Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
“One just doesn’t say no to a glass seagull.”
Time passed, though not like a clean break; it passed like waves softening the shore with edges of everything growing less sharp, but never seeming to smooth out.
Two weeks, maybe more, had gone by. Late summer leaned toward autumn, and the air held that odd weight: part golden, part grey, like the seasons hadn’t made up their mind yet.
We didn’t talk much, Paul and me, not in the way we used to, but we did—a few sparse texts here and there.
Paul?:
Saw a leaflet of Nanaimo airfield recruiting instructors, thought of you.
Me:
Saw a woman on the bus reading Camus.
Paul?:
Was she chain-smoking?
It was easy, too easy, sometimes, but it always ended there.
No late-night playlists. No “girl” and “boy,” just scraps of what once was, or what I thought it was.
He got a haircut: shorter, cleaner, with his jaw more visible, and a bit of stubble that he stopped caring to shave.
He looked… good. Healthy. Or maybe I didn’t want to admit that healing didn’t always look like heartbreak.
Did he “unbreak” his heart? I didn’t know.
No, that’s not true: I didn’t want to know and told myself it wouldn’t matter anyway, he just couldn’t love me.
Me? I wasn’t glowing, but I was getting better at pretending.
There were still shadows under my eyes: it turned out pretending is more tiring than allowing oneself to feel.
But I remembered to wear a bit of concealer again, occasionally.
I still caught myself wearing his T-shirt under cardigans, a familiar softness and fading smell I wasn’t yet ready to give up.
Work at Tommo did bring its bundle of surprises, too.
For some reason, unbeknownst to me, and which I found deeply ironic, I was nominated by management and fellow employees for the annual Tommo Ferries 4U Masters Awards.
The category I was nominated in was a true gem: Outstanding Team Spirit we’ll miss her when she leaves us to chase glider or jet fuel dreams where she truly belongs.”
Everyone laughed. Mia told me to clap.
Then, he continued. “Alicia King, this is the last photo you will receive from your secret admirer, or rather a group of admirers—your Dad, brother, Mia, your friends from Nanaimo Gliding School, RCAF, and us. And your mom. We all chipped in. Your parents kept all the originals of you, but you know, he’s Jack—he didn’t know how to bring you back to your calling. But we did.”
Then Tom handed me a framed, poster-sized photo, similar in size to the one of Camus, hidden in a tiny studio on Bruce Avenue.
Dad in his bomber jacket, Mom with her long blond waves barely held back by pilot goggles, and me, standing together in the airfield hangar.
I’d just turned sixteen there. Twelve-year-old Adam was hiding under an old Cessna.
It must have been when my parents told me they’d scraped together enough money for flight school.
Even though Mom didn’t live with us anymore, it was the best day of my life, and this was by far the most beautiful photo of the whole series.
I think people were clapping, some wanted a speech, but all I could hear was the ringing in my ears.
Everything was in slow motion, and all I could feel were tears dripping down my face.
All I could do was grab the poster, the seagull trophy, mutter a short “Thank you” and escape from the scene, the town hall, and the crowd, toward the nearest safe space: the breakroom, blissfully empty and quiet.
And there I saw him with the corner of my eye, standing outside the circle of applause, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands tucked into his back pockets.
He didn’t say anything right away, just shared a smile that seemed almost real, one that made my heart stutter like a radio signal flickering back into range.
“Congrats,” he said. “You deserved it, all of it.”
I nodded, unsure how to answer. So I blurted out, “You have time for bad coffee?”
“Tommo’s finest? Always.”
He seemed too scared to tease. I was too afraid I would break.
He asked me about Adam’s university plans, my dad’s health, and what I’ll do with the giant glass seagull I now owned.
I didn’t want to ask him any personal questions, so I told him about Mia’s latest theory that parenting a toddler and running a ferry company required the same skills. We pretended it was funny.
He looked over at me after a deadly long pause and said, “You know, you’re terrifyingly competent at a job you hate.”
“Thanks?” I raised an eyebrow.
“I mean it. You’ve come a long way from sandals on your first day to boss mode and awards. Also, I had no clue about those photos you were receiving. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know, Paul. Perhaps I always felt there was a part of me, my gut, telling me to protect this at all costs. And I couldn’t afford you taking away this, destroying the memory of flying, of my mom, of my family.”
He froze for a second, almost gut-punched. “You know I would never knowingly do that. This is your love, and it was never meant to be mine to take. Even if my heart was free.”
His eyes were unbearable to look at, so I nudged him with my shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s hard enough for me to get over you once.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You did always surprise me, in the weirdest of ways.”
People started storming in; the meeting had ended.
We didn’t say goodbye when we finished our coffee; it was worse than ever, leaving a metallic aftertaste.
We just stood, lingered, then walked in our separate directions.
Not because we didn’t know what else to say, but because we’d said enough, for now.
And then, on a gut punch, I finally decided I was ready to take Adam to the airfield. I was ready. But first, I had to find a place in my room to hang my new family picture, filled with youthful energy, happiness, and freedom.