Destination Anywhere Read online

  We ended up in the kitchen together, him and me. He was showing me where the glasses were so I could have some water. I made some kind of joke about high-ball glasses and being high that must have been terrible but nevertheless made him laugh like he thought I was actually funny. And then he said, “You’re funny,” like he hadn’t thought I would be. I took my time pouring water into my glass, taking a few sips, trying out responses in my mind.

  I could feel him looking at me, and when I glanced at him his lips twitched into a smile. Somewhere inside me, some instinct that had been dulled by years without use flickered into life. If I flirted with Travis, acted like I really liked him, made him feel like I wanted him, he’d flirt and like and want me back. And if all of that happened, he could be my boyfriend. And if he was my boyfriend, his friends would be my friends. No more worrying about keeping Flick’s attention, or that she or all of them would get tired or bored of me. If I belonged to Travis, I would belong to the group.

  I smiled. I let myself lean back a little against the counter so he’d seem taller.

  “Hey, there’s more to me than neat handwriting.”

  He laughed again. His eyes kept traveling to my lips—probably because I kept licking them so they’d be wet and glistening. “Seems like it.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  He nodded.

  “I like surprising you,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  I felt so powerful in that moment. I had him so entirely, that’s how it felt. The way he was looking at me, the electricity between us. All of that potential and power, crackling under our words. We were going to kiss and it was inevitable and I was standing in the doorway of everything I’d ever wanted. He could take my hand and walk me through.

  I was giddy, reckless. I could say I didn’t feel like myself, but that wasn’t it at all. I felt more like myself than I had for years and years. I said, “Kiss me, then.”

  It wasn’t exactly epic, that first kiss. Not just our first kiss, but my first kiss. Our lips collided more than anything else. His tongue slid immediately into my mouth—no soft, close-lipped kisses first, no building to The Tongue—and began darting around like it was looking for something. It was all I could do to keep up. I had a vague idea I was meant to kiss back, but in the moment I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, not when my mouth seemed full of his tongue and mine could barely move. I moved my body a little closer to his, pressing myself up against him, and that must have been the right thing to do because his arm curled around the back of my neck, mashing our faces even closer together.

  I’m not sure how long we stayed there, kissing, but it was probably a while. At one point, someone stumbled into the kitchen, let out a loud “Whoops! Sorry!” and left again. I think it was Flick. Eventually we went back to the living room and Travis squeezed my hand before letting it go—he’d held it all the way from the kitchen—and sat on the floor beside Nico, who slapped him on the back and handed him a controller. Flick and Eric were nowhere to be seen. When I asked Casey where they were, everyone laughed.

  It got later; I got sleepier. Between games, Travis sat on the sofa and tugged me onto his lap, where I curled against him like I belonged. Flick and Eric returned, arguing lightly about what time it was, a wide smile on her face. Travis got up to hand Eric a beer, and Flick sat beside me on the sofa, slouching herself down with a loud, contented sigh, lifting her feet to lean against my legs. It was so cozy it made me want to cry. I never, ever wanted to move. The whole world was fuzzy and warm. My friends—my friends—were all clustered around me, their conversations a low, easy hum. A voice—I wasn’t sure who it belonged to—called, “You out, Pey-Pey?” I waved a vague hand in response, and everyone laughed. Flick’s voice, indulgent: “Shh, let her sleep.”

  I was there. I’d made it.

  NOW

  VANCOUVER

  By the morning, the adrenaline that had propelled me out of the hostel games room and into my dorm room bed has long faded, leaving me in the cold sink of reality. And that is me, fully dressed under thin hostel covers in a hostel bed on the wrong side of the world, the same me I was before, the same me I’ll always be. The me that completely freaked out in front of the best people I’d ever met, the ones who’d probably thought I was normal, maybe even a bit cool. Impulsive, maybe, but in a good way.

  But no, I’ve revealed myself. I’m just a teenager who can’t handle literally anything. I can’t handle not having friends, or having friends, or making friends or keeping friends. Because did Beasey actually try and kiss me, or did I jump to the most extreme, unlikely conclusion when he thought we were just having a normal conversation?

  Oh my God, I literally pushed him away, didn’t I? And basically screamed in his face. And then ran out of the room. And hid.

  Why did I leave home? To escape. But I brought the biggest problem with me: myself.

  I burrow myself down deeper, my face burning hot against the sheets. I’m an unsalvageable disaster. I don’t deserve to have friends.

  After a few minutes of self-pity/loathing, I find my phone where it’s wedged between the mattress and the bunk frame, lighting the screen to see messages waiting for me. Even though I know that none of the Vancouver crew have my number, I still feel a burst of hope that it’s one of them. But the messages are from Dillon, asking me how I am, whether I’ve seen a whale yet, if I’ve learned to speak French.

  Me:

  Was this a crazy thing to do? Should I just come home?

  Dillon:

  Yes. No.

  Me:

  Which way round?

  Dillon:

  You know which way round. Everything OK, P?

  I consider how to respond to this. No, everything’s not okay, but I can’t really remember the last time it was, at least not before I got to Canada, and I thought that was going to be okay, but now it isn’t, and it’s my fault, and maybe this is going to be the pattern of my life, and that is so scary I don’t know what to do with it.

  Me:

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Dillon:

  Then figure it out. Make a plan. If I was in Canada right now, I’d go to Tim Hortons for breakfast. And then I’d go and see an ice hockey game.

  Me:

  On your own?

  Dillon:

  No, with you, you idiot.

  Me:

  Talking with Dillon like this, it’s so familiar. There was a time when he was my only friend—which didn’t really count because he was also my brother—and it was always him I’d talk to when I was feeling anxious or low, worrying about my lack of friends, how much I hated what I was studying at college, how lost I felt. And now I’ve flown across the world, and our dynamic is just the same. Him offering advice; me flailing around in my own life.

  But he’s right; I should make a plan. A small plan for today, and then a proper one for this whole mess of a trip I’m trying to take. I’ll figure out where to go after Vancouver and how to get there, and that’ll be a start. No more friend-shaped distractions. Especially not the adorable, Scottish-accented type, who probably kisses as sweetly as he smiles—

  No. Stop. For God’s sake, Peyton.

  I skip breakfast rather than face anyone, instead taking my phone and sketch pad across the road to the Starbucks where I research public transport to Calgary for ten minutes and then sketch my cartoon-self riding a moose across the Rockies for the rest of the hour. Maybe it’s not all that productive, but it’s much nicer than the heart palpitations brought on by finding out the cost of getting to Calgary. And that’s not even halfway across the country. It’s barely a third of the way.

  I’m feeling more lost than I did when I started, trying to remember what the point of all this was. So far, this trip hasn’t looked like I’d imagined it would. Wide-open spaces, minimal people, mountains to climb—that’s what I’d expected. But Vancouver is a huge, sprawling urban city, and Calgary will probably be that too, so why exactly do I want to go there? Mayb
e I should go… north? Am I already north? How north do you have to get before you’re properly north?

  “Excuse me.” A voice comes from above me and I jump, dropping my phone onto the table. I look up, dazed, to see a woman trying to squeeze past my chair.

  “Oh,” I say, flustered. “Sorry.”

  When she’s gone—“I love your accent!”—I blink myself back to reality. Of course I can’t randomly go north, whatever that even means. Get a grip, Peyton. All I need to do is make a plan, just a small one, like Dillon said, to get myself back on track. I think about the guys talking about Vancouver Island, telling me that I should go. Obviously, I can’t go with them, but I can go on my own, can’t I? Yes. That’s the answer. I will plan a mini trip-within-a-trip. Vancouver is huge and urban and overwhelming, but Vancouver Island will be smaller, more manageable. It will have all of the good bits—beautiful scenery, wildlife, beaches, places to explore—and none of the stress. Or less of the stress, anyway. There, I will learn how to travel independently, like I’d planned. And then, once I’ve learned that, I’ll put it into practice and start making my way across Canada.

  It’s a great plan. I feel calmer just thinking about it, marking off places I want to visit and planning an itinerary. I’m actually quite proud of myself, and it’s a good distraction from thinking about everyone else, who I studiously avoid when I get back to the hostel in the early evening. I tell myself that they probably haven’t even noticed my absence, because we’re just traveling friends, aren’t we? We’re not obligated to spend time with each other. I’m just another random girl in a youth hostel.

  “Hey, Peyton!”

  I freeze, still facing the vending machine, where I’ve been trying to choose between a Wunderbar and a Mr. Big—both sound amazing—and force a smile on my face before I turn and see Khalil approaching.

  “Oh,” I say. “Um. Hi.”

  “Hey,” he says again. He’s smiling a small, quizzical smile. “Where have you been? You disappeared.”

  “Just around,” I say, wanting to sound casual, failing hard. “Exploring, you know…”

  His eyebrow raises, his smile quirks, and I flush with embarrassment. He saw me run out of the room that night, probably heard me shriek at Beasey. And no doubt Beasey would have told him how I reacted at the maybe-probably-not kiss attempt. They’ve probably been laughing about it.

  “But you’re okay?” he asks. “You’re doing all right? Beasey was—”

  “I’m fine,” I interrupt, a little too loudly. “I’ve been planning my trip. Figuring it out, like you all said I should.”

  He nods. “Okay, cool. We can help with that, though. Seva knows Canada really well, and Lars and Stefan are also figuring out how to get to Banff—”

  “I’m fine,” I say again, barely listening, because it’s hard to concentrate when the residual mortification I’d tried to forget is screaming through my head. “I’m going to Vancouver Island, actually. Tomorrow.”

  I’ve surprised him. “Oh,” he says. “Really?”

  “Yeah, you guys all made it sound so great.”

  “You don’t want to wait one more day and come with us?” he asks.

  “I kind of want to do this on my own,” I say. “I mean, that’s why I’m here.”

  Khalil doesn’t reply for a moment, like he’s thinking about what to say. When he speaks, his voice is a little flat, but somehow gentle. “To be on your own.”

  I swallow, then nod. “Well, yeah.”

  “Okay, well, at least take my number, and I’ll take yours, so you’ll know there’s someone nearby you can call if you need to. And I’ll check in to make sure you’re okay, otherwise I’ll worry. We all will.” He pulls out his phone and looks at me expectantly.

  “Why?” I ask.

  This time, he rolls his eyes. “God, because we’re decent human beings? I don’t know, Peyton.”

  I’m acting stupid, and now I’m annoying him. But no one’s ever said they’d worry about me before, at least not someone who didn’t share my surname. It’s not my fault I don’t know how to react; I never learned how.

  Of course I don’t say this. I take out my phone and we exchange numbers, he tells me to have a good trip and I say the same. There’s an awkward pause, and so I say, “Which chocolate bar should I get?” and gesture at the vending machine. “Mr. Big or Wunderbar?”

  “Both,” he says. “Life’s too short to pick just one.”

  * * *

  In the morning, before I check out of the hostel, I decide to stop into the reading room to see if they have any tourist leaflets for Vancouver Island. I’ve already walked all the way in before I see Seva, sitting at one of the desks with his laptop. He smiles at me and says hello as if everything is normal, like I haven’t been avoiding him like a little weirdo for the last couple of days.

  “Hi,” I say. “Can I ask about the clothes?”

  He glances down at himself and laughs. He’s wearing a suit jacket and tie, as smart as if he were going for a job interview, but his bottom half is a pair of jeans. “I have a Skype interview in twenty minutes,” he says. “A company in Toronto. They will only see me from the chest upward.”

  “Oh, cool,” I say. “What’s the job?”

  “It is not interesting,” Seva says with another laugh. “Web design; a short contract, just a few months.”

  “Is that what you do?” I ask. “Web design?”

  He nods. “Among other things.”

  “I thought you were traveling,” I say. “Like the guys.”

  “I am,” he says. “I work and travel. If I do not do one, I cannot do the other.” He smiles at the look that must be on my face. “Adulthood, it comes for everyone. What have you been doing?”

  “Exploring,” I say, wondering if he’s spoken to Beasey and Khalil, imagining them all hanging out like normal people while I’ve been shutting myself away for what must seem like no good reason. I feel a pang I try to ignore. “I’m going to Vancouver Island later.”

  “With Beasey and Khalil?”

  I shake my head, willing my cheeks not to redden. “Just me.”

  His forehead crinkles, like he’s confused, but he doesn’t question me further. He just says, “That will be fun. I wish I was also going.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Money, time,” he says, lifting his hands in a shrug. “If I get this Toronto job, I can know I will have income soon, so I will be able to relax. But if not, I will need to find another job, apply, have an interview. It all takes time.”

  It all sounds so grown-up. It makes me feel stupid and young, floundering around trying to figure out what I’m doing. He must think I’m such a child.

  “Well, good luck,” I say a little awkwardly. “With the interview.”

  He smiles. “Thank you, Peyton. And have a good time on the Island.”

  It occurs to me when I’m back in my room, packing up my bag and making sure I haven’t left anything behind, that I might never see Seva again. Or Khalil, or any of them. It’s weird to think how transitory all of this is, that even if I had made more of an effort to make friends, we would still have separated eventually. It seems like even more of a reason to keep myself at a distance, because what’s the point of making friendships when they can’t last?

  Later, when I’m waiting for a bus, Mum calls. Her voice is so familiar. She wants to know everything about the trip, where I’m staying, where I’ll go. She’s calmed down a little since I’ve been here, but she still doesn’t believe I really can do this on my own. I listen patiently while she lists all her worries, telling me again that I should just come home.

  “Is Dad there?” I ask, when we’ve talked for a while.

  There’s a pause. “He doesn’t want to talk right now,” she says.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “He’s very frustrated,” she says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to talk to him while he’s in this mood.”

  “Because I’m going to Vancouver I
sland?”

  “Because of everything,” she says. “We had another email from your college today. They’re still expecting that you’ll be going back imminently.”

  “Why?” I ask, trying not to get frustrated myself. “Why are they thinking that? I’ve said that I’m not going to go back at all, let alone imminently. I’m not even coming home imminently.”

  “Okay, Peyton,” she says, very tiredly. “Please don’t use that tone with me.”

  “Can you just please try to explain to him that I mean it about dropping out of college?”

  “No,” she says. “Because I don’t want you to drop out of college, either. There’s no harm in you taking a bit of extra time to think about it.”

  I close my eyes, grinding down on my teeth, then letting out a low sigh. “Fine.”

  “I know that you’re thinking of this as some kind of… break,” she says. “But that’s just not how life works, Peyton. You can’t just take breaks from your life. This is your future. You can’t risk it all for a holiday in Canada.”

  “That’s not what this is.”

  “It looks an awful lot like it from this side of the world,” she says, and I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Your father and I have been more than fair. We’ve been incredibly understanding. But you can’t expect us to support you doing something as drastic as dropping out of college and derailing your future. We’re your parents. It’s our job to think long term.”

  “I am thinking long term,” I say. “And it’ll be a long-term life of misery if I finish these A Levels and go to uni to study something I don’t want for a career I don’t want. Why won’t you listen to me? It’s not derailing—it’s switching tracks.” I’m so impressed with myself for coming up with such a great analogy right on the spot that I almost want to write it down. “If I have to stay away long enough for you to finally realize that, then I will.”