Runaways Read online

  When I was in high school, I begged my father to let me go to art school, but he considered himself “pragmatic” (I called him “old school”) and refused to pay for it. Being the child of immigrants from Brazil, he believed in the Canadian dream of getting a practical degree and a stable government job. I had the choice to run myself into debt and go to art school, or take my father’s offer to pay for a business degree. I chose the latter and took photography classes at the student center, dreaming of going pro and traveling the world when I graduated. But Audrey’s death in the middle of my final year changed everything. My parents needed me here, and I needed them to be happy. I ended up staying in Toronto, burying my idealistic fantasies, and living a more stable, and sensible life accepting that not all dreams can come true. And so, my artistic voice fell silent.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to still my thoughts. After a minute I opened them and saw my Digital SLR-Hybrid camera glaring at me from its perch on a stack of books and papers behind my computer. Audrey had given it to me on my twenty-first birthday. The last birthday I spent with her. I reached out and cradled it in my hands, letting my fingers skate over the cool plastic, clearing off the film of dust that had collected in its curves and grooves. I pressed the power button, but it remained in its slumber.

  My mind wandered to fantasies of traipsing across Asia, camera in hand, lazing on untouched beaches, exploring ancient ruins and tasting exotic foods with my two best friends.

  In that moment, my heart broke for the third time in two days.

  They were leaving me. Jade was already in India, and once Lana leaves next week to join her, I’d be alone.

  My eyes heated as I wished I could talk to the one person who could help. I plucked my cell phone from my bag and searched for her number. A rogue tear made its way down my face as my thumb hovered over the call button.

  “I need you,” I whispered.

  Its sudden vibrating shot a feverish fluttering through me.

  Audrey?

  My pulse pounded in my ears, and I lowered myself to the bed, letting my eyes drop to the screen. It was a text from Lana alerting me that she would be knocking my door down in an hour with a male stripper to cheer me up. I exhaled the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding and stood to shake the tingling. I was going insane. I needed to get away, and there was one way I could get a vacation that afternoon.

  Crouching down, I reached under my bed. Stashed in a shoebox hid my collection of trashy romance novels. I was a world of zippy one-liners, adventure, and toe-curling romance with hot men who were sure about their women. A small but dirty, dirty smile spread across my face as I pulled out my favorite, Tahitian Heat. Snuggling into bed, I kicked out the jitters, opened the cover and escaped.

  Five chapters later, a violent knocking on my door startled me, bringing me back to Canada from my fantasies in the South Pacific.

  Chapter 3

  “When life hands you lemons,” Lana said as she pulled a bottle from her handbag. “Get Tequila.”

  Plunking the Jose Cuervo on the counter, she pulled me in for a hug. Her strawberry blond hair swept across my face, and I inhaled the apricot and sandalwood notes of her Victoria’s Secret Sexual Star perfume. She had always dreamed of becoming an Angel and though she had the looks and the body she was a thumb-width too short. But when a television producer scouted her during our freshman year of university, she dropped out of school and became “Canada’s Favourite Weathergirl”, who more recently became “Canada’s Most Notorious Weathergirl” when she was discovered in flagrante with the news anchor. By his wife. It should have been her fall from grace but infamy brought some very lucrative opportunities.

  “It’s two in the afternoon,” I said, releasing her.

  “Oh, honey, you’re hurting. You need to drink ‘till you can’t feel feelings,” she said, producing wine from her purse like Mary Poppin’ Bottles. “Red or White.”

  I paused and let her words roll around in my mind. I would like to not feel feelings. “White,” I replied. It was more appropriate for the hour. “And where is my male stripper?”

  “Sadly, the guys they could offer short notice weren’t hot enough,” she said pouring the wine. “I only want the best for you, honey.”

  I didn’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have her.

  “Oh, so how was the other night by the way?” I asked before the attention could turn to my worries. I had accompanied her to a happy hour before going to “date night” with Adam that consisted of our favorite Italian takeout, and a movie from his Adam Sandler collection. I didn’t ask for much from our date nights, and it was a perfect way to spend a cold winter’s evening. “Get lucky?”

  “Yah, that guy, Neil.” A cheeky smile spread her across her face as she handed me the glass. With a wistful look, she said, “He performed admirably.”

  “His name was Nick,” I said, taking the glass from her hand.

  “Seriously?”

  I nodded.

  She paused as a memory seemed to hit her. “Oh… That’s why he told me to call him that.”

  “Why did you think he wanted you to call him by another name?”

  “I thought he was just trying to be kinky.” As her eyes widened she covered her gaping mouth with her freshly manicured hand. “That explains so much.” Then, with a shrug, she continued with life. “So what the hell, you and Adam broke up?”

  With glasses of Sauvignon Blanc in hand we moved to the bed. As I tore open the pack of Oreos I began my dramatic retelling of when I popped the question. She cringed, pouted and got angry at all the right moments as we worked our way through bottle number one.

  “And then he said,” I spilled my wine as I raised my hands to make air-quotes, “I’m just not sure about us.”

  “Noooo!” she cried, recoiling. “What an ass!”

  “Yah. He wasn’t sure about me.” I repeated those words over and over, each time with more indignation. And volume. “After investing two years of my life on him. That’s nearly ten percent of my life!”

  She dumped the remainder of the Sauv Blanc into each glass, filling them to the brim. “Tell me you punched him in the bifocals.”

  “Hah, no. I had to get out of there. So I told him that I gave him the best years of my life and slapped him across the face.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Of course I didn’t, I’m not a soap opera character. I told him I couldn’t be with someone who wasn’t sure about me. And then I took the Oreos and left.”

  “Good call,” she said, holding one up and devouring it. “Did he try and stop you?”

  “No, he just stood there gaping. I should have shoved the Oreo package down his throat, but I think he may have liked that.”

  Lana paused as we both mused over my words. After a minute of silence, she said, “This is a good thing.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at her, “I fail to see the positives.”

  “Seriously, it was time to shit or get off the pot. Or else you’d just be sitting on the toilet with life passing you by.” I stared at her. She had such a unique way with words. “So let’s pull your pants up and find you a new man.”

  The depressing thought of joining the singles scene hit me. I had to start over, go on awkward dates and struggle to make small talk, put myself there and invest in someone new for the potential of heartbreak. Ugh. But the worst part was, “No new men, I still love Adam.”

  It was time for bottle number two. I could still feel feelings.

  “Oh my God,” she shrieked as she sat back down with the bottle of red. “This means you can come traveling with us.”

  “No, I can’t,” I said as tears began to prick my eyes. I willed myself not to be the emotional drunk at the party. No one likes her.

  “Yes, you can. You have money saved. You just got a severance package.”

  The girls had kept me CC’ed in on all of their emails about the trip. I had been putting money aside for years to make the grown-up move of buying pr
operty. According to their budget, with my severance package and savings, I had enough to cover the trip.

  “It’s not the money.” I wiped a tear that had escaped. “I just… Audrey died while traveling. I… my parents… I just can’t. I can’t come.”

  “What happened to her won’t happen to you.” She rubbed my knee. “Honey, you of all people deserve some fun in your life.

  “I can travel when I retire,” I said with a sigh.

  She slapped my knee. “Repeat after me: I deserve fun.”

  I stared at her, and she threatened to slap me again if I didn’t do what she said. She was the dominant one in her relationships and what the whips and nipple clamps to prove it.

  “Alright, alright,” I said, “I deserve fun.”

  “Louder!” she screamed.

  I said it again.

  “With meaning this time!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me to stand. Jumping on the bed we yelled the words over and over, spilling wine and laughing with reckless abandon. And when we collapsed in a giggle fit, I finally felt it: didn’t we all deserve a little fun in our lives?

  She reached for my laptop, pulled it to the bed, and opened the travel agency website. After entering the booking code she set it back on the desk, “For when you change your mind.”

  As the day rolled on we polished off the bottle of red and then went shot for shot finishing the tequila. No lemons needed. Takeout was ordered, and Lana tried to get the deliveryman to strip for us nearly landing us on a sexual offenders list. But when I told the police officer and restaurant manager my sob story of losing my job and the love of my life in the same day we were only banned from ever ordering from there again.

  And that was when my memory became a little patchy…

  ***

  A wise man once said, “Drinking today is stealing happiness from tomorrow,” and I was the Prince of Thieves last night. In my hangover haze, I grabbed my phone and stumbled to the bathroom. Squinting as light sliced through my brain, I looked to see if I had any messages from Adam.

  Not a single word.

  However, there was an unread email. When I opened it my knees buckled. I steadied myself against the sink as I registered the words.

  I had booked the plane ticket. I had booked an around the world plane ticket. I had never left the continent of North America before, and I was booked on a plane to India. In seven days, I’m supposed to board a plane bound for Mumbai. After India, we’ll go to Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Australia, New Zealand, and then nearly five months later I’m supposed to leave Fiji, our last port of call, and return home.

  Bile surged. It was serious about looking for an exit this time. I collapsed next to the toilet bowl and proceeded to relive the day’s drinking in reverse. It was much less fun.

  After splashing cold water on my face, I checked my email history for any further horrors. It turned out I had sent a barely coherent email to my landlord telling him that I was a soon-to-be sex offender who had to flee the country and therefore couldn’t renew my lease. Also, the apartment smelled of a man who wasn’t sure about me and should be burned to the ground.

  I crawled back under my red wine stained duvet hoping it was all a dream.

  I wasn’t.

  I threw the sheets from me.

  Plan. I needed a plan.

  “Okay, breathe breathe breathe,” I said to myself as I grabbed a notebook from my bedside table and started my to do list:

  Stop freaking out.

  Talk to parents.

  My fingers stopped. How was I supposed to tell my parents?

  Think.

  It was all about selling it to them. Hell, I worked in marketing. I could do this. Most importantly, they needed to know that I wouldn’t be alone; I will give them a copy of my itinerary and keep them abreast of any changes, and I will check in with them as often as I can, preferably every day.

  Then I needed them to see it from my perspective. What was the point of staying here? It was a tough job market, and this would look great on my C.V. if the whole travel photographer thing didn’t work out. I already had a plan and a vision for what I would do if I were a content creator for Madcap Travels, why couldn’t I do it on my own? I was taking a calculated risk investing my life savings into this, but I didn’t have a mortgage or children, so it was the best time for me to do this.

  But then they’ll say, “Look at what happened to your sister.”

  And I’ll tell them that she got unlucky. Terribly, terribly unlucky. But she spent so much of her short adult life in an office dreaming of more, dreaming of seeing the world. Yes her life ended with a random, senseless act, and yes it happened when she too left the continent for the first time, but I don’t want to be held captive by my fear anymore. I could stay here and live a “safe life” and be struck down in the road tomorrow, having never truly lived. And Audrey, despite what happened to her, would want me to go.

  I paused as my vision narrowed in on the last sentence.

  Slumping at my desk, I reached out for my favorite photograph. It never failed to center me. My breathing slowed as I studied the image as I had done a million times before. Two teenaged girls separated in age by half a decade sitting on an ATV, spackled in dust, smiles as wide as the desert behind them.

  I sighed and asked her, “Audrey, what should I do?”

  A feeling of warmth washed over me, and something inside me, perhaps it was my subconscious, that part of me that yearned to be true to myself, that part of me that craved to resurrect the dreams I had abandoned years ago, told me I was making the right choice.

  I knew I was taking a big gamble, and the odds were against me as I started a long road towards a new goal, but I thought, why not me? Why couldn’t I live my dreams?

  In that moment, I knew in my heart that I wanted to do this for myself. And I hoped I could get my parents support.

  Checking of bullet point number one, however, would take all week.

  And then I allowed myself to get really, really excited.

  ***

  After a shower, a litre of water and two painkillers I stood in my apartment, ready to pack up my life. Scanning my room trying to figure out where to begin was a sobering feeling. My eyes stopped at a tan-colored U of T sweatshirt. Not mine. My legs began to tingle and heat spread through me like wildfire. Then I decided that I would start with all of his shit. I needed it all out of my life as soon as possible.

  I ransacked the place, grabbing whatever I could find that belonged to him, along with everything that he had ever given me, and threw it all into a plastic shopping bag. The birthday cards written in barely legible handwriting, the t-shirts that reeked of him, the stupid Girlfriend’s Guide to the World of Warcraft book, the jewelry…

  Maybe keep the jewelry.

  I snatched the teddy bear he had given me on our first anniversary and as I looked into its black button eyes memories of our first date at the Italian place, our first kiss a week later after taking me to see a Maple Leaf’s game, our first fight that started over the difference between ice cream and frozen yogurt, our first time making up after a fight, and the first time he said, “I love you.” It was my first non-family “I love you.” He had taken me to a U of T photography exhibit, and when I pointed out the photograph I loved the most, he told me that he loved me the most.

  It dripped with cheese, but it was everything I could ever hope for.

  The soft knocking on my door brought me back to reality. I placed the bear down on my bed.

  I opened it, and standing in the hallway was the love of my life with puffy red-rimmed eyes that matched mine.

  “Can we talk?” His voice crackled.

  I kept my poker face firm. I wanted to slam the door, but it was only right that we got closure. I said nothing and gestured for him to come in.

  As he leaned against the kitchen counter, I walked to my bed, grabbed the bag of his belongings, and marched back, handing it to him before he could say a word.

  “Y
ou’re breaking up with me?” Shock flashed in his face.

  For someone so smart, he could really be dumb. “We broke up, remember?”

  “No, I remember having a discussion and you stormed out.”

  “You told me you weren’t sure about us.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “I’m leaving Canada,” I cut him off. I didn’t care for an explanation as to how he thought I wasn’t enough for him.

  “What?! When?!”

  “Next week,” I said, in a tone that could chill a polar bear.

  “You…you can’t leave.” He took a step towards me.

  I took one back. “I can, and I am. Maybe I’ll find someone who is sure about me.”

  He froze and his beautiful mouth hung open. I knew my last sentence hit below the belt, but my pride was wounded. And I was hung-over. Bad combination. I remained still and held out the bag, waiting for him to take it and walk out of my life.

  Raking his hands through his hair, he gave that look when he was searching for words. When he found them, he said, “I came to tell you that I was an idiot. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scared, but I am sure about you. I can’t lose you. I need you. You are The One.”

  The tears I had been holding back broke loose. Why couldn’t he have said this a day ago? A single day ago. Everything would have been different.

  I wanted to scream, to hug him, to slap him to cuddle in bed, to throw the empty tequila bottle at him, to kiss him but most of all, I wanted to go back in time and undo everything.

  And then he did the one thing I had dreamed about since I was a little girl. The thing I had been dreaming about him doing since our first date.

  On the linoleum tile of my kitchen, amongst the fallout of my breakup party, he lowered to one knee and asked me to marry him.

  Chapter 4

  I spent the next seven days setting up my blog and convincing Adam that we could make the relationship work long distance. We had overcome so much together over the years, what were a few months apart in the grand scheme of things? He respected my desires to chase my dreams, and I loved him even more for his support, but I knew it was going to be tough. Even before leaving I missed him terribly. My parents, however, were not entirely convinced of my plans but knew that they couldn’t stop me. I bid a tearful farewell to them the day before leaving, promising to check in with them as often as I could. As snow fell on the 15th day of the New Year, Adam drove Lana and me to the airport.