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.
Hainsey Blake Stone.
Okay, I lied. He wasn't just my best friend – he was my boyfriend, the only boy I've ever kissed, and the boy I've loved since the day he gave me his apple juice box after Mitchell Sokolov knocked mine out of my hands and called me a too much of a wimp to play road hockey with the boys back in grade four.
I never wanted to leave Whistler, but when I found out that my parents were divorcing because my mom had been cheating on my dad, I was disgusted with Mom for hurting and betraying Dad. And, to a certain degree, it hurt me almost as much as it hurt him. It tore what I thought had been a small, happy family apart. So I left without a second thought. I left everyone and everything behind, including Hainsey.
Heart aching, I shake my head and kill the engine. Now isn't the time to think about him and what I did – how I left someone who needed me behind.
Stepping out of my grey Honda Tuscan, I squint through my sunglasses at the view of my childhood home, wishing I was anywhere but here. The house still looks the same: a modern farmhouse style with three floors, one balcony that stems from the master bedroom, and a large front door that's the colour of an apple. The charcoal grey siding had lost some of its darkness due to the sun and the harsh winters, but all in all, I can recognize the house (sadly).
With an exaggerated sigh, I grab my suitcase and bags from the back, and then begin to hike up the stone steps that lead to the front door. As I climb, I notice that the shrubs have been uprooted from the ground, and replaced with bark mulch. All the way up to the faded white wooden deck is an array of flowers. Everything from stunningly green sweet potato vines to dark purple supertunias to an abundance of yellow day lilies cover the yard. Bushes of baby's breath are at the top of the stairs.
The sight causes me to frown. What the hell? There's no way Mom could have done this – she hates getting even the slightest speck of dirt under her nails. It must have been her new and improved husband – the man has enough money to hire a landscaper.
I check my phone, knowing that I'm trying to deny the inevitable. There are no messages from my sister, Rosalina (who also took Dad's side when it came to which parent she was going to live with after the divorce fell through). None from my friend, Valerie Santiago, which surprises me because she was the one friend I kept in touch with after leaving Whistler; she had seemed as excited as I was to see each other when I called last week.
I roll my head around my shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that has suddenly appeared in my muscles. I can already picture what the moment I open the door is going to be like: my mom is going to squeal like a little girl and rush over to hug me like I've been living here for the past five years instead of with my dad. I glance over my shoulder. I wonder if anyone has seen me yet; if I still have time to turn around and drive back to Abbotsford. Backing out would definitely save me some time.
But I shake my head and force my feet to move. Just because I'm here, staying at my old house doesn't mean I have to be nice to the people that are in it. There are only two people I want to see, and I plan to do so.
Inside, I can hear some old country tunes drifting from the upstairs. I roll my eyes. Mom's playlist is set in an eternal 80s and 90s loop of country music that makes me want to upchuck all over the mudroom's slate flooring. I kick off my flip-flops, and drop my stuff in front of the closet door, minus my brown leather purse, which I sling across my body.
I'm halfway up the stairs to the main floor when I hear a distant,"Is that you Emyln?"
I freeze at the sound of my mom's voice. It's been a long time since I've heard her voice, and it still sounds the same: as sweet and light as the lavender honey cakes my grandma used to make with me and Rosa. Old feelings stir up inside of me. To be honest, I've missed having a mom in my life – sometimes an older sister and the three aunts don't cover shit. But, on the reverse, I'm still pissed off at her for breaking my happy family apart because of her selfishness.
Apparently, my lack of response worries her because Nora Scarlett Brantford herself comes bounding down the stairs with a big smile on her face. My already-shitty mood plummets further. The fact that she can smile at me like nothing happened irritates me beyond belief.
"Who else would it be?" I drawl pasting the best sneer I have on my face. Channelling my inner bitchiness, I inspect my ragged nails with no interest for a moment, and then I look back at the unfamiliar-yet-familiar face. "Unless you've got another paramour strolling around town?"
The only source of sound I can hear is the hideous music. God, why does she have to listen to old fucking country music? I like country music and all, but can we please, for the love of God, have some tunes that are from this century?
Mom's face looks pained, like she regrets the decisions she made. Yeah. Bullshit. She's just playing the part like she always does – that whole "Oh, the love was so strong; we had such a connection, something that wasn't there between your father and I" card. Trying to make herself look innocent.
Puh-lease.
Mom glances over the banister of the stairs, and I suddenly feel like we're two predators that are sizing each other up for the big battle that's about to take place. But all Mom does is shake her head and say, "Emyln, please tidy up your belongings. It makes the house look messy."
I follow her gaze, looking down at the small section of the mudroom that my belongings are taking up. It's not that messy. I've got one suitcase and two bags. Although, one of them must have tipped over at some point because a scattered collage of books by Sabaa Tahir that I'm rereading for the fiftieth time, a box of vanilla Girl Scout cookies, a container of coconut cream that Rosa bought me as an early birthday present from The Body Shop, and some half-empty tubes of lip gloss paints the floor.
Stifling an annoyed groan, I head back down the mudroom, gather my belongings, and then haul them up the stairs. If I'm assuming correctly, I'm going to be staying in my old bedroom that's just down the hall from the kitchen and has its own bathroom. I head in that direction, waiting for the cringe-worthy moment where my mother tells me that she's given that bedroom to one of my apparent stepbrothers or turned it into a studio for her stupid artwork.
But the moment never comes, and once I have my stuff thrown onto my old queen-sized bed, I head back into the kitchen after taking a moment to dwell on how everything looks the same as I left it. It's almost as if my mother never stepped foot in it after Rosa, Dad, and I all packed up and left.
Once I'm in the kitchen, I head for the fridge. I ignore the fact that there's a man who looks like he's in his mid-forties standing in front of the stove and stirring a pot of what looks to be pasta sauce. I don't want to meet my stepfather, and quite frankly, I don't give a shit about him.
"Did you have a good trip?" Mom asks as she butters the garlic bread. She doesn't bother to look up at me. She doesn't bother to hug me. And I have to say it surprises me a little. Clearly, she understands that there is still some bad blood between the two of us. Good. I hate it when she's over-emotional.
I pour myself a glass of water. "Yeah, Mom," I reply sarcastically, "driving for two hours with a broken air conditioner was fucking great. Loved the drive here. So worth it."
Mom's death stare is just like I remember it: cold and ruthless. Eerily similar to my own. And it looks like she's about to reprimand me for being rude to her when the door at the end of the hallway opens. I cringe at its familiar screeching noise, and then the sound of boots bumping against the hardwood floor is filling the house, drowning out the disgustingly old music.
Realizing that it's probably the landscaper that Mom and her rich replacement husband hired, I turn back to my water, taking a long sip to quench my thirst. Noticing that the pasta has been drained and mixed with the sauce, I decide to dish myself up – I am starving after all.
Just as I'm scooping some spaghetti onto my plate, a familiar voice catches my attention.
"So the irrigation system is working again, Mrs. Brantford, and I adjusted the timing so the water will turn on at 8 a.m., and a second time at 8 p.m. If there are any problems, just shout over the fence and I'll come and fix it up again."
I feel the plate slip from my hand before he finishes the second sentence. Ignoring the spaghetti and broken white ceramic that is now shattered and splattered across my bare feet, I turn around.
I want to move. I want to run up to him and hug him tightly, beg for his forgiveness. But I don't. I stay standing, feet frozen to the floor, in the midst of this disaster. After five years of being away, I can't believe I'm staring at him. So much has changed yet he still looks the same as I remember. He's still got the golden-blond hair with a dark brown undertone, along with the same style: a short taper haircut. The defined jawbone and chiselled face. He's grown too – I used to be the taller of the two of us, and now he has about on inch or two on me. But what else was I expecting? We were only fourteen the last time I saw him.
It's when I meet his big, smoky grey eyes that the familiarity hits me like a shot to the heart. Behind the unique, beautiful colour, I can see several mixed emotions smoldering: hatred, lust, desperation, and pain, all with a hint of happiness.
"Oh thank-you, Hainsey," my mom says. "I forgot to run to the bank this morning, so I will pay you tomorrow afternoon. Does that sit well with you?"
He nods his head. "Yeah, I'm fine with that. Give me a call on the home phone and I'll come over when you have the money."
Mom smiles, and then says, "Why don't you stay for dinner? I'm sure Emyln and you have a lot to catch up on. Besides, she has been looking forward to seeing you since the moment she arrived – all I heard was your name."
I shoot my mom a dirty glare. Although her words hold certain suitability to the situation, she has no fucking right to reveal my inner thoughts and feelings. She also has no right to try and pair us together. Good God, no one had been happier than Mom when I told her Hainsey was taking me to the movies five years ago. But that quickly came to an end.
He shakes his head, and then stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jean shorts, looking at Mom. And that's the moment I notice what he's wearing: jeans shorts, Nike sandals, and a tight-fitting white muscle shirt that shows off how toned his body is. I swallow thickly. He must still be playing hockey and hiking every possible trail in the town. "Thanks for the offer, but I've gotta get home to my mom. I told her I'd make dinner tonight. If anything else happens with your house, you know who to call for help."
He looks at me again, and I feel a strong pull toward him.
As we stare at each other, taking in all the years we've missed, I realize just how much I've missed Hainsey. But there's something else I realize: those years have created a bottomless chasm between the two of us, one I fear can't be bridged. Along with all the time, there's a mountain of unsaid feelings, lies, and pain that might be impossible for either of us to climb. I desperately want to find a way to reconnect with him because the fact remains that Hainsey Stone is still the only boy who's ever taken my breath away.
I wish he would stay for dinner and give me a chance to explain why I left without telling him, and then broke up with him via text. It was low and I had no fucking right to hurt him like I did, but my fourteen-year-old brain never considered the consequences.
There's no one to blame for this situation but myself.
With one last nod, Hainsey says, "See you around, Ems."
My heart speeds up to the point where I'm scared my ribs are going to shatter into irreparable shards of bone. He's the only one that's ever called me 'Ems,' and he's still doing it. That has to count for something, right?
I don't think he means to, but as he's turning around, he squeezes his eyes shut like he's in pain. And then he's heading downstairs to escape this moment.
Another realization hits me: I've spent so much time thinking about what his reaction would be to me, and I never stopped to think about what my reaction would be to him. I should have hugged him, kissed him, and told him how much I regret leaving. But my ego got the best of me.
I stare at the now-empty staircase, feeling deflated.
Hainsey has every right to be upset with me. To hold a grudge. We may have been young, but we were best friends, cared for each other. Loved each other. And I left him behind.
I don't know how I'm going to rekindle my relationship with him, but I'll be damned if I don't try to fix it. Somehow, I am going to find a way to make up for the mistakes I made. I may not be able to go back in time and change the beginning, but I know I can start from where I am and change the ending.