Runaways Page 4

  “When you come home, we’ll get you the best ring money can buy,” Adam said as we held up the security line.

  “I don’t care about the ring. I just want you.”

  He wrapped his arms around me, and as I bit back the tears and also the desire to stay with him.

  “I’m grateful for you,” I said looking up at him.

  “I’m grateful for you.”

  As I followed the line of travelers past the frosted glass doors to the security check Adam remained in the crowd, waving until I walked through the X-Ray machine. Once on the other side we heard the boarding announcement for our flight to Mumbai via London. I waved to him for the last time, and the fear crept in that I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

  ***

  Date: January 23, 2010

  Goa, India

  After a morning of sleeping in, I waited outside of our beachside hut with my camera in my hand, waiting for Lana to fix her makeup, and reflected on our past week in India. After a flight to, and short layover in, London, we made it to our flight to Mumbai within minutes of the gate closing. Exotic and intense, the city was home to Bollywood and beggars, colonial architecture and congested traffic, street art, stray dogs, and staring men who had rarely seen leggy pale skinned women with strawberry-blond hair. Yes, despite my protests Lana insisted on wearing short shorts out and about. My parents had given us a send-off gift of two nights in a five-star hotel, mainly for their peace of mind, and I was grateful for the security. The hotel’s high-speed Wi-Fi meant easy communication with Adam. During our evening downtime, I spent hours on Skype with him, just letting the chat idol as I organized my belongings and he played his video games, just as if we were hanging out at his place.

  After our whirlwind two days in Mumbai, Lana and I boarded a bus southbound for Goa and spent four days beach hopping from such whimsically named beaches as Arambol, Baga and Anjuna. The guest houses and beachside huts we stayed in were a far cry from the opulent hotel of Mumbai, but Adam and I worked around the absence of high speed Wi-Fi with scheduled times at Internet cafés. He was being sweet and supportive, and I appreciated him immensely for that.

  Even though we had only been there one night, Palolem, our final beach was our favorite. Shielded by forested mountains and nestled behind a sprawling grove of swaying coconut palms lay a crescent of toffee-coloured sand that stretched from the grove into the loden green sea. The sands ran a mile in length with rocky cliffs capping each end. Unlike many of the other beaches, there was barely any development, and only small colonies of wooden shacks lined the threshold of grove and beach.

  It was such a devastatingly romantic place, and I dreamed to return one day with Adam.

  A rustling in the bushes behind me startled me. I turned towards the coconut grove and spotted a greyish-brown monkey sitting on a fallen tree trunk. Taking slow and careful steps, I approached him, keeping my eyes on the ground but his blurry image in my periphery. Once I was about five feet away, I crouched down and raised my camera. I centered his amber-coloured eyes in the viewfinder, and the instant I pressed the shutter release, he vanished. I checked the playback, and only a brown blur flashed across the emerald leaves.

  “Come on! She’ll be arriving any moment,” Lana called, securing the padlock on the door to our hut.

  I turned and padded across the sand towards her. “I’ll get you, monkey, one of these days,” I said, turning and shaking my fist in his general direction.

  Navigating the stretch through the languid beach community of oiled-up sunbathers frying like bacon, peddlers hawking brightly coloured sarongs, and stray dogs managing their turf, we stepped off the sand and into the single road that led into the village.

  I had yet to explore the market stalls that lined the road, but when we arrived the previous afternoon, I could see it only as a dizzying blur of colours from the taxi window. Ignoring the calls of, “good price,” “come look,” and, “looking is free,” Lana bought a sizzling beef skewer from a street vendor. Exchanging my rupees for a fresh bottle of water, I pressed it against my chest to sooth my heated skin while trailing behind her. At the road’s dead-end, we found an empty bench.

  “I can’t believe Jade’s been holed up in some ashram for like a month,” Lana said before blowing on her steaming skewer.

  We plopped onto the bench. “I know. What a way to kick off her grand spirit quest.”

  Flicking through the images on my camera, it struck me how good it felt to be shooting again. As I inhaled the salty breeze peppered with exotic spices, I felt for a fleeting moment at peace with life. Though it wasn’t a perfect situation, with a little compromise and humour, I could make my newly edited five-year plan work. While I had my sights set on winning the Awesome Adventures competition, I decided to execute the vision I had presented to Madcap Travels using my Flickr account, and once I had enough images I would build my blog and start my Facebook fan page. You never know who may stumble across them. If I didn’t win, I held out hope that magazines and websites would contract my services and work thus getting my creative career back on track, and marrying Adam when I was in a position to hop from Canada to shoot on location. If my plan worked out, I could have it all, and make everyone — Adam, my parents, and me — happy.

  “Ohmygodsheshere!” Lana screamed. I yelped in surprise and watched her shoot down the road.

  Out of a yellow and green tuk tuk, the three-wheeled motorized vehicle of choice in these parts, flopped a mass of jet-black curls. Jade. I caught up as she hoisted her backpack on. Cerulean parachute pants that complimented her dusky skin billowed in the wind.

  “Nice hippy pants,” Lana said pulling her into a hug.

  “They are not hippy pants. They’re harem pants and, they’re fashionable,” Jade replied.

  Jade’s parents were bona-fide ganja smoking, granola munching, Birkenstock wearing, reggae-loving hippies who had moved from Jamaica to Canada for university, got married and started a very lucrative marijuana farm and cooperative with friends. She practically grew up on a commune but refuses to acknowledge her hippy ancestry.

  I threw my arms around her. “I’m so happy to see you. I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” She smiled and pulled out a self-rolled cigarette. Lighting it up, she said, “I hear we have a lot to talk about.”

  I nodded.

  Lana shoved the skewer in her face. “Wanna bite?”

  “No thanks, meat’s really bad for you.” Jade took another drag as Lana and I exchanged looks, and then she said, “Alright, where are we living?”

  As we walked, Jade told us about her weeks in the ashram, meditating, chanting, singing, stretching, and searching for spiritual enlightenment.

  “It was purely for research and inspiration for my yogawear collection,” she said as we arrived at the little huts we had rented. After a stint as a falafel chef, an organic soap maker, and a very brief and misguided foray into midwifery, fashion design was her latest obsession on her quest to find her life’s purpose. My father always said she had Peter Pan Syndrome, but I admired her for refusing to sell out to the corporate world.

  Fittingly, our huts reminded me of the house that the lost boys had made for Wendy in Peter Pan. Made from plywood and spanning ten by ten feet they were furnished with nothing but a bed and bedside table. Propped up on stilts they had prime waterfront views, and it was all we needed.

  “So two huts, three girls. Rock paper scissors?” Jade said.

  “But,” Lana raised her hand, “if someone, like for example, me, gets lucky, which is what I’m planning on, they get the single hut for the night.”

  “Okay,” Jade said, radiating tranquility, “you take the hut. Harper is taken, and I took a vow of celibacy.”

  Lana looked at Jade as if she’d grown a second head. “Wha…Why… Wha…But…” she stammered. “For how long?”

  “Until the Universe gives me a sign.”

  Lana was speechless. It was a rare
occurrence. I rolled my eyes at Jade’s talk of some Great Universal Creator controlling us like some grand puppet-master. I had long stopped believing in such divine tall tales, and knew that Jade was celibate because she threw that wall up after her last boyfriend, an asshat named Cliff, cheated on her and broke her heart.

  So it was decided that Jade and I would be roomies. I was glad for the extra time for us to catch up. As she unpacked and feng-shuied the room I filled her in on what happened with my job and Adam. She didn’t seem too enthused that I gave him a second chance, and Lana was still mad that I didn’t have a ring, but I had to accept that not everyone is going to understand your choices, so you just have to do what feels right for yourself. And Adam felt right to me.

  Finding a perfect spot near three sleeping cows, we set our sarongs down on the warm sand and discussed and decided on the travel plans: we will stay in Palolem for two more days then fly to Delhi and spend more time exploring the north.

  We then turned our attention back to the vacation at the beginning of the vacation. Lana was spread flat out, greased up, and dreaming of a tan that would make people question her ethnicity, while Jade sat in lotus position in the shade of an oversized hat, eyes firmly shut. I envied their abilities to keep still. The thoughts in my mind swarmed like bees. Since leaving home I fought the feelings of guilt about leaving Adam behind, and the way my parents sobbed through our farewell dinner the night before I left still haunted me. And yes, I was scared of the possibility that I, too, wouldn’t make it home like Audrey, but I couldn’t live fearing that something bad was going to happen to me. The competition was the queen bee of my worries. If I could nail this, it would make everything I was putting them through worth it.

  So there was no time for tanning.

  “I’m going for a walk.” Though I was already halfway through an eight-gigabyte memory card, I still needed more images. “If I’m not back in thirty, send a search party.”

  Jade didn’t move, and Lana gave me a thumbs up.

  I pushed myself to my feet, dusted the sand from my legs and wandered off, stomach tied in knots, running reassuring affirmations in my mind: It’s during the day, and you’re not going off into any dark alleys. The girls are near, and there are plenty of people around. There is no danger. I repeat, there is no danger.

  As I calmed myself down, I raised my camera, pretended to be Steve McCurry on location, and lost myself in my art. The scenery was a feast for my lens, and I was a glutton, consuming landscapes and seascapes capturing the beach in its entirety down to macro shots of the details of the sand and seashells, portraits of beach vendors from wild haired children hawking jewelry to women dripping in golden jewelry wearing saris dyed every colour of the rainbow.

  Ever since arriving in India I felt like Dorothy who had just landed in Oz. I had left behind the mute monochromatic hues of the Canadian winter for the Technicolour explosion of the tropics. Everywhere I looked it seemed as if the saturation levels had been cranked up. Everything — the saris, the food, the trees, the sky, the sea — dripped with each and every hue of the spectrum. I saw shades of colours I never knew existed.

  As thunder rumbled in the distance, I reached the edge of the beach and stepped into a path in the coconut grove. A warm breeze caressed my skin, and an odd feeling washed over me. Perhaps it was the nerves playing tricks, but I felt a pair of eyes on me. I patted my pocket to make sure my mace was there. If anyone tried to mess with me, they’d be in for an eye-burning shock. I slunk down the path scanning the area for friend and foe. Ahead of me was a sea of slender tree trunks, and the occasional one-story wooden house, many advertising yoga classes and massage therapy. I heard a rustle and whipped around. It was then I met eyes with my voyeur.

  You fuzzy little bastard. I knew I’d find you again.

  I raised my camera and burst the shutter button, but with the first click, he scampered down the path. Hot on his hairy heels I chased after him delirious with heat and visions of National Geographic worthy wildlife shots. But before I could reach him, he darted up a tree. I stood there cursing as he disappeared into the canopy. I looked down at my camera to see if I had any usable shots, and beyond the screen a piece of paper lay in the sand.

  I leaned forward and picked it up, and read verses of poetry. The black words and stanzas were scribbled over, bleeding with red ink. A fluttering blur in the corner of my eye took my attention. Turning, I saw a trail of papers. I snapped three pictures and then picked up each page and scanned them. Heady images of lust, affection, carnal sensations, and human anatomy that would make a porn-star blush frolicked across the pages.

  The trail of unwanted words led me onto the porch of the nearest house. Soaking in a small puddle of an aromatic tea flowing from a toppled cup, I found more papers, each scrawled more erratically than the last.

  “Looking for something?” a deep voice rumbled behind me.

  I whipped around. Heart in throat. Hand on mace.

  Now, in an ideal world once I realized I wasn’t in any danger, I would retort, “Aren’t we all?” But when I met eyes with the owner of that voice, my words abandoned me.

  Dark slashes over storm grey eyes knitted in my direction. Those intense eyes were framed by a dripping wet cascade of inky locks that stopped at the square of his stubble jaw.

  “I…uh…” I stammered as my eyes drifted south. His tall, taut body spoke of athleticism, neither gym-rat nor couch potato: the perfect balance. A strange curling unfurled in my stomach as I followed the path of a long tattoo of scribbled words down his sun-kissed torso until it disappeared under the towel that was hanging dangerously low from his hips. Heat burst in my cheeks, and I managed to mumble, “….uhhh… I was following a monkey.”

  Real smooth, Harper.

  I snapped my gaze up to find his furrowed brown had been devoured by a wolfish grin. As he strode towards me, I noticed two more tattoos etched on his arms, music notes and sprawling stanzas, but I was unable to make any of it out. I wondered if he had any more, and where they were.

  Forcing my eyes back up heat spread from the depths of my stomach to the tips of my fingers and toes. As my vision clouded my mouth felt as if I had swallowed sand and then I realized… Oh, God…

  I was having heat stroke.

  I froze in place as he stopped in front of me, close enough for me to smell the soap that lingered on his glowing skin. Already off balance from my sun-induced affliction, I craned my neck to look him in the eye hoping I stayed erect.

  I mean upright.

  He extended his long, slender fingers, and I simply stared at them. Hoping I could figure out what he wanted me to do with his hand I dragged my gaze up past the trail of dark hair leading from the towel to his broad chest and stared into the storm. He leaned in and my lips parted, tasting the spicy chai masala tea on his breath.

  I felt something gently pulled from my grip and then the space between our lips grew.

  The papers. His papers. He wanted them back. Of course, I realized with a mental face-palm.

  Pull yourself together!

  I shook my head, and some semblance of sense returned to me. “Sorry, I… uh… the heat. Heat stroke.”

  His smile softened, and he dropped the stack of papers on the table with the others.

  “No one was supposed to read these.”

  Sweet Benedict Cumberbatch, he has an English accent.

  “Sorry,” I said fidgeting with my camera.

  “It’s okay. They’re going to be burned anyways.”

  “You’re going to destroy them?” I asked finally finding my voice. “What you wrote was…” the words sublime, sensuous, transcendental and spine-tingling came to mind, but I settled on, “beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes raked down my body, and once he reached my freshly polished toes, he flicked them back up. “Tell me something, have you ever been in love?”

  “Love?” Tell him you’re engaged and therefore madly in love. Dammit, a ring would really help right now. I
set my jaw and said, “Yes.”

  He took a step forward that threw me off balance. “Mad and passionate and all-consuming?”

  I thought of my love for Adam.

  “All love is different,” I replied. The kind of love he spoke of was the stuff of novels and movies.

  “So, no then.”

  There was something about his tone I found condescending. As if the love Adam and I shared was somehow inferior because we didn’t have that fictitious type of passion. We had been through more together than any couple should. Our love was deep, built on mutual understanding and respect, but it was love all the same. Then I realized what he was doing.

  “Are you hitting on me?”

  “No.” No?! His jaw pulsed before asking, “Do you want me to?”

  Of course, I didn’t. I was engaged and in love with a respectable soft-bodied non-tattooed, safe and dependable small business owner. Why would I want to be hit on by a dangerously handsome guy who writes of erotic love in such a hedonistic toe-curling manner who probably rotates women on a nightly basis?

  Where is a bucket of ice water when you need one?

  “I have to go.” I darted past him, clutching my camera to my chest and headed in the direction of the beach. It took all of my strength not to turn back for one last look.

  Chapter 5

  I found the girls exactly where I had left them. Lana had turned over on her back, and Jade had moved into pigeon pose, pencil in hand, and sketchbook pages fluttering in the breeze next to her. I flopped down to the sarong and chugged an entire bottle of water in one go.