The One You Can't Forget (The One, #1)

one

Emyln

I swore I would never come back here, not to my busy hometown of Whistler, British Columbia and its alpine air. But when I got a call from my mom saying she had a job opening at her mountain bike rental shop and a free place for me to stay, you know what I said? "Mom, it would be a great experience." Great experience? Hell, I couldn't have come up with a better lie. I hate this place as much as I hate coffee – it's nothing but bitter and disappointing. And the fact that it's my mother I have to stay with for the summer makes me sick. There was a reason I moved to Abbotsford with my father when their divorce was finalized.

Anyway, it's Friday, June 22, my nineteenth birthday, and I've just entered the city's borderlines. The peaks look like they've been dipped in icing sugar, and the sky is a bright blue. Through the windshield of my car, the sun looks swollen and blinding. I sigh, telling myself that even though this is how the whole summer is going to be – stuck in a valley of snow-capped mountains, blistering heat, and sweaty bodies – I'll be okay as long as I have my sunglasses, sunscreen, and my iPhone.

I've just come to a red light on BC-99, my indicator set for a left turn. I've been driving for over two hours, all the windows open thanks to my car's broken air conditioning system, and I'm hungry. I look at the oncoming traffic and groan. At this rate, I'm going to be stuck here for hours before I can make a turn. Stupid tourists. I scratch my cheek with my middle finger, hoping that someone sees how frustrated I am.

Finally, there's a break in the traffic. Making my turn, I drive ten kilometres over the speed limit, hardly paying attention to my surroundings, save for the annoying tourists that need to cross the street. I drive across the bridge that resides over Fitzsimmons Creek and it's alarmingly beautiful aqua-coloured waters. I keep going until I'm at the edge of the thick forest that surrounds Lost Lake, and I make another left.

My mom's chalet-style house is slightly to the right, up a small incline.

And, just like I figured, she's not standing there with my stepfather-I've-never-met, waiting for me like a crow waiting to pick the remaining meat off of a carcass.

I wish I had never picked up my phone when she called. But I can't help the fact that I was a little tipsy after a night out with my friends, or the fact that my mother doesn't know the difference between normal talking and sarcasm. If I hadn't had those shots of tequila, I wouldn't have bothered to even look at my phone.

But the abnormality is, I did. And I agreed to come here during the chat I have no recollection of. Technically, I could back out, but I've never been one to walk away. Besides, there is a sliver of me that is curious to know what my stepfather and stepbrothers are like. I also want to see how much my hometown has changed in the past five years. 

Screwed-up family and changes aside, they're not the main reason why I liquid-confidently agreed to come back to Whistler. A boy – one I used to be best friends with has snagged my attention. In fact, he has since the day I left.