“We can’tcelebratetogether.”
“I didn’t meanthat,” he says. “You told me you want to stay friends. Friends still celebrate each other’s victories—”
“I can’t. Not tonight. I… I’m sorry.”
A wagon trundles up to the bus stop and I’ve never been so relieved. I pull myself onto the step, but Sid won’t leave me be, waiting for his turn to board. Frustrated and desperate, I spin around on the step and plant my mouth against his. It only lasts a second, but I make no attempts to hold back every raw and aching thing I’m feeling.
My mouth breaks from his and I push him, hard, away from the wagon.
“Don’t you dare follow me.” My voice trembles.
As the wagon pulls away, I watch the waves of confusion and anguish break over his face. What have I done?
One kiss, and I’ve lost the only friend I had on this island.
ON THE BUS,I realize I can’t go home. That’s where he’ll expect me. He’ll come to my door and make me talk to him and then I’ll have to explain that it’s over. We can’t be friends. We can’t be lovers. We can’t be anything to each other. And I am not brave enough to face that conversation yet.
I hop off when I reach Ganges town. Nothing is open, but I think I like it better that way. A large moon hangs overhead and it’s so quiet, I can pretend the city is abandoned. This could be another ghost town like the ones I used to wander through on Vancouver Island. The night is mild for so late in autumn and so I decide to just walk the streets like I might have before coming here.
It’s easy enough to stay awake through the night.
Gradually, everyone else wakes up and ruins my perfect solitude. But even as the city comes alive, I keep wandering. Eventually, I end up at the exchange, rubbing my eyes and pretending it’s because of the dust.
A table in the back features a recently discovered jewellery cache. Everyoneooohsandaaaahsover a gold choker, a silver bracelet, and a matching set of garnetearrings, necklace, and ring. I check for my mother’s pearl earrings, but I don’t spot them. Maybe they’ve already sold.
I drift to the furniture section of the hall and stare at a red velvet sofa with a hasty patch job on each cushion. I still don’t have any money besides what was left over from April’s first batch of medicine, but I find myself testing it, seeing how I like it. Irrationally, I want it. I want to take it home and shove it into one of the barren corners of the apartment.
I try to imagine what it would be like to snuggle close to Curtis on it, and then I’m crying, because I can’t picture it. I don’t remember what he felt like anymore; in so many ways, Sid has already overwritten him. I’m sick with guilt. Would it be better for me to bid Curtis goodbye? To truly move on with someone else? I’m so miserable right now; is there anything left to ruin if I take my chances and tell Sid I want to be with him?
Because I do. I would give anything to have him here on this damn couch with me.
“Everything all right, ma’am?”
I brush away tears to find a salesman with a pinched brow standing a few feet away.
“Oh… yes, sorry.” I rub away the evidence of my breakdown. “I… um… I like this couch. I think I’ll bring my husband by to see it tomorrow.”
“Would you like us to hold it for you?”
“Yes. Yes, hold this couch.” I don’t care if he does, but I need some way out of this conversation. I hop up and speed walk away from the furniture as fast as I can, the salesman’s voice chasing me.
“Ma’am! Under what name?”
Well, that went terribly. I could visit the library, but I didn’t bring any books to trade in for new ones. I wrack my brain for something else I could be doing, but what even is there?
I hate to admit it, but Sid’s right. I’ve been living my life afraid and as a result, I don’t have a life outside of April or the acreage. Nothing has prepared me for making choices based on anything other than survival. Everything about me faces backward toward the past.
I shouldn’t go anywhere important with my eyes red from crying. But something about standing in the middle of dozens of busy people, buzzing about the exchange on their own personal missions while I have no idea what to do with myself, makes me snap. Who knows if it’s bravery or desperation? After a bit of asking around, I get directions toward Mrs. Buckerfield’s café.
The porch is built from bits of driftwood. Strings of seashells rim the roof, and the outdoor seating area has a view of the ocean. A chalkboard near the front door advertises a daily special of goat cheese omelettes.
Garlic and dill perfume the air inside. The place is like a dream. There’s a high counter like the ones I saw inside of abandoned mall food courts, and displayed on it is a tempting array of scones, slices of pie, and cheese sticks. Mrs. Buckerfield must have some way of purchasing wheat, because our rations don’t allot enough for all the goodies on display.
This could be a picture book. A memento of the world at its best.
A bright faced girl steps up behind the counter, smiling at me. “Can I get you anything?”
“I… I’m not sure. Is Mrs. Buckerfield in?”
