Page 86

My brow rises. “I didn’t know Oliver made furniture.” As far as I knew, he dabbled a bit in woodworking with his grandfather, but furniture? That’s a whole other level.

“Oh, he does,” Lola says. “He made the bookshelves for the bookstore too. He loves carpentry. I think he loves it even more so now that Jerry isn’t here anymore.”

I finish my beer, then start pulling off the damp label. “He told me about his grandpa and how much time they spent in the shed.” I touch the base of my neck, feeling the necklace beneath my fingers.

She nods, her eyes lost in the distance. “Hours and hours. It’s different now. But when he needs to take his mind off things, that’s where he goes. Do you want to see it?”

I cast a hesitant glance toward the cabin. It sounds like the woodshop is a special place for Oliver, and I’m not sure he’d like me there, especially without him. I get the feeling I’d be crossing an invisible boundary that I shouldn’t be crossing.

Lola seems to read my thoughts. “He won’t mind. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure.” She gets up. “Come on.”

I pick up my crutches and walk with Lola to the workshop. She pushes the burgundy door with a grunt. “I keep telling Oliver to change this freaking door because it’s so . . . damn . . . heavy.”

Finally, the door slides all the way open and reveals a large room covered in wood dust and littered with machinery I can’t name. Dozens of chairs and tables and furniture of all kinds are crammed into the space. I move closer, running my finger along the dusty surfaces. The furniture looks like it’s been stored there for years, but the lack of wear suggests otherwise.

On one of the machines lies a long wooden plank with Oli’s engraved in thick cursive letters.

“What’s that?” I ask, not sure if Lola is close enough to hear me.

She comes to stand next to me. “Oliver’s unfinished project.”

I frown. “Is he changing the name of Jerry’s?”

It’s Lola’s turn to look confused. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it a new sign for the restaurant?”

Lola presses her lips together.

“What?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything.

“Not my place to say.” She shakes her head, mumbling something I don’t catch. “I really think you should talk to Oliver, Charlee. Seems like there’s a lot you don’t know.”

“I don’t understand.” I don’t speak riddles, and I don’t see how a piece of wood with his name on it requires a conversation. It’s been a long day, I’m tired, and my patience is running thin. So it’s no surprise that my answer came out a tad curt. And from the way Lola’s mouth twists downward, it seems like we’re both veering toward irritation.

“I have known Oliver for a long time, Charlee, and believe me when I tell you that he’s only ever loved a handful of people in his life. But there’s one person in particular he’s never been able to move on from. And it’s been eating at me every day to see him hang on to someone who didn’t love him enough to reach out to him and try to understand what happened in his life.” Her eyes soften, even though she delivered a solid blow right to my gut. “I’m sure you’re a good person if Oliver couldn’t let you go, but I’ll be Team Oli forever, no matter how amazing you seem to be. And the man over there”—she nods toward his house—“is worth fighting for a hell of a lot more than you have so far.”

I’m too stunned to speak. So Lola goes in for the kill.

“Do you know why Oliver wasn’t in Calgary to meet you five years ago?” She takes a step forward and places her hand on my upper arm, squeezing once. “We all have our demons and reasons for not wanting to dredge up the past, but this might just be one of those times when it’s worth experiencing the pain and reliving the unhappy memories, if only for the chance to rewrite parts of them.”

She pats my arm and walks away. And I stay there, on a precipice, contemplating for the first time in five years if I should make the jump.

Toronto, July 30, 2018

I’ve been asking myself for weeks now what happened on June 21st. I’ve been trying to solve the equation by myself, thinking I didn’t need to write to you to understand.

At first, I thought that you had booked the flight on the wrong date and I had misunderstood somehow. But I brought all your letters with me to Calgary because I was so excited to show them to you, and sure enough, the date was right. Maybe you hit a snag on the road that delayed you. That was my second thought. And then, after I tracked down each flight coming in from Vancouver and spent all my waking hours at that terminal before coming back alone to the hotel, my hope that you’d show up started to fade. On the fourth day, I packed my bags and left.

What the fuck, Oliver? What. The. Fuck?

I’ve spent the last month banging my head against the wall and trying to figure out why you never showed up. Did something happen to you? Why haven’t you written to me since?

Of course, there’s a simple explanation that I’ve refused to admit to myself, but as I write this last letter to you, I have no choice but to face the harsh truth: I was just a pastime, a class to pass. And why not have a little fun in the process, right?