"You said what you thought was generous," she say.
I chuckle and shake my head. "I said it because I thought asking you to stay was the same as trapping you. That it was unfair to put that on you. But the real reason I didn't ask—" I stop. "I was afraid you'd say no. And I couldn't have that, so I made the choice for you."
She sets down her mug.
"I would have stayed," she says. "If you'd asked. Or I would have tried to make it work, or—" She stops. "I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe I would have gone anyway and we'd have the sameoutcome. But I wanted you to want me to stay. I needed that. And you let me leave without it."
"I know."
"And now?"
"Now," I say, "I'm asking. I'm asking what this is and I'm asking if you want to figure it out and I'm not telling you what to do with your life. But I'm not making the choice for you this time."
"My life is in Vancouver. My job, my apartment, my—"
"I know that."
"Owen, I can't just—"
"I'm not asking you to just do anything." I lean forward. "I'm asking if you want to try. That's it. I'm not asking you to decide what Silver Ridge means or what you want long-term. I'm asking if you're willing to try."
Outside the festival grounds are waking up. I can hear the first truck engines from here, the radio from the equipment shed. Day two of the competition. I should be over there by eight.
She looks at me for a long time. "I don't know whattryinglooks like," she admits.
"Neither do I. We’ll figure it out."
"That's—" A half-laugh, half-disbelief that her type-a planner mind has a hard time accepting. "That's terrifyingly unspecific."
"Yeah."
"What if it doesn't work anyway and we're just back where we started?"
"Then we're back where we started. At least we'll know."
She looks down at the mug, the coffee, the table. I watch her face and I let her think. I've gotten good at letting things be. After all, ten years working with timber teaches you that you can't force the grain, you have to work with it.
Finally she looks up. "Okay," she says.
"Okay you'll try?"
"Okay, I won't leave Saturday morning without figuring out what I'm agreeing to." She stands, takes her mug to the counter. "That's all I can give you right now."
"That's enough," I say.
I’ll take it. It's more than I had yesterday.
seven
Grace
Mybagispacked.My flight is at eleven from Kelowna. I have a car booked. The whole exit is organized and waiting.
I sit on the edge of the bed in my mother's guest room and look at the bag.
The festival closes tonight with the bonfire. The whole town will go — fires built on the grounds, music, the particular end-of-summer feeling that this town does better than anywhere I've been, the collective exhale of a week that's over and was good.
My mother knocks at seven. She opens the door and looks at the bag and looks at me and sits down on the edge of the bed beside me.
