as TP yesterday. After that, we’ll meet you here to do our laundry.”
I nod, offering a weak grin. “Sounds good. Thanks for the ride.”
He throws the car into gear and drives off, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, soaking in the quiet hush of midday Rocky Mountain House. It’s nothing like Montreal—no chaos, no sirens buzzing through the streets, no half-naked man screaming at me on the way to the metro station. Just stillness, casually interrupted by the odd jacked-up pickup truck spewing black smoke from its exhaust as it accelerates all too quickly from the nearby intersection. I shuffle toward the laundromat’s flickering neon OPEN sign, ready for some normalcy.
Inside, it’s what I expect: scuffed linoleum floors, humming washers, and the faint smell of stale detergent. I nod politely at another planter slouched in the corner on a small couch that’s facing an old television playing reruns of The Price is Right , looking just as wrecked as I feel. I head towards the back row of machines and feed my coins into the slot, stuff my reeking clothes inside, and slam the lid shut with a satisfying thud.
I drop into a battered plastic chair in the corner, letting the white noise of the washers’ hum around me. I force down a few sips from my dented water bottle, hoping the water will chase away the lingering headache. Rubbing my temples, I remind myself that last night was worth it—socializing for once instead of just planting and crashing.
I fish my phone out of my bag, scrolling out of habit, my thumb swiping mindlessly through Instagram. Emma’s feed pops up—freshly posted photos from planting, ones she must have just taken. I tap on them, curiosity piqued, and suddenly, there I am: I’m caught mid-swing—my shovel raised high, every muscle visibly tensed. My hair clings to my damp forehead, and sweat glistens on my cheeks, accentuating the sheer determination in my eyes. There’s a raw strength in my posture, like I’m pouring everything I have into cracking open the ground. Looking at that fierce, no-nonsense focus sends a surge of pride through my chest—proof that I can be tougher than I ever imagined. And right below it, Emma’s caption reads, Future highballer .
A stupid little grin tugs at my lips. I hadn’t even realized she’d taken this, let alone that she’d post it. But she did, and I appreciate her for it. And for the first time in a while, I feel proud of myself too.
I close out of Instagram abruptly, remembering why I’m really here, and quickly shoot a text to my mom and dad. I let them know there’s decent Wi-Fi here, so if they want to call, now is the time. It’s early evening over in Portugal, so I’m sure they’re still awake for a quick FaceTime chat.
Not even a minute later, my phone buzzes with an incoming video call. I take a steadying breath and swipe to accept, and suddenly, my parents’ sun-kissed faces fill the screen.
“Look where we are, Soleil!” Mom exclaims, flipping the camera to show off the sun setting over a pristine beach—golden sand and turquoise water lapping at the shore. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Very. I can almost feel the sun from here,” I reply, forcing a small smile.
Mom’s face reappears, her brows knitting with concern. “How are you doing, sweetie? You look… tired.”
I glance at my reflection on the screen—dark circles under my eyes, hair stuffed into a messy ponytail. “I am. I stayed up late last night.”
“Is it your day off?”
“Yeah. Finally. I’m in town to do laundry and scroll through job listings. And, of course, call you guys.”
“So, how are things going? Are you having fun?”
“Yeah. It’s… been good,” I say, pausing to gather my thoughts. “The work is tough, but I’m enjoying it. Emma’s good too—she’s planting her ass off this year. My foreman, though, he’s interesting. Funny sometimes but also kind of a pain in my ass. And a few days ago, he—” I stop short, realizing mid-sentence that this probably isn’t a story they want to hear. A few days in the bush, and I’ve already lost all social filters; everything out here revolves around bodily functions and tree prices. “Never mind. He’s a good foreman,” I finish grudgingly.
“More importantly, is he handsome?” Mom teases, her smile widening.
I roll my eyes into the phone. “Mom. Seriously?” But I feel the telltale blush creeping up my neck and ears.
“So he is handsome. What does he look like?”
“I don’t know… like a handsome guy, I guess. Tall, strong, blond curls, perfect smile, and really nice arms,” I add while looking at my bandaged hand.
Mom beams. “Send us photos. I want to see what your crew looks like.” I can practically hear her mentally adding and your foreman .
“Sure,” I manage, cracking a small smile. “Once I finish my laundry, I’ll send you a few shots.”
From somewhere behind her, I hear Dad shout, “Tell her to check her email!”
The screen wobbles as Mom hands the phone off, and then Dad leans into view, his grin stretching ear to ear.
“Hey there, Sunshine. How’s my hardworking daughter doing?”
“Tired,” I admit, “a little hungover, but good. How about you, Dad? Is Portugal living up to your expectations?”
Before he can answer, Mom’s enthusiastic “Yes!” rings out in the background. She slides back into the frame, her face glowing. “God, it’s so beautiful here. We’re hoping you can visit us at Christmas.”
Dad reappears, cutting in. “Listen, have you checked your email lately? I sent you a link for a job I think you might like. Something called Eco Something… Eco Forestry, maybe?”
My heart skips a beat. “écoForêt Inc?” I ask, my voice tinged with excitement.
“Yup, that’s the one. I got a notification from when I set up that search for you. I think they’re hiring again. You should give them a try. Maybe with your new tree planting experience, they’ll be more excited about your résumé.”
Nervous and a little frazzled, I open my email app while still talking to them. Sure enough, it’s the same company I’ve been dreaming about since graduating with my biology degree. I click the link and start scanning the job ad.
“Are you making any decent money yet?” Dad asks casually.
écoForêt Inc is seeking a Junior Forestry Consultant… My eyes skim the words while I try to stay focused on the conversation.
“I’m getting there,” I say distractedly, scrolling through the job description. The role involves conducting field surveys, assessing forest health, biodiversity, and sustainability, plus assisting with reforestation planning. It’s everything I’ve wanted to do since university, and the pay—just under twenty-five bucks an hour—isn’t bad. Then I see the start date: mid-July.
Dad interrupts my thoughts. “Soleil?”
I blink, trying to refocus. “It’s… going. It’s only been four days. I’ve got time to ramp up.”
He nods, satisfied.
Mom adjusts the phone, her expression softening. “I think you should apply for that job, Soleil. Once planting is done, you can head back home and jump right into it. No downtime.”
That start date is right smack in the middle of planting season. Shit, this isn’t going to work out well . If I take the job, I’d have to leave tree planting early—abandoning Emma, Gabe, and the crew. The idea of walking away before the season ends doesn’t sit right, but how do I pass up a chance like this?
“Yeah, I’ll apply,” I say finally, swallowing the knot of guilt forming in my throat. Planting’s great and all, but this is just a summer job. Being a Junior Forestry Consultant—that’s a career.
“Good,” Dad says, nodding. “Just remember—you’re not locked into tree planting. If it doesn’t feel right, come home.”
Home . The word makes my chest ache.
“Right,” I say simply. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Mom smiles. “We’re proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone, Soleil.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, feeling a tug of warmth. “Love you guys.”
“Love you too,” they chime before the screen goes dark.
I set the phone down, exhaling slowly.
SLAM!
The sharp sound jolts me out of my thoughts. My heart skips a beat as I whip my head around to see Jessie holding a laundry bag and pulling clothes out of the dryer. She doesn’t look over, but I can feel it—she knows I’m here. There’s this tension in the air like she’s trying not to look in my direction. I turn away, pulling out my laptop to distract myself.
I open my email app, find the job posting, and start attaching my résumé and cover letter. I even tweak my résumé, adding a line about my current employment: Tree planter at Silvertip Reforestation . After double-checking everything, I hit send. I just need them to see enough potential in me to give me a chance.
I exhale, letting my eyes drift shut for a moment, but a loud buzz yanks me out of my brief reverie. My eyes snap open just in time to see Jessie walking away. She glances over her shoulder with a grin—one that’s suspicious enough to send my anxiety into overdrive.
And then I see it. Gabe’s SUV pulls up outside the laundromat, and Jessie hops right into the front seat.
My brain immediately starts spinning. I replay my conversation with my parents, trying to remember if I said anything about Gabe that could be twisted into something worse. Was Jessie around when I was oversharing about my foreman? I don’t remember seeing her nearby, but then again, I wasn’t exactly paying attention. Between the job application and my headache, I wasn’t focused on anything else.
If she heard anything from my conversation, she might use that as ammo to reclaim her spot on Gabe’s crew. That bitch , I seethe internally. Now I’m going to have to convince Gabe that I’m not leaving… even though I might be.
I rub my temples, wishing this pounding headache would just go away.