Destination Anywhere Read online

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m thinking, Travis and I never kissed like that. “So.” I casually smooth down my hair. “You were saying something about Toronto?”

  He laughs, and it’s adorable. I want to kiss him again. Why weren’t we doing this all along? Why are we doing it now, when this is probably all about to end? I think about our beds in the dorms. Could we…? No. No, Peyton. Get a grip.

  “I wasn’t sure you… you know,” he says. “Liked me like that.”

  “Of course I do,” I say. “I just… This is all temporary. God, even if you did come with me, this would still be temporary. I shouldn’t have… We shouldn’t have…”

  “Don’t spiral,” he says, his hands still at my waist. “We can figure this out.”

  “Would Khalil even agree to carry on traveling in Canada?” I ask. “Don’t you have a plan?”

  “I can talk to him.”

  My heart sinks. I want to just be kissing again, the kind of kiss where thinking is impossible, but I can’t stop my head snagging on the words. “So you haven’t yet?”

  “He knows about Edmonton,” he says. “Me going with you to see your Grandad. He was okay about that. He’s going to hang out with Lars and Stefan while I’m there, but he could just come with us, and we’ll all carry on together.”

  “Okay” isn’t exactly enthusiastic, though, is it? Why do I have a feeling that Khalil won’t be happy about this idea at all?

  “You should talk to him.”

  “I will,” he says.

  “When?”

  “Later,” he says. “We were thinking about going to one of the bars, so I’ll bring it up then. In the meantime…” He glances at the washing machine. “There’s a while left on this cycle.”

  I can’t stop myself smiling. I tilt my head, moving closer to him, lifting my hands up to loop around his neck. “Is there?”

  * * *

  I’m back in my dorm room, sorting through my freshly clean clothes, when I find a T-shirt of Beasey’s in the pile. I smile down at it, pressing it to my nose to smell it like I’ve wandered into a cheesy rom-com—unsurprisingly, it just smells of washing powder—and put it aside while I pack everything back up. When I’m done, I wander down the hall to the dorm room he’s sharing with Khalil to return it to him.

  I can hear their voices through the partially open door, not exactly shouting but unmistakably tense, angry. Argument voices, even fighting voices. I stop.

  “You can’t be fucking serious.” Khalil, sharp and annoyed.

  “What’s the big deal? We said we’d be flexible. Go where we wanted, if something cool came up.” Beasey, irritation in his voice even though he’s trying to use his placatory tone.

  “I have been flexible!” Khalil snaps. “We have gone where we wanted when something cool came up. That’s why we’ve ended up here. But we can’t carry on randomly traveling across this country when we’re meant to be going in the literal opposite direction. The later it gets, the more this screws up our plans.”

  “Mate,” Beasey says.

  “Don’t call me mate—I’m fucking angry.”

  “Mate,” Beasey says again. “One week in Toronto.”

  “We’ve got to get to Toronto first, remember?” Khalil says. “Fuck, Beasey, you know how much time—and money—we’ve spent on this detour? We haven’t worked since Australia. We carry on like this, I won’t make it further than Mexico.”

  “We wouldn’t even have come to Canada if it wasn’t for you and Heather,” Beasey says. “You want to talk about detours?”

  “A couple of weeks, that was meant to be,” Khalil says. “A country we hadn’t seen. And now we’ve been here over a month, and yeah, I’m glad we’ve seen Banff and it’s all been great, but this isn’t a see-as-much-of-Canada-as-possible trip—it’s a see-the-world trip. Heather was a detour. You’re making Peyton a whole new plan.”

  I’m long past the point where I should have walked away and let them have their argument in private, but of course I’m still there, leaning against the wall, T-shirt in hand, shamelessly eavesdropping.

  “This isn’t about Peyton,” Beasey says, unconvincingly.

  Khalil barks out a sharp laugh. “Oh, fuck off.”

  There’s a long silence. Maybe this is the moment I should casually walk in? No. It’ll be obvious from my face that I’ve overheard them.

  “Listen,” Khalil says. “We can swing down into the States from here. Head to Portland, then carry on like we planned down through California. But if we go to Toronto, we’re on the wrong side of the continent.”

  “We could do the East Coast instead,” Beasey says.

  “I’ve done New York before,” Khalil replies. “We agreed the route would take us west, not east. What about the Grand Canyon? Vegas? San Francisco?”

  “Fine, then we can fly.”

  “We’ve flown enough! We’re meant to be keeping our flights down to an absolute minimum. Yeah, we said we’d be flexible, but we’re still meant to have a basic plan. Look, I like Peyton. She’s great. But you can’t derail our entire trip because of her. You want to go to Toronto? Fine. Go. I’m going to the States.”

  Shit. My heart has started hammering. I clutch my elbows, fingers digging in against my skin.

  “Our number one rule was we wouldn’t separate.”

  “I don’t want to separate.”

  “Fuck, Khalil.” Beasey’s voice is tense and sharp. “You can’t throw an ultimatum at me like that.”

  “It’s not an ultimatum; it’s a fact. I’m going to the States in two days. You can choose to come with me or not. Right now, I’m going to find somewhere to get a drink.”

  “Can we talk about this?”

  “We just did.”

  I duck into the nearest doorway—it turns out to be a cupboard—just in time to avoid being seen by Khalil, who walks past as he pushes his arms into his coat. He’s shaking his head.

  When he’s gone, I duck out of the cupboard and go to their room, pausing outside until Beasey looks up from where he’s standing in the middle of it, like he hasn’t moved. He blinks in confusion when he sees me. I hold up the T-shirt.

  “I took this by mistake,” I say. “Just… bringing it back.”

  He tries to smile. “Thanks.”

  I expect him to ask me if I’d heard, but he doesn’t. I guess it’s obvious. After a moment he sits down onto one of the beds and I sit beside him. We’re both quiet until I say, “You should go have that drink with him.”

  “Yeah. I should, shouldn’t I?” He glances toward the doorway, then back at me. “You’ll be okay staying here at the hostel?”

  “Yeah, of course; I’ll be fine. I’ve got Wi-Fi and my sketch pad.” I smile at him, but he can barely muster one back. “Listen,” I say. “If you have to leave with Khalil, I’ll understand. You don’t even have to come to Edmonton, if this is too much.”

  “No,” he says. “We’re going to Edmonton. But after that… I don’t know.” He shakes his head in frustration. “I just don’t know.”

  NOW

  EDMONTON

  In the morning, Khalil is as friendly as ever toward me but noticeably cold toward Beasey as we all eat breakfast together. Lars and Stefan, who are staying in the hostel for a week before moving into the accommodation they’ve been allocated for their job, are talking about spending the day exploring the bars in Banff, trying to decide if they’ve “seen enough nature” to make it acceptable. Khalil has pulled out one of the maps of Banff and is planning a route with them, the three of them in good spirits.

  “First one to fall on the ice buys the drinks,” he says.

  We all go for a walk around Banff town together, the snow now thick on the ground and the roofs of the chalets and buildings, then have lunch at a ramen place before Beasey and I have to go and get our bus.

  “You going to miss the Rockies?” Khalil asks me after we’ve done our first goodbye hug.

  I’ll miss him more. His dry smile, his understated affecti
on, how he looks at me like he can see my thoughts but still likes me anyway. There’s magic in having a friend like that. “So much,” I say. “Will you send me photos every day before you leave?”

  “Sure,” he says. “And you’ll send me pictures of Toronto, yeah?” I nod, and he hugs me again. “See ya, King,” he says. “Stay safe, okay?”

  Lars and Stefan give me another Swedish sandwich hug—this time, I swear Stefan gets a little tearful—and then all three of them stand and wave as we walk away. I let myself go ahead and cry as Beasey puts his arm around me and squeezes, but by the time the bus arrives for our first leg of the journey, to Calgary, I’ve calmed down.

  “How many hours do you think we’ve spent together in a moving vehicle now?” I ask once we’ve sat down.

  Beasey smiles. “Not enough.”

  My skin is tingling just being around him. I want to kiss again. Oh my God, I want to kiss again.

  “So I spoke to Khalil,” he says after a few minutes, breaking the silence.

  I tense. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He’s quiet again, clearly trying to decide what to say. “He’s going to the States whatever happens. In a couple of days, that’s where he’s going.”

  I’m not surprised. It had been clear from what I’d overheard that Khalil’s mind wasn’t going to be changed. “Okay,” I say.

  “And I just…” He swallows, shakes his head and looks out the window. He looks so sad. “I don’t know what to do,” he says finally.

  “Okay,” I say again. It’s pretty clear what he’ll do, at least to me, which is go with Khalil like they’d been planning for years. What’s going to take the time is Beasey deciding for himself that that’s okay. “Let’s just do Edmonton,” I say. “Everything else can wait.”

  “But you and me—” he begins.

  “Can’t be a thing,” I say.

  “I want to be there for you,” he says.

  “You are!” I say. “That’s why you’re on a bus going on some wild grandad chase with me. And I’m very glad about that.”

  He turns his head so our eyes can meet properly. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “Very glad.”

  I duck my head into the curve of his shoulder and we watch the snowy mountainscapes of Banff slide past through the window. At some point one of us—I think it’s me—does the chin tilt, and we’re kissing like two people shouldn’t kiss after they’ve all but agreed that they have no future, not even a short-term one. We kiss like we have all the time in the world.

  And we don’t, which is why getting off the bus into the freezing Calgary sleet is such an unwelcome jolt of reality.

  “Oh my God,” I say, burying my face into my scarf as far as it will go. “This is horrible. How long until the bus?”

  “Er…” Beasey says. “Half an hour?”

  “Oh my God,” I say again. “Can we at least find somewhere warm to stand?”

  We find a Starbucks—there are at least two within sight of the bus stop—and huddle inside for the next twenty minutes, using our cups more for their hand-warmer qualities than for the coffee within. Before we leave to get the bus, Beasey buys us two more coffees for the journey and two cinnamon rolls, which cheers me up.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a cinnamon roll?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Is that a good thing?”

  I smile. “It’s a very good thing.”

  When we get on the bus, I take the window seat and he settles down beside me. “I miss the RV,” he grumbles.

  “Me too,” I say. “I wonder how Seva’s getting on in Toronto.” Saying it reminds me that soon enough I’ll be in Toronto, far away from Beasey, and being as cute and cozy together as we are now is only going to make things more painful later. “We shouldn’t kiss anymore,” I say.

  “Definitely not,” he says. “No more kissing.”

  We kiss all the way to Edmonton.

  By the time we get to the city, my legs are aching from all the sitting, and my chin is chafed with stubble rash. It’s another hour on another bus to get to the actual town Grandad lives in, which is a little way out of the city, and it’s already evening, so we decide to stay for the night in a hostel and make the trip in the morning. It feels strange being in a hostel alone with Beasey, without our friends, not so much a continuation of our adventure but something new. Short-lived, probably, but new.

  I’m nervous about the bed situation, but I don’t need to be. He gets a bed in the men’s dorm; I get one in the women’s. No problem, no temptation, no further confusion.

  We go to a diner for dinner and take our time, making the most of the free refills, talking about everything except the fact that it feels like we’re on a date when we shouldn’t be because that’s nothing but a road with a dead end. I don’t know what Beasey thinks is going to happen after we’ve visited my grandad, and I don’t want to ask, because I don’t know either. I don’t even know what I want to happen. There are two things in my head. One is Toronto. The other is Beasey.

  “Are you going to call ahead or anything?” Beasey asks. “To your grandad?”

  I shake my head. I hate calling people on the phone at the best of times, let alone an estranged grandfather who could be going senile, for all I know. Just thinking about trying to explain who I am and what I’m doing—“I’m Peyton. I’m your granddaughter. I wondered if I could pop in while I’m in the province?”—makes me feel embarrassed and anxious. I don’t know why it seems less terrifying to do it in person, but it does. At least then I’ll be able to take some cues from his facial expressions.

  “What if he’s not there?”

  “He will be,” I say confidently, as if I have access to information that Beasey doesn’t, which I don’t. But it honestly hadn’t occurred to me until this moment that Grandad might not be home. He could be in the middle of his own travels, for all I know. I try to shake off that particular worry; if he’s not there, there’s nothing I can do about it. May as well at least check. It’s not like it’d be the end of the world if I didn’t see him, anyway.

  The next morning, we set off early and get to Grandad’s house—a bus and a decent walk away—before eleven a.m. The house is huge, at least twice the size of the one I grew up in, with floor-to-ceiling windows to make the most of the view across a lake just a little way over in the distance.

  “Nice spot,” Beasey says.

  “No mountains, though,” I say. “If I was going to have a house with a view in Canada, I’d want there to be mountains in sight.”

  His smile is understanding. “Fair enough. You going to knock?”

  “Give me a minute,” I say, breathing in slowly to calm my nerves. I’m trying to imagine how I’ll describe all this to my dad later, when it’s just a memory. So we got there, and the house was beautiful, right out in the countryside…

  I jog up the driveway and push the bell in one smooth motion so I don’t have time to second-guess myself. Beasey lets out a yelp of surprise and hurries after me, reaching my side just as I hear the rattle of motion behind the door before it opens to reveal my grandfather. I know it’s him from the photos on his gallery website. He looks like a taller, thinner, grayer version of Dad.

  “Hello,” he says. “Can I help you?” His accent is thoroughly Canadian; no hint of British in there at all.

  “I’m Peyton,” I say. I’m about to say, “Peyton King. I’m your granddaughter,” all dramatic, because some moments, like meeting an estranged family member, call for drama.

  But before I can, he smiles. “Ah, Peyton,” he says. “Come on in.”

  Behind me, I hear a tiny, “Oh,” of surprise. My mouth has dropped open. Grandad has already backed away, gesturing for us both to come inside, like all of this is normal.

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” I say, trying to adjust my expectations of this visit with what’s actually happening. I follow him inside, glancing at Beasey behind me for reassurance. He looks as confused as I feel. I’d thought I�
��d have to explain myself more, at the very least. To be honest, I’d been expecting him to turn me away.

  “I’m not,” Grandad says.

  “You knew I was coming?”

  He chuckles. “Isn’t it funny that you, my British granddaughter, have turned up on my Canadian doorstep out of the blue, and yet it’s you that seems surprised?”

  “How did you know?” I press.

  “I spoke to your father,” he says. “I’m sorry—I assumed you’d know that.”

  What the actual. “He told you I was coming?” Dad spoke to Grandad? How did he even know I’d decide to come here?

  “No, he said you were in Canada and that you may turn up unexpectedly. And here you are.” He’s still smiling—almost smugly, I think, though that may be me putting that on him—like he’s pleased with how he’s handling this. “Would you like some tea?”

  “I thought you didn’t talk to each other.”

  “We don’t,” he says. “It was the first time we’ve spoken in quite some time. But he’s a good parent, unlike me.” He smiles like he thinks this is funny. Dark funny, but still funny. “So he set the bad feeling aside for one phone call. For you.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That you were feeling very lost, that he wanted you home but you wouldn’t come home. He said that you probably wouldn’t make the trip up to Edmonton, but asked that if you did, I’d be kind to you. I don’t know why he’d think I wouldn’t be, but there we go. Here you are, and I am very pleased to see you, and you are very welcome.” He smiles at me. “Look at you! You’re fully grown. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Oh. Well, not quite fully grown, then. I’m sorry to have missed your life.” He says this so matter-of-factly that it throws me. “But Canada is a big country, and England is far away.”

  That is clearly not the reason why the two of us have never met, but there doesn’t seem to be much point in saying so.