Destination Anywhere Page 21

  “Why?”

  He looks directly at me, our eyes meeting. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “My parents are homophobic,” he says. “At home, I’m closeted.”

  I say the stupidest thing. “I didn’t realize Swedish people were homophobic.”

  “ ‘Swedish people,’ ” Lars echoes, making quote marks with his fingers, “are not homophobic. My parents, who are Swedish, are.”

  “Of course, sorry,” I say, horrified with myself.

  “They think Stefan is my traveling friend,” he says. “Much like Khalil and Beasey; platonic. When we travel together, we can be together freely. Stefan and I met when we were both in England, and we’ve tried to find ways to be together since then. I returned to Sweden for him. But he has no issue with his family, and I do mine, so it makes things very difficult.” He taps his cigarette, dusting the ground with ash. “When we travel, we’re free.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Sorry for the situation, but also sorry for the fact that it’s taken me this long to find out something that must be so fundamental to him as a person, especially as we’re nearing the end of our time together. I realize, too late, how much I’ve taken Lars and Stefan’s presence for granted, never asking them anything beyond the basics. I’ve been so passive as a friend, and that’s only halfway there, isn’t it?

  God, I’ve come so far, but I’ve still got so much to learn.

  Lars glances at me, a small smile quirking on his face. “Maybe if things were different,” he says, “I wouldn’t be here, with you and everyone. This is an adventure, and I love it all. Don’t be sorry. This bit is good.”

  I think about what Seva said, all those weeks ago in the Vancouver hostel, about how everyone who travels is running from something in some way. Maybe that’s only half right. Maybe it’s more true that everyone is looking for some kind of freedom.

  * * *

  It’s not safe to drive in the dark at this time of year, so once we make it to the RV site we settle down early. Tomorrow, we’ll have to go back on ourselves to properly see some of the spots we missed, but that’s better than parking illegally overnight—“boondocking”—and hoping we don’t get caught and/or arrested. Maja and Seva go off together for a walk in the moonlight, and the rest of us play cards for a while before Lars and Stefan decide they want some time alone. Khalil says he wants an early night—I see the look he gives Beasey—and Beasey and I are left alone together in the quiet of the RV. Of all the times we’ve been alone together, separating ourselves off to go for a walk, sharing our conversations, and how nice it’s all been, it feels different somehow to be alone like this in the cozy warmth of the RV. It feels intimate. Not that it can actually be intimate, obviously, not with Khalil only a few feet away behind what is just a very thin wall. But still.

  “How do you like the Icefields Parkway?” he asks me. “Is it everything you wanted?”

  It’s such a casual question. There’s nothing in his delivery that suggests he’s asking anything else. But suddenly, crushingly, I realize that no, this isn’t everything I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted before, but I do now. I want to be kissing. I wish we were kissing. I wish we’d been kissing the whole entire time, thin RV walls and all. I wish I’d let him stay with me that night, way back in Tofino, that I’d thrown caution to the wind instead of worrying, that we’d spent this whole journey together. Actually together. It feels so suddenly obvious. Of course that’s what we should have been doing. And now it’s too late.

  Somehow, my voice comes out normally when I speak. “Yeah, it’s amazing. I know it’s maybe not the best time because of tourist stuff being closed, but it’s so beautiful, I don’t even care.”

  “I can’t even imagine it being better at any other time of year,” he says.

  If I kissed him, he would kiss me back, I know it.

  “What are you going to do after Banff?” I ask. I don’t really want to know. I still don’t want to let myself think about him moving on, but I have to remind myself that it’s going to happen. Otherwise I will absolutely lean forward, put my lips on his and—

  “Me and Khalil are talking about taking an extra couple of days there,” he says. “To make sure we’re planning the best route on from here.”

  “On to the US?”

  He nods. He doesn’t look happy about it. Don’t go to the US! I want to say. Carry on through Canada, with me.

  “Have you figured out what you’re going to do?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, I’m going to go and see Grandad,” I say. “I’m so close, and I did basically use his existence to get through border control. I should say hi.”

  Beasey smiles. “Just say hi, just like that? Pop up to Edmonton, as you’re passing?”

  I shrug. “I guess so.”

  His smile fades into a soft frown. “On your own?”

  I look at him, his familiar, lovely face. “Yeah. It’ll have to be.”

  “I don’t think you should do that on your own,” he says. “You’ve never met him; what if he’s a dick?”

  “Then I’ll leave.”

  “That still doesn’t seem…” He trails off, uneasy. “I could come with you?”

  “No, you couldn’t. You can’t just detour to Edmonton; you’ve got to move on.”

  “I don’t,” he says. “Our plans are so flexible, especially now.”

  “You should talk to Khalil,” I say.

  “Well, if we’re going to spend an extra couple of days in Banff, it doesn’t matter if I detour to Edmonton with you, does it?” he points out.

  “And just leave Khalil behind?”

  Beasey doesn’t reply. We just look at each other. Quietly, he says, “The thing is, I’m not sure I’m ready to say goodbye to you.”

  My heart freezes, then begins to pound, heavy and slow, in my chest. Hope and dread and excitement and desire and he has the nicest face in the world. Involuntarily—honest—I lick my lips. I see his eyes flicker to my mouth, then back to my eyes, the pink in his cheeks clear even in the dark light of the RV.

  “I…” My voice gives. I try again. “Me neither.”

  Slowly, he nods. “So… I should… maybe… talk to Khalil.”

  If we both leaned forward, right now, we could be kissing. And it would be an amazing kiss, I just know it. Somehow, I just know—

  There’s a clatter outside the RV, the low rumble of Seva’s laugh, the door handle moving. Beasey leans back and smiles a small, understanding smile at me as the door opens and Maja walks in ahead of Seva, already unzipping her coat.

  The moment is over, but the possibility is still hanging in the air, lifting my smile, softening Beasey’s eyes.

  When I say goodnight to them all and go to bed, I feel it, warming me up from the inside. The smallest hope of a maybe.

  * * *

  In the morning, we’re on our way again. We try to catch a sunrise from the Cirrus Mountain viewpoint, where the Jasper and Banff national parks meet, but though the view is spectacular anyway, the changing light doesn’t make much difference. Maja and I go on another hike together, but just a tiny one this time, to explore the Mistaya Canyon, already iced over in parts, and its rushing water and rock formations.

  “You’d think I would’ve got tired of waterfalls by now,” I say. “And yet…”

  She smiles. “And yet,” she echoes. “I wish we could have been here a little later, when it will be all ice. I’ve seen photos, and they looked amazing.”

  “Next time,” I say.

  As we get closer to Lake Louise, we stop off at a number of smaller lakes. One is called Peyto Lake, where I sit cross-legged on the concrete at the viewpoint to sketch a self-portrait: me sitting on a boat in the lake, surrounded by trees and mountains. Even if I had all my colors from home instead of just my graphite pencils, I still couldn’t capture the almost-eerie greenish blue of the lake, but this sketch is just for me, anyway. I write PEYTO and then LAKE on either side of
my head, as if I’m blocking a missing N.

  “Shall we start calling you Peyto?” Lars asks.

  “For, like, two more days?” I ask. “Go for it.”

  “It sounds like a Pokémon,” Beasey says. “Peyto.”

  “Says Beasey,” I tease.

  He laughs. “All right, Peyto.”

  I’m smiling. It’s so much better than Pey-Pey.

  * * *

  The next day is Lake Louise day. I’d imagined us all doing some kind of great hike to reach the lake, but it turns out the big day hikes aren’t really possible at this time of year because of the conditions.

  “What kind of conditions?” I ask. “Too icy?”

  “Avalanche risk,” Seva says.

  “What? Really?” I say, alarmed. “Actual avalanches?”

  “Not a worry for us,” he says. “Because we won’t go up high.”

  “There are a couple of low-elevation trails we can do,” Maja says. “We can combine them. We can do the Louise Creek Trail from the village to the lake, then do the Lakeshore Trail around part of the lake.” She smiles at me. “Don’t worry. It will still be epic.”

  “You’ve given me a taste for hiking!” I say. “I was imagining… what’s the word? Peaking?”

  “Summiting,” Maja says, laughing a rare proper laugh. “And not at this time of year in this part of the world with your experience, no.”

  We start early to make the most of the day. There’s snow on the ground—not so much that we can’t do the walk, but enough that I’m glad we decided not to attempt any of the higher-elevation hikes. I probably wouldn’t have made it fifteen minutes without slipping on ice and breaking my leg.

  The Louise Creek Trail isn’t actually that long, but it takes us a while because we have to be careful on the icy stretches. At one point, Stefan’s feet go flying out from under him and he skids on his side a couple of feet down the incline of the path. When Lars helps him to his feet, he’s wincing, testing his weight on both feet.

  “You are okay?” Seva asks.

  Stefan nods. “Just about.” He rubs his elbow through his jacket, his face still one big wince. “This better be a good lake. I want ultimate Awe.”

  And of course that’s what we get. It feels like it takes a long time to get there—particularly if you count the rest of the entire trip—but when we do, it’s like everything I’ve seen and felt up to now rolled into one. I’d thought that it might be a let-down—or, at least, an anticlimax—after seeing it in so many pictures and learning it by heart, but it’s not. It’s amazing. It’s not frozen over yet, as it will be, come the proper winter season, but it’s getting there.

  “You know, normal water is going to be spoiled forever for me now,” I say. “I’ll look at the sea and be like, You think that’s blue? I’ll tell you about blue.”

  “ ‘Blue’ isn’t even the word,” Lars says. “They should invent a new word for this color.”

  “Louise Blue,” Stefan says. “Louise Bluegreen.”

  We take our time at the lakeshore, even though it’s bitingly cold. The good thing about it being the off-season is that it’s not crowded with tourists as it would have been if we’d come during the summer or later in the winter when it will be completely iced over. It’s just our little RV family and a handful of strangers, all of us sharing the view and the cold.

  I give myself the time to stand at the shore, looking out across the vast, impossibly turquoise lake. I think about all the pictures I’ve seen, how right now I am there—I am here. This place exists all the time, when the camera is there and when it isn’t, when I’m in Canada and when I’m at home where I belong. It was here before all of us, and it’ll be here long after we’ve all gone. Before someone called it Lake Louise, it was here. When there’s no one to remember it ever had a name, it will be here. It is as forever as forever can be.

  I think about all the countless thousands of people who have stood and will stand where I’m standing, maybe feeling as small as I do right now, re-evaluating their own small problems and priorities. They’ll take the same pictures as we all have and show them to Instagram and their friends at home and say, It really was that blue! I feel weirdly fond of all these strangers I’ll never meet that I have this thing in common with. I actually want to cry a bit, but I’m not even sure why, because I’m not sad. I’m deeply, perfectly, happy.

  “Selfie?” Beasey’s voice comes from behind me, and I turn, smiling, to nod. He puts his arm around me like it’s normal, like he does it all the time, and I lean into him, like it’s normal, like I do it all the time. He holds his phone out in front of us. “Smile,” he says, but soft and quiet, a whisper into my ear, like a kiss. I smile wide.

  NOW

  BANFF

  We have one more day together with the RV before Seva has to drive it to Calgary to drop it off, and we spend it driving around the Vermilion Lakes, just outside Banff town. Everyone is a little subdued, the usual energy muted. I think we’re all feeling that this the end of something special. The only time we’ll all ever be together in this place, sharing our slice of Canada.

  After, we all take the Banff Gondola up to the top of Sulphur Mountain—even William “No one said there’d be this many bloody gondolas” Beasey—where we’re rewarded with panoramic views of Banff and eat lunch for the last time all together, looking out over the mountains.

  All too soon, it’s time for the goodbyes to start. We all go to the Fairmont Springs Hotel—which looks like an actual castle—and spend our last hour with Maja, who has plans to meet her friends there. We walk around the grounds and down to the Bow River, where there’s yet another waterfall. I tell Maja that I’ll miss walking with her, because I know she isn’t sentimental and I don’t want to make her feel awkward by saying what I feel, which is that she’s been an incredible friend to me, and I’m so grateful, and the rest of my life will be better because of that. She hugs me tight, like she knows.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again?” I say, embarrassed by the earnestness is my voice.

  “Of course we will,” she says, so matter-of-factly it makes me smile. “Come to Germany. I’ll show you the Black Forest. We’ll eat strudel together.”

  It feels wrong to be back in the RV without her. Especially as we’re only really in it long enough for all of us to collect the bags we’d already packed the night before. Seva stops the RV outside the hostel we’ll be staying in without him, and the round of hugs begins. I start to cry.

  “Aw, Peyto,” Lars says. He hugs me, and Stefan joins in on my other side, sandwiching me between them.

  I wipe my eyes, embarrassed. No one else seems close to tears. But even anticipating the end coming hasn’t stopped its arrival feeling sudden.

  “You’re going to be so lonely in the RV,” I say to Seva.

  He smiles. “It will be very quiet.” The drive to Calgary, where he’s going to stay for a night before flying to Toronto, will take a couple of hours. “I will see you in Toronto,” he says when he hugs me.

  “Promise?” I say.

  “I promise,” he says.

  The idea of making it across Canada without all of them feels a little easier, knowing I’ll have a friend in Toronto.

  When the RV has disappeared around a corner, it’s just me and the boys left, and we head into the hostel together to check in. The boys are all sharing one of the dorms, and I’m on my own in the girls dorm. It’s empty when I get there, which makes the loneliness I feel even worse. I try to shake it off—I’m going to be on my own in a lot of hostels if I’m going to make it farther across Canada—but there’s no escaping the thoughts of life post-RV now. It’s already happening.

  There’s a knock on the open door and I glance behind me to see Beasey smiling in the doorway. “Hey,” he says. “I’m going to do a load of washing while the laundry room is quiet. You want to come too?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Give me a sec to get sorted.”

  He nods. “I’ll see you down there,
” he says.

  I look down at my bulging rucksack, which I’ve barely had to really think about since we’d got the RV and I hadn’t had to carry it on my back from place to place. Now it’s going to be my closest companion for the next God-knows-how-long. Maybe I should give it a name.

  When I get to the laundry room, Beasey is there on his own, sitting on the long ledge built into the wall, waiting patiently with two cups of tea. “I keep thinking of Seva on his own in the RV!” he says, holding out one of the cups to me.

  I take it, then immediately set it down to start loading up one of the machines. “I know; me too. It’s not that far to Calgary, though. Just a couple of hours, right?”

  “Maybe even less, depending on how the roads are,” he says. “I bet he misses us, though.”

  I try to smile, keeping my eyes on the instructions on the wall, keying in the program to the machine. How can he be so cheerful and ordinary? Doesn’t he care that this is all almost over? All we have left is a couple of days, max, in Edmonton. I know all of this has meant more to me than the others, but I’d hoped it still meant a lot to him.

  I push the coins into the slot and the machine chugs into life.

  “Are you okay?” Beasey asks me. “You seem really sad.”

  “I am sad,” I say. “Of course I am. Having to say goodbye to everyone… it’s awful.”

  “Well,” he says. “I’ve kind of been thinking about that.”

  I look at him, a flicker of hope in my chest. We hadn’t had any real time to talk since we were last alone in the RV together. “Yeah?”

  “You know, I’ve never been to Toronto,” he says. “Or anywhere in Eastern Canada. They say Montreal is incredible.” When I don’t say anything, because I can’t, he says, “Maybe we don’t have to say goodbye yet.”

  And then we’re kissing. Completely out of nowhere, finally kissing. And not a soft, gentle, questioning kiss, either. It’s a full-on, tongues mashing, hands in hair, legs entwining kiss, right up against the row of washing machines. We break apart, suddenly, at the same time, both gasping. His glasses are almost hanging off his face. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “Hooooly shit.”