That was the year Dad taught him how to properly fish, and that was the year Logan ended up catching more walleyes than me. Not that I was ever upset about it. The more fish Logan wanted to catch, the more often he’d come fishing with us, which suited me just fine.
The last summer before Dad sold the camper was when I started to notice something was off with him. One fishing trip in early August, when it was just the two of us, we headed out on the lake just before sunrise. We’d ventured into a new area of the lake, and while Dad was usually careful, he didn’t see the rising landmass as he drove us forward. Before we knew it, the entire foot of the motor was ripped away with a violent impact.
Dad always dealt with a crisis in a calm and stoic manner, but not this time. Oh, no. This time his eyes went wild, like he was looking for an escape while we were stranded in the middle of the lake, and his breathing quickened in a way that scared me. It took a whole minute for him to respond to my cries of asking him if he was okay, for him to even acknowledge me at all. And although he managed to row us back to the shore without a hitch, his usual goofy demeanour was gone for the rest of the day.
It was only later that I connected the dots and noticed that was the point after which Dad’s work trips away from home lasted longer and longer. How, even when he was home, he wasn’t quite with us.
At least I had Logan to comfort me through it all. When I was with him, I forgot all about how heartsick I felt about Dad. At least, I did until we moved away the summer after.
It was years later that I realized my dad had a panic attack that day on the boat. I’ve become too familiar with the way they flush your skin, conquer your breathing, and make your heart want to rip out of your chest. Dad calls our shared anxiety disorder the ‘family curse,’ although it’s always in a joking way.
I can’t help but wonder what he’s going through now. If he’s okay. God, he’s probably not okay. Otherwise, he’d respond to my calls or read my DMs or something. My heart clenches at the thought. If only he’d let me in. Let me be there for him.
I wonder what Logan would think of this whole thing. It’s in moments like these that I miss him the most, even though we haven’t spoken in seventeen years. But that’s on me.
I shake the distant, but overwhelmingly real, memory of Logan and Dad away so I can fall asleep. It takes me a while to do so—my car is tiny, and even though I’m just under five feet tall, I wake up sore all over with a kink in my neck. Maybe staying in my car would have been a good idea a decade ago, but now that my thirtieth birthday is coming up, I don’t think my body can swing it anymore.
Maybe if I was more in shape. I don’t know.
The second day goes by in a blur. I barely register the majestic scenery that whizzes past me as I drive along Bras d’Or Lake, followed by Cabot Trail. My mind is too busy trying to keep thoughts of my breakup at bay.
Had Jasper been the most amazing boyfriend I could ever ask for? Not necessarily. Of course, we weren’t ‘perfect’, but who was? He had his shit together, we shared a deep-rooted passion forTerrariaandStardew Valley—my two favourite video games of all time—the sex was good enough, and we both wanted kids. All that seemed like enough for me. More than enough, in fact.
I keep thinking back to our final conversation and can’t make sense of most of what he said to me. Sophie thinks he’s just making up excuses because there’s another woman. But I’ve been low-key stalking his socials, and I’ve seen no signs of another woman in his life.
The last photo he appeared in was his friend’s Instagram story where they were enjoying a game night at Randolph’s Pub with all the guys.
I wish there’d been another woman. If that was the case, I could have easily brushed off the things he said as excuses and lies.
I just can’t do this anymore, Avery.
I’m so deep in thought that I barely register my phone’s GPS announcing that I’ve arrived. I swerve suddenly to the left and brake roughly as I pull into the parking lot of what my phone is telling me is Glendale Resort.
I whoosh out a breath. Finally, I’m here.
I park the car and get out to take a look around. Right now, I’m parked near the resort’s main lodge, which is a single-story building shaped like a mix between a U and a V. There’s a wooden terrace on the right side of the main entrance, but right now it’s empty, its tables and chairs stacked to one end.
On the opposite side of the parking lot is what looks like a motel. I know the resort offers regular motel rooms in addition to the hotel, suites, and cabins, and maybe that would have been the budget-friendly thing to go for. But I don’t want to risk noisy neighbours or weird smells.
The true ‘budget-friendly’ thing would have been to go to the retreat—if the client would have been willing to sponsor my trip. But they weren’t. Oh, well, I can’t really blame them since it’s our first time working together. I’ll have to earn their trust first.
I’m frozen in place. My fists clench by my sides so hard my joints hurt. Part of me wants to go back and cancel the entire thing. It’s non-refundable, but I haven’t checked in yet. Maybe crying my eyes out will convince them—I’m close to tears anyway. I can just go home, grit my teeth, and do my work like a normal person. I’ll need to go home eventually, anyway. And I’ll have $4,000 extra dollars to cushion my landing.
But home is where Jasper was. Everything in that tiny apartment reminds me of him. Even my desk, on which he bent me over on several occasions during above-average sex. I can’t hole up back there and pump out copy for an entire website. Especially when the website itself needs to feel inspiring and life-changing.
There’s no way I can channel those feelings in that apartment.
What other option do I have? Even going back to see Mom wouldn’t work—Jasper had been to Mom’s place way too often. I’d recognize him in every corner of her house just like I would in my apartment.
There was one other place I could go. But thinking about it is like a jab at my chest.
If Dad wouldn’t even answer my phone calls, I doubt he’d react well to me showing up at the doorstep of his Colombian villa unannounced.
No. This resort is the way forward. Plus, this plan is Sophie-approved.
I check to make sure my car is locked, then walk into the lodge. A cool breeze of AC hits me and forces a shiver out of me. At first glance, the interior is clean. A scent of freshly done laundry hangs in the air, and the decor is minimal and tasteful. If this gives me anything to go by for what to expect for my cabin, I’ll be pleased.
There’s no one at the check-in counter. I look around, hoping someone shows up without me having to ring a bell or anything like that. Bringing express attention to myself isn’t my favourite thing, but as the seconds pass in quiet waiting, angst starts building up in my chest.
