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  I quickly realized that being an adult meant little more than making life up as you went along. Nobody ever tells you that no one has any idea what they’re doing.

  And on top of that, my generation entered the workforce in the worst economic time since the Great Depression. My mother always said that when she was my age she, as a woman, had three career options: teacher, secretary, and nurse. I thought we had it better, as the Information Age brought an explosion of options, but the economic collapse of 2007, the year I entered the workforce, obliterated opportunity.

  The car lurched, waking me from my angst-ridden contemplation. I glanced up, and all eyes were on me. Perhaps they saw me as another casualty of the Great Recession, sympathizing or worrying if it was going to be their turn next. Or perhaps it was because I was rocking violently, muttering aloud with the occasional expletive clutching a bulk sized tampon box to my chest while staring at a wad of gum on the ground. You would think people would be used to seeing that sort of thing on public transportation by now. Must be tourists.

  An envelope poking out of my box scratched at my chin. I had found it wedged in my door that morning and didn’t have the chance to read it. Resting the box in my lap, I pulled it out and tore it open.

  Dear Tenant,

  Please be advised that you have thirty days to sign your lease for the upcoming rental period. If you fail to sign or chose not to renew your lease, you will need to vacate the premises within thirty days.

  Kind regards,

  David Bryson,

  Landlord

  Great, more good news.

  I winced at the thought of telling my parents of losing my job. They would insist that I move back in with them, but it made them so happy to see me stand on my own two feet. I also knew finding a new job was going to be a long and depressing road, and the last thing I wanted was for them to worry about me more than they already did. After we lost Audrey, they seemed to be conditioned to fear that the same may happen to me.

  Anxiety clutched at my throat, and instead of letting it control me, I acknowledged my feelings of losing control and centered myself with three deep breaths. After exhaling the third, I whispered what I was grateful for. “I am grateful for my family; I am grateful for the breath in my lungs; I am grateful for my friends; I am grateful for the chance to start each day anew, I am grateful for the love of my boyfriend.”

  Then it hit me. Maybe this letter didn’t have to be a bad thing. Adam and I had been together for two wonderful years. I loved him beyond measure, and he loved me too. I wasn’t sure of many things, but I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. We had discussed the idea of moving in together a few times, though in passing, so maybe this letter was delivered to me to push us towards taking our relationship to the next level. Maybe it was a sign. It was fate. Kismet, if you will.

  Flying out of the car at the next stop, I made my way to Adam’s place.

  Chapter 2

  The terror of presenting that morning paled in comparison to asking him to move in together. Though the question was few in words, it was a big question with a big answer. He had to say yes.

  I rapped on the door three times, and as I waited for him to answer, I feared I would faint from sheer nerves. At that moment I understood the horrors of boyhood having to ask a girl out to the prom. When Lana, my best friend, asked a guy to prom, she didn’t seem nervous at all, but she had a chest so large it heaved, and there wasn’t a single boy would say no to that. Hell, the same probably went for the male teachers too and, oh God, the door was opening…

  “Hi, baby,” Adam cooed, leaning in for a kiss.

  He was average height and in my sensible heels, I stood three inches shorter than him. The perfect height for kissing. When his lips touched mine, I instantly felt grounded, and my nerves dissipated. No matter how bad a day I might have, his touch never failed to comfort me.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so early,” he said as I stepped over the threshold. “I’m just in the middle of a World of Warcraft level. Can you give me a minute?”

  “Okay, but have you taken your insulin today?”

  “Not yet,” he called back as he scuttled across the room to his computer in the corner.

  I hated that answer.

  Walking into the kitchen, I searched for a clean glass. I reached up into the cupboard and found no glasses but a sleeve of red solo cups. I pulled one out and sniffed it to see if it had been used. Thankfully it was clean. Tilting the cup between the faucet and pile of crusty dishes I filled it with water. After draining it my mind cleared, and a stench assaulted me. With burning nostrils, I looked around. Bottles and cans spilled out of the trash, old food grew new life on the counter, and I swore I saw the sponge move.

  Adam had to want to get out of here, didn’t he? He owned and ran a successful telemarketing business; how could he live and work in a place fit for a slobby college kid?

  I shrugged off my coat as I crossed the living room and sank into the stained Ikea couch. After moving the stack of Men’s Health magazines and three empty Cup Noodle soup containers, I set down my water and the pack of Oreos I had picked up for him. They were his favorite, but I decided to hang onto them until I saw him take his insulin. Glancing at the mop of ash brown hair bobbing wildly above the back of the shaking chair, I knew I was going to be on this couch for the long haul. The things you do for love.

  We had met on my first day of group grief therapy. I’d been struggling to come to terms with Audrey’s death, and he was fighting the demons that haunted him over his mother’s suicide from five years earlier. There were ten of us in the room including the counselor, but when I first saw him, it was like a little switch turned on. Like a little voice said that he was going to be really important to me. I ugly cried through the entire session and was all red and puffy when he introduced himself at the end of the session. We sat next to each other for the next sessions, and on session four, he asked me out to dinner. Even though I was twenty-three, no boy had ever taken me on a date before. I was pretty awkward looking through high school, riddled with insecurities, too focused on sports, and school and photography, and blossomed in the summer between senior year and university. Why I didn’t date in university is a long story. Then when Audrey died in my final year, my depression stole my attention.

  I lived believing I would never feel happy again.

  On our date, Adam took me to an Italian restaurant in the Eaton Center, it was the dead of winter so we could get there with minimal time outdoors. During that evening with him, I smiled more and laughed harder than I had in a year, and I cared so deeply for him from that night. And as we grew closer, we broke away from the group sessions and supported each other as we fought grief and depression and found happiness and joy, falling in love along the way.

  The front door swung opened, startling me. His housemate, Jeff, strolled in, snow dusting his puffy jacket. We exchanged greetings, and then he grabbed a Maxim magazine with Jessica Alba on the cover from the coffee table and disappeared into his room.

  I grabbed the Men’s Health magazine. Oh, hello Zac Efron. I think I’ll read this one. For the articles. Only for the articles.

  I smiled as I wondered why there were even Men’s Health magazines in the apartment. His roommate ate Cup Noodles every meal (not exactly a health food fanatic), and Adam, rather than being a hard-bodied gym rat, was more of a soft around the edges Sunday stroll in the summertime kind of guy. Not that there was anything wrong with that, soft was perfect for cuddling. I wouldn’t trade him in for the world.

  By the time I learned how to get rock hard abs in seventeen days, power up my diet and speak her sex language, I heard the shuffling sounds of a level completed.

  It was time.

  “Sorry about that babe,” he said walking over to me. “How did the presentation go?”

  Rising to my feet, I wrapped my arms around him, buried my face in his chest, and he kissed the top of my head. As I inhaled the scent of his freshly lau
ndered sweater vest I listened to the slow and steady beating of his heart. He ran his fingers through my hair, and I stifled a sob. “That bad, huh?”

  “I lost my job today.”

  I nuzzled into his chest and he stroked my hair to soothe me. When I pulled myself together, I released myself from his grip.

  “Baby, what happened?”

  “They used me….” I then gave him a rundown of the day from my presentation to Security Steve taking my pass. “I finally felt like I had my place in the world. Maybe it wasn’t about the experience. Maybe I wasn’t as good at my job as I thought.”

  He took me in his arms again. “No, baby, you are smart and capable, and your ideas were amazing. It’s their loss.”

  I looked up into his brown eyes. “I’m grateful for you.”

  “I’m grateful for you,” he said back.

  I sank back onto the couch, and he joined me. I nestled into the nook under his arm and reached for the envelope from my box. “So, to make matters worse, I got this in the mail today.”

  He pulled out the letter from the ripped envelope and scanned it. His forehead scrunched, and he said, “At least you didn’t lose your job after you resigned your lease.”

  And that was one of the reasons why I loved him; he was level headed and logical. “That’s true.”

  “Have you spoken with your parents? They’ll let you move back in, no questions asked.”

  “Well baby, I was thinking, what if we moved in together instead?”

  His face froze like a pained gargoyle. It wasn’t exactly the look of joy I was hoping for, but I know I did shock him.

  Dammit, Adam, just say yes already.

  After what seemed like an eternity he finally spoke, “I…I…I don’t know. I need time to think.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” I said, pushing myself to sit upright. “We’re going to get married, have babies, do all of that stuff we talked about. I love you. I want to spend my life with you.”

  He wanted a future together, too. He said he did. Didn’t he?

  He stood and paced the room raking his hands through his hair, muttering and stumbling to get the words out while I sat there frozen with the realization of what he was possibly thinking. Finally, he stopped, looked me in the eyes and said the last words I expected him to say:

  “I’m just not sure about us.”

  It was my turn to look, and feel, like a pained gargoyle.

  “What do you mean you’re not sure about us? How can you not be sure?”

  How could we go from choosing baby names just a month ago, to him not being sure about us?

  He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and pinched the space between his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  It shouldn’t be that difficult to decide — if you want something, you know. If he wanted this, he would have said yes. And that meant he didn’t want us. He didn’t want me.

  “Don’t you love me?”

  “Of course I love you, but we’re still so young. It’s such a big step. Are we sure we’re ready for this?”

  Tears of anger pooled in my eyes. I was ready a year ago.

  Then he said, “Are you sure this is it for us?”

  Did he really just suggest the possibility that I wasn’t The One?

  I was angry and mortified. I had visions of our life together, and they were so real, so vivid. It was unthinkable that it wouldn’t become a reality. I had been not only dreaming for our life together but preparing for it. I had even been setting money aside to buy a place together. For years I gushed to my parents and best friends about him, about us, and about his excitement for our future. We helped each other through the darkest periods in our lives. I shudder to think what would have happened if we didn’t find one another. I knew he loved me, but now I realized just not enough. Our relationship had become comfortable, maybe too comfortable. Perhaps all of those talks we had about our future were to placate me, keep the peace, and stop life from changing. The talks were abstractions of the future, but when it was time to face it, it wasn’t what he wanted.

  I pressed my face in my hands. These past years with him were all a waste of time. I had to get out of there.

  “I am sure,” I said, rising to my feet and grabbing my coat, worried I might go ballistic and shove the kitchen sponge down his throat.

  “Baby, stop, let’s talk about this,” he said, placing his hand on my waist.

  I pushed his hand away. I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want him to tell me that he didn’t want to commit to me. I already knew.

  “No. Let me rephrase that, I was sure this was it for me. I was sure about us. I was sure you were The One,” I said, ramming my hands through the sleeves of my coat. “But I can’t be with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about me.”

  I loved him so much, and I hated that I did. Part of me wanted to stay and talk. Maybe try and change his mind. But my self-respect wouldn’t let me.

  Instead, I snatched the Oreos from the coffee table, and stormed from his apartment.

  ***

  With eyes that stung from crying myself to sleep, I trundled off my bed and sat at my stub of a desk. I’m always curious how people’s minds work when they encounter a crisis. Everyone is different, and my mind forces me into strategy mode. I always needed a needed next move. Regardless of what happens, life goes on and you don’t want to be dragged along face down in the mud wondering, where am I going? Why is my face muddy?

  I clung to my five-year plan even though it was slipping from my grasp. There was not much I could do about the marriage and babies side of things. I was either too much in denial, or numb from shock, to be able to process what happened with Adam yesterday. As I felt tears resurfacing, I decided to keep my mind busy by beginning my job search. Pressing a button, my laptop blinked to life. I rifled through the job boards on Craigslist, Workopolis, Monster and whatever Google fetched for me. But after three hours, my patience had been exhausted. I read job description after job description, but nothing spoke to me. Nothing screamed: Harper Rodrigues, come on down! This is your life!

  Regardless, once I began applying I would need to stand out from the CV slush pile. Leaving the browser open in the background I pulled up the Word document for the first time in years. The only change I needed to make was the end date of my latest job. The blank spaces glared at me demanding words, demanding experiences. I searched my memory hoping that there was something I could add, something to spice up my boiled chicken breast of a resume. I let my mind drift, and my fingers typed a pinch of paprika on the page: dive master in the Maldives. Then a dash of dill: former acrobat in Cirque Du Soleil, and finally a sprinkling of saffron: retired panda handler. I stifled a laugh and deleted the words. Without thinking, I replaced them with “photographer.”

  I sighed and closed the document without saving.

  Standing and stretching I wandered through the room hoping a plan would coalesce. I only had to take twelve steps before reaching the door, having to turn back again. Though small, I made my studio apartment my sanctuary, my escape from the Canadian winters.

  Decorated in a minimalistic tropical-tiki-chic kind of way, I employed all of the colours of the spectrum except greys, browns, and black. Posters of paradisiac land and seascapes I had bought in U of T’s poster sales hung on the walls, shells in glass vases adorned the counters, and deep pink fabric flowers were scattered across all surfaces. I rolled a silky petal in my fingertips before grabbing a pack of matches and lighting the ‘Caribbean Breeze’ Yankee Candle on my desk. As the scent that made me think of Piña Coladas and beachside romances wafted into the air, a flashing orange square on my computer screen caught my attention:

  Amateur Travel Photography Competition! $10,000 in Prizes!

  I clicked through to the website. It was one of Madcap Travel’s competitors, Awesome Adventures, a smaller company also based out of Toronto, geared towards the Canadian market. It was part of the inspir
ation for my campaign vision, but I hadn’t paid it much attention as their Facebook page had less than a couple thousand likes and barely any activity. Scrolling down, I read the contest information:

  Rules:

  Only amateur photographers are eligible;

  Photographers must be Canadian citizens and/or residents;

  Photographs must be taken outside of Canada within a year of the closing deadline and never previously published;

  Photographers are to submit no more than three separate entries.

  Prizes

  Grand prize: $7,000, a feature on our website and the opportunity to join our content creation team;

  Three runner-up prizes of $1,000 each.

  Pretty straightforward.

  I clicked the link to see the past winners. Nothing particularly extraordinary, but they did show a high level of technicality for amateurs. A Google search of the past winner returned with his official website, articles about his win and subsequent accomplishments as he made the jump from amateur to professional. All hailed him as the one to watch in the travel photography world.

  He was living my dream.

  Photography had been my dream ever since my grandparents gave me my very first camera when I was ten. It was no Hasselblad, but I loved it nonetheless. Shortly after I received my camera, I discovered legendary travel photographer, and my idol, Steve McCurry. More specifically, I discovered his famous photograph, “Afghan Girl” from an old stack of my father’s National Geographic magazines. Audrey possessed similar striking hazel eyes and olive skin, so I wanted to recreate the image. She sat patiently as I shrouded her in red fabric and took my time lining up each shot. With Audrey as my muse and cheerleader, I amassed shoeboxes full of images over the years as I searched for my artistic voice.