Eliza
October 7th, 2011, Whistler, BC
The woods are dark, even in the silvery glow of the moon. Every once in a while, though, a sliver breaks through the branches of mountain hemlocks and western red cedars, providing just enough light. The damp scent of wet dirt and decaying leaves fills my lungs as I draw in a deep breath. The aromatic scents of Whistler have always been my favourite, from the pungent scent of the forest to the crispness of the alpine air. It's home.
I break into a jog, almost stumbling over a large root, doing my best to ignore the branches that are scratching at my arms while I try to regain my balance. It's been months since Leon and I visited our special spot down my Fitzsimmons Creek, but our trail is still prominent – no stubborn weeds or knotted roots have begun to break through the compacted dirt. As I continue on, the late-autumn air stings my cheeks, and I have to ignore the disgusting puddles that have formed in the soles of my runners and soaked my socks. After being born and raised in Whistler, you'd think I'd know better than to wear cheap runners after a downpour.
Fighting through a fosse of ferns, I come around the final corner and quickly descend the small incline on the bank of the creek. It's rocky and steep, but easy for a seventeen-year-old girl like me – I make it down without a scratch. After the hot summer we endured, the creek has shrunk exponentially, leaving about three metres of dry land, composed of different sized rocks, natural debris, and a few fallen trees. But none of that matters to me. The only thing I can focus on is the large rock adjacent to me, the one that's surrounded by spreading stonecrop.
"Leon!" I call, my voice shaking with desperation.
My skin prickles at the innate sounds of nature that follow: a bubbling creek, the final birds of summer saying their last goodbyes before they migrate, the breeze rustling the leaves and needles of the surrounding trees. Even the moon, that's casting silvery shadows over every object, seems to be whispering behind my back. An eerie chill causes the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I've never been a fan of the forest at night, despite living here all my life.
Spinning around, I tug at my hair in frustration. Leon is supposed to be here. He said he was going to be here. It's our last chance to say goodbye before he moves across the country with his family. I can't believe he's moving for our final year of high school – our senior year. This was supposed to be the best year of our life before we went off to college next year. But now it seems as though all of our plans are up in the air.
I turn back to the rock, taking in the abundance of spreading stonecrop. Leon and I planted it there a couple of years ago after we hiked Whistler Mountain. When we picked the yellow succulent, we didn't think it would make it next to Saint-Sangster Rock, but it did. As the years have passed, the succulent has spread, covering the ground surrounding our large, flat rock.
The memory causes my eyes to burn. After knowing Leon-Saint Laurent for seventeen years, he's being taken away from me. My best friend. The first boy I ever had a crush on. My boyfriend. I don't know if my heart will be able to handle our goodbye. When he leaves, who am I supposed to go hiking with? Who am I supposed to indulge on kettle corn with when I'm watching horror movies? But, more importantly, how am I supposed to live without him beside me?
I tear my gaze away from the rock and stare out at the creek. Where is he? He asked me to meet him here at eight o'clock sharp, and he's already fifteen minutes late. He leaves tomorrow morning and I want to spend as much time with him as I possibly can tonight. Driving him and his family to the airport isn't enough. I need Leon right now. I need to pull him close and never let go. I'm tempted to tie him to a tree until I can confirm he's missed his flight.
A tear slips down my cheek. I've known for months now that Leon is moving to St. John's, Newfoundland because of the promotion his father got, but I never realized how hard it was going to be to say goodbye to him. It's as if my heart is being tugged out of my chest by a fishhook – the pain is unbearable. I wish I didn't have to feel any of this pain. I wish it would all go away. If this is how I feel now, I can't imagine how I'm going to feel when I have to watch him board the plane tomorrow.
Choking on a sob, I drag myself to the edge of the water and stoop down to pick up a rock. Flipping the smooth stone over a couple of times, I pull my arm back and chuck it as far as I can. It lands in the bubbling creek with a muffled splash. A splash that is nothing to the hot tears cascading down my cheeks. I pick up another rock and do the same thing, channelling my inner aggression.
I'm in the midst of picking up another rock when I hear that sexy, familiar voice.
"Christ, kid. What did that creek ever do to you?"
I jolt upright, dropping the stone, and spin around. Leaning against our rock is Leon. His sandy-blond hair has a silver hue to it beneath the moonlight and his defined, square jaw looks as though it could cut through glass. He's smiling at me, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes – they're filled with a melancholic look. One that makes my heart want to fold in on itself.
"Leon!" I exclaim, rushing over to him. He begins to head in my direction, running at full speed.
We collide with such a force that we both stumble to the dry bed of the creek. I roll on top of him, aware that my hair is full of dead leaves and twigs, and grip the fabric of his sweater, burying my face against his chest. He smells like fresh cedarwood with a touch of citrus. I breathe in deeply, wondering if there's a way I can bottle this scent up. "I didn't think you were going to come," I whisper.
He laughs, plucking a few dead leaves from my hair and tossing them to the ground. "I would never leave you, Liz. Not without spending one last night with you. Not without saying goodbye."
"Don't say that!" I snap. "This is not goodbye!"
Leon runs his fingers through my hair, lightly massaging my scalp in the process. He removes a few more leaves and twigs. "You're right. That's happening tomorrow."
"Leon," I warn, my voice cracking.
"Liz."
Tired of his logical side, I push away from him and climb to my feet. How can he not be upset about this? We have known each other since we were in diapers, and he can just look past everything that's happened between us? We may only be seventeen, but when two people share something like Leon and I have, you know it's real. You know it's meant to be.
"Liz," he repeats, softer this time. "Please. Look at me."
The emotion in his voice is what draws my gaze to his face. He's on his feet now, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he stands in front of me, the forest and creek looking menacing behind him. "What?" I choke, wiping my face. I hate that I'm crying in front of him. I hate that I have to let him go.
"It's a temporary goodbye. This isn't the last time we're going to see each other." Hesitantly, he closes the space between us and reaches for my hand. His palm his calloused against mine, his skin worn from all the lawns he mowed over the summer. "I promise, Liz. We'll stay in touch. I'll save up enough money to come and visit you during the holidays. We will make this work."
"I don't want you to leave," I sob, clutching his face. "Leon, you can't go. You can't leave me here alone."
He stares at me with an utter look of despair. If I begged enough, I know Leon would try to find a way to stay here for his final year of high school. But I can't do that to him. I know how much he loves his parents and the rest of his family. Taking him away from them would be selfish and he wouldn't truly be happy. It would kill me to see him like that.
"I don't want to go, either," he chokes. "But there's nothing we can do except make tonight count – make it memorable." He brings my knuckles to his lips and plants a soft kiss on them. My knuckles are bruised from the apprenticeship I've taken up at the local mechanic shop, but the discolouration doesn't seem to bother him. "I love you, Liz," he continues. "Don't, for one second, think otherwise. You are the girl of my dreams. Everything I've ever wanted."
I stare up at him through my tear-soaked lashes, my heart thumping rapidly against my ribcage. I know exactly what he means when he says memorable. We've had this discussion many times and we've both agreed to wait until graduation. But now? Now those plans have gone up in smoke; they've been singed from our list of possibilities, and there's nothing we can do about it. The pain that radiates through my body and mind feels as though a dagger is being dragged precariously down my spine. It hurts – so badly.
Our future together has been thrown up into the air, and we both know what happens when two lovers are separated for an extended amount of time. Even with phone calls and text messages, relationships never last. There are always other people who step into their lives, new interests that spark, and the hint of utter loneliness overrides their emotions. Tonight is quite possibly the last night Leon and I will spend together as a couple, and we need to make it count.
With shaky hands, I untuck his tight-fitting sweater and slip my hands beneath the fabric, pressing my palms flat against his skin.
His nostrils flare. "Liz."
I continue to trace the contour of his abs. Of the scar on his ribcage. I want to memorize every inch of him so I have memories I can turn to when I feel loneliness haunting me at night.
"Before you go," I whisper, "I need you. Please. I love you and I want this moment to be with you and no one else. Please, Leon."
He dips his head down and presses a soft kiss to my lips, his mouth tasting of my own salty tears. The blood running through my veins begins to pump wildly as Leon pushes me back until my thighs are pressed up against our rock. My hands instantly find the zipper and button of his jeans, causing him to inhale sharply.
"Promise me you'll come back," I whisper against his lips, tugging the waistband of his jeans down. I look up into his eyes, letting the unique colour burn into my mind. People in school always called him a freak for having partial heterochromia; for having one spot in his left iris be an entirely different colour than the rest of his iris. I, on the other hand, always thought that having sapphire-coloured eyes with a spot of honey-brown in one was intoxicating. Beautiful.
He pulls his lips away from mine and presses our foreheads together. Tufts of his sandy-blond hair tangle with my lashes, causing a shiver to go down my spine. I've always been a sucker for the intimacy of foreheads being pressed together. He rests his hands on my hips, his thumb caressing the bare line of skin between my shirt and leggings.
"I will come back, Eliza Sangster," he murmurs. He tugs the waistband of my leggings down. "You have my heart, body, mind, and soul. Don't forget that. I promise you; I will come back."