We Were Twenty-Seven
In the spring and summer of 2023, wildfires burned across the country. They were out of control in Alberta. Two ferocious blazes ravaged Nova Scotia. By June, fires roared in Ontario and Québec, where three hundred and ninety thousand acres were burning—over six hundred times more than in a typical year. I was in Toronto, and smoke blanketed the city, turning the sun an apocalyptic red. Ash traveled to Manhattan and blew across the Atlantic, bringing a murky haze to Europe.
Within three weeks, more wildfires were raging through Canada than in the last twenty years combined.
And George was in the middle of all of it, reporting from the front lines for the CBC. His byline was on the home page almost daily.
I texted him at odd hours to make sure he was safe, to make sure he was alive. I slept with my phone on my pillow so I wouldn’t miss a call. We spoke almost every day. He told mewhat he’d witnessed. Flames that rose one hundred meters in the air. Homes turned to cinders. Exhausted, soot-covered firefighters, pushing on despite their aching bodies.
Sometimes he was too tired to say much, so I gave him my own news reports. Darwin’s wife, Anh, was now in her third trimester. Moby had put a down payment on a house in Ottawa. Aurora and Betty were moving in together. My college friend Brie had signed a development deal with one of the streamers. And me? I’d been working in kitchens for the last seven years, and I was tired. I spent my meager downtime too depleted to do more than lie on the couch, watchingLove Island. Brie wanted me to come work with her, but the idea of making such a drastic change felt like giving up and admitting my mom had been right.
Even though he was so far away, I felt close to George that summer. I was his lifeline, but he felt like mine, too. It was almost like the old days. I knew his schedule, his routines, and the way his voice sounded in the morning and at the end of a brutal day. I knew when he was somewhere long enough to cook himself a tofu scramble for breakfast, and I knew he was reading books about dragons as an escape. I knewhim.
Then one day, he texted me to tune in toThe National, the CBC’s nightly news program. I was at work, but by ten the rush was over, so I crept out back with my phone. And there was George, hair neatly combed, microphone in hand, speaking to the entire country. Over his shoulder in the distance, a fire turned the night orange, a terrible beauty. I didn’t pay attention to what he was saying—it was the calm authority in his voice that captivated me. He stared directly at me through the screen, his eyessteady, his jaw stern, unbothered by the danger that had my stomach twisting with worry. It struck me in a way it never had before: George was no longer the boy I grew up with. During the last seven years, he’d changed.
I texted him immediately after the segment aired.
Me:You’re a natural! How was that your first time on TV? Were you nervous?
George:Super nervous beforehand, but once I got going, I was okay. The producer wants to make it a regular thing.
Me:Wow. That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.
Me:I guess this means you’ll be following the fires for a while, huh?
George:Yeah. They want me up in Yellowknife.
Me:Yellowknife? So far! You’ll be safe?
George:Of course. You have nothing to worry about.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
Day Two: Indulge
George is gone. Without looking, I can tell he’s not in bed beside me. I keep my eyes closed against the sun, listening to the hush of crashing surf. I’m tempted to let myself doze off again, but I know the week is going to slip away quickly. In six days, George and I will drive back to the airport and go our separate ways. Me, back to my childhood bedroom; him, to the mangroves of Mexico. I don’t want to waste any time.
When I pry open my eyelids, the first thing I see is the sparkling Pacific beyond the forest. It’s a clearer day than yesterday, the sun already high. Only a faint brushstroke of fog lingers over the bay. When I make my way downstairs, I find the villa empty, but there’s a text from George waiting for me.
Good afternoon. I’m heading out for a run. Be back in 40.
I scoff. It’s just after eleven.
There’s also a message from Brie that I respond to after helping myself to a jar of apricot French yogurt.
Brie:I hope you arrived safely xo
Me:We’re here. It’s almost rude how stunning it is.
Brie:I hear Tofino has a great food scene! Have fun! Get inspired!!!
I stare at the text. The lavish number of exclamation marks. Her directive toget inspired. It irks me in a way I can’t put a finger on, and not only because telling someone to get inspired is about as helpful as telling them to be happy or calm down. It’s as if Brie suspects that I’ve been feeling blah. Then again, if she thought there was a problem with my work, she’d let me know. It’s one of the things I first liked about her when we were students: she cuts to the point. Still, there’s something about her message that doesn’t sit right with me.
As I head toward the deck with a fresh cup of coffee, my eye catches on a corner of paper sticking out from beneath the sofa. I bend down to retrieve it and see that it’s among a thick stack of printouts and notes. I pull them out, unsure of whether George meant for them to be hidden or not. I smile, thinking of the locked wooden chest he used to keep beneath his bed. As I thumb through the documents, it’s clear there’s nothing illicit here. It’s George’s breakup research.
There are advice columns, magazine pieces, and peer-reviewed articles. There’s an entire Reddit thread that spans a dozen pages. In an article by a psychiatrist, George has underlined apassage about therapy. I wonder how long it will take for him to suggest it.
