Chapter 2
Two
“Wait until you see the orca poster.”
Rain fell in that indecisive way coastal weather does in late spring, to prove a point: not heavy enough for an umbrella, but enough to soak through your shoes.
This secluded western corner of Canada doesn’t really experience four distinct seasons.
It did twelve, and we were firmly stuck in number four: Fool’s Spring.
The bus windows were fogged and streaked, turning the town outside into a watercolor blur of grey, green, and Pacific blue.
Nanaimo had its charms in spring, sure: cherry trees blooming along old roads, rhododendrons waking up in Bowen Park, and Ammonite Falls still hidden from the tourists by a trail that punished anyone unprepared.
Orcas sometimes reappeared offshore, as if summoned back by the season.
I used to fly over this coast. Now I watched it from street level like everyone else.
And Nanaimo wasn’t the worst place to land.
Except today. Today it was puddles and potholes, nerves and stiff new loafers.
I stepped off the bus and instantly regretted my shoes. I’d had no idea what to wear, so I’d panic-bought a pair of smart-ish loafers at Winners. Nerves, stiff new loafers, and zero waterproofing. A bold strategy.
Tommo Ferry Services 4U was tucked into a low-rise industrial building that looked like it had once aspired to be a dentist’s office and then given up halfway through.
Beige stucco. Fluorescent lights. IKEA furniture.
A faint, unmistakable smell of reheated spaghetti.
The lobby surprised me. It opened onto a vast reception area with floor-to-ceiling windows and a sprawling terrace that overlooked Gabriola Island and, in the distance, the snow-capped Rockies.
I knew that view. I’d flown over it more times than I could count.
For a fleeting second, something in my chest ached so, so badly.
Then: “Hey! I’m Mia. How are you today? Can I help you?”
Mia was about my height, maybe 5’5”, with a head of shiny chocolate-brown hair that curled slightly at the ends. Something about her energy felt instantly warm and genuine, as if she really meant her words.
“Hey, sorry, I’m Alicia King. I’m supposed to start today as Tom’s assistant.”
She squinted at her monitor. “Let me check that… King, King… Ali… oh. Oh!”
I knew that “Oh.” It didn’t seem mean-spirited, just surprised that I was standing there, alive and seemingly in one piece.
My story had made the local news rounds: the crash, the hospital stay, the recovery.
Nanaimo wasn’t exactly packed with celebrity gossip, and I’d been a front-page face more than once.
It had even come to the point where some journalists were stalking Adam at school.
Mia flushed. “Sorry! That came out wrong. I just, wow. Hi. It’s really nice to meet you. Tom’s out in Victoria today, so I’ll help you get settled. Let me grab my phone and… oh my god, your feet are soaked. Do you have anything dry?”
“Erm, not really. I was too anxious to connect the dots between rain, water, and suede.”
“Happens to the best of us in our lovely climate,” she said, ducking under her desk. “That’s why I keep backups. Size seven and a half?”
That’s how I met Mia, my first and only friend here, and how I started my first day wearing emergency Birkenstocks and rain-soaked regret.
The office was an open-plan graveyard of muted tones: grey carpet, taupe cubicle dividers, ergonomic chairs, and people pretending to be busy. A motivational poster in the breakroom read: “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take!” above a cartoon seagull in sunglasses.
“Wait until you see the orca poster,” Mia whispered. “You’ll either start laughing or light it on fire. Emotionally.”
She gave me the grand tour: the breakroom, kitchen, takeout menus, coffee machine rules, washrooms, printers, supply closet, and the IT room—a glass-walled habitat containing three men, six monitors, and the collective energy of a forgotten server room.
I didn’t look too closely. I was more focused on not tripping over the carpet in my new kicks.
Eventually, Mia had to return to reception, and her apology trail left behind more sorries than footprints. I was assigned a desk close to the window. The blinds were tilted permanently downward, blocking the view and letting in just enough light to remind me that the outside world still existed.
My computer didn’t work. My email wasn’t set up.
No login credentials. So I sat there, adjusting my chair three times and practicing looking useful.
Three days later, one of the IT guys finally came by to fix it.
Only because Mia stormed into their lair and delivered a scathing monologue involving the words “gnomes,” “hungover lazy asses,” and “Alicia pilot now.” I probably could’ve done it myself: being a pilot requires more than a passing knowledge of systems, physics, and troubleshooting, but I let the guy (Peter?
Paul?) have his moment. Mia, clearly, had guts and seemed to have already decided I was worth defending. I didn’t know how to handle that yet.
Other than that, the first days bled together.
A few polite smiles. Some people were kind but cautious.
Others seemed to want to ask about my scars, still visible near my neck, but stopped short.
One guy offered me gum and never spoke to me again.
The woman in the next cubicle had a cactus named Kevin; she told me that on day two.
Tom, when I finally met him, was perfectly nice.
Told me what he expected, how to manage his calendar, and kept asking how Dad was: they’d served together in the Royal Canadian Air Force two decades ago.
Dad got sick but found love, and Tom stayed single but owned a steadily growing ferry business. You can’t have it all, I guess.
That was how it began. Soggy shoes, a borrowed pair of sandals, and a view that used to belong to me.