SUMMER’S BREATH

OSKAR WESTIN

Summer's Breath is an immersive experience that invites you to explore the labyrinth of the human psyche where suspense intertwines with self-exploration, creating an enthralling, thought-provoking narrative.

Trigger warning: This novel explores substance abuse, infidelity and suicidal thoughts.

* * *

Charlie, a tech worker in Toronto with a challenging past, struggles with self-isolation after his marriage to Mikaela is snuffed out by boredom and subsequent infidelity. The trauma of their divorce mirrors Charlie’s parents’ broken relationship and his mother’s death. Charlie tries to cover these losses with alcohol and one-night stands while stumbling through his workplace social scene.

Charlie’s only cornerstones are his childhood friend Ash and a new colleague, Summer. Though she could be the one, Summer is engaged to James. Charlie doesn’t want to repeat the pattern of infidelity he sees around him, from his family to many colleagues and friends. And so he goes for walks with Summer and plays it safe. With each midday trek through a wooded trail near the office, Charlie shows up for Summer and himself.

Summer’s Breath

© Copyright Oskar Westin

All rights reserved.

eISBN: 1230007202094

Book design: Oskar Westin

Cover design: Rosey Jagnjic

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Preface

Prologue

Book One: Winter

1998-2005

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Book Two: Summer

2005 - 2015

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Book Three: Fall

November

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Winter, Spring, and Summer

The end

Understanding

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Oskar Westin

Michelle

For holding my hands in the shallows

so I could explore deep water

FOREWORD

It is with immense joy and pride that I introduce you to the gripping world of Summer's Breath, a thrilling odyssey into the realm of ambiguity penned by my esteemed friend, Oskar Westin. Our shared passion for literature brought us together, and it is an honour to share this raw, poignant, and dark thriller.

The brilliance of Oskar's writing lies not just in the pulse-quickening plot but in the meticulous attention to character depth and the exploration of the human condition. The protagonist's quest for self-discovery becomes a mirror reflecting our own desires, fears, and, ultimately, our humanity.

In admiration and anticipation,

Vishakha Sethi

@incredibleopinions

PREFACE

It’s interesting how an experience, like a seed, will sprout and grow until it blossoms; how an event becomes an idea. That an idea becomes fiction, plucked from a lemon tree; removed from reality. Creativity is rooted in real experiences, but once it becomes a memory, a dream, a narrative, it has changed. That is to say, the fictitious lemon may taste sweeter or more bitter than its pith.

The sour taste of Charlie’s cigarettes seems as real to me today as when I decided he was a smoker. I do not smoke, yet the imagined effect makes me feel ill and elated.

While writing, I am Charlie, but otherwise I am me. And when Charlie has something to say, I listen and do my best to capture the idea that is his ethos. The lines between fiction and fidelity are drawn in sand, easily rewritten.

- Oskar Westin

How should I reconcile the past?

It is patched with holes, memories that don’t exist.

PROLOGUE

2016

This was before I understood anything about my childhood — my fear of children and parenthood. Summer and I are ignoring each other by this point. I jog past the park bench, as I had many times before. It didn’t deserve more than a glance. Browns and yellows are more common under my feet than on the bushy branches hovering above me; reds and burgundies are still intense in the trees, with occasional spots of lasting green. The cool air makes breathing easy, and the breeze wicked the sweat from my skin. Autumn is good to me, and the time away from Summer motivates me to push myself physically for no other reason than to clear my head. I extend my run by half a kilometre each way to delay the mundane afternoon office work. While heading back to the starting point — the park bench — my runner’s high causes a brown, yellow, and red tunnel to appear. Leaves shimmer like a massive smokeless fire generating visible heat waves before me. The ripples start to spin as I near the end of my run. A funnel of bright light takes shape where the forest stops and the park begins —my 5k ends. I put my hands on my knees at the border between the trees and the forthcoming gravel path. I lift my shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead. As my eyes regain focus, the euphoric tunnel winds counter clockwise, becoming the open park with its playground and tennis court. And our park bench. A pensive musing tickles my nose and crawls down my spine—a familiar knot forms in my chest. Summer is staring at the cloudy southward sky, waiting on our bench. I take my time, easing my tension as I approach her.

“Hey there, Sam,” I call to her with little more than a breath in my voice. Summer tilts her head but does not look my way. Something has happened. She doesn’t say a word. Instead, she follows the marbled clouds passing through a grey sky. I sit next to her and wait. We sit side by side for 30 minutes — without words, or physical contact, we share nothing outwardly. Yet our emotions swell, and our unspoken words could fill a novel.

Eventually, we head back to the office.

BOOK ONE: WINTER

1998-2005

CHAPTER ONE

… Frosted walls preserved by gale storm winds. From my citadel, I watch the world evolve around me. I see the cracks in the system. Tiny fissures become endless chasms. There are rooms in my fortress that cannot be found. Memories no longer exist. Fibs and fictions take their place. …

It was just the three of us after Mom left — no longer Mrs. Parker. It was me, Charlie, and my baby sister, Sarah. And my dad, Mr. Parker. Cold winds froze the walls of our snow forts. My father built one for each of us. One for me and one for Sarah. We had our collection of snowballs, but neither had the agility to throw them. Dad watched us from the kitchen window as we broke free of our forts and wrestled in the snow. After Sarah died, it was just me. I was alone. “Where did Sarah go?” I’d ask. “Sarah’s not with us anymore was my father’s response. “And where is Mommy?” … “She’s not with us, son.”

* * *

I met Mikaela on a ski trip in 1998. I was 26, and Mikaela would turn 30 in the new year. She was delicate and full of vigour like a spritely snowflake battling a constant storm. Smiles and pleasantry masked her storm, but it was always there. Memory plays tricks: it was love at first sight — for her, anyway. For me, it felt more like a smouldering flame. I loved Mikaela, but the burn was ever-present.

Looking back, I remember the ashes, but something was there, a spark perhaps. We were young, and I wanted a family, two kids: a girl and a boy, just like me growing up with my sister. I’d dream of Mikaela’s swelled belly, our children, and our future. It’s how I imagined my childhood, expectant and balanced. Of course, it wasn’t like that. Childhood never is. Mikaela didn’t want kids. Still, I felt like I had a chance with Mikaela. I wanted to be there for her and our children. To treat her well and for us to be happy. It’s funny how relationships start and how they change over time, and then how they sometimes end — mostly end.

My friend, Richard, asked me to join him on a couples-only ski trip. Rick’s buddy Frank invited him (not me) even though Rick was single — which didn’t seem to matter to Frank. Rick bet me we could steal a girl each from one of the other guys on the trip. Stealing girlfriends was not my style, but I said yes anyway.

On the morning of the ski trip, I got up at six o’clock, showered, grabbed my things, and hopped into my parent’s old car, a brown Dodge station wagon. I didn’t drive often since Transit in Toronto made it easy to get around. Rick lived in Richmond Hill, a suburb north of the city. I took the 404 to his place, picked him up without a word, and he slept until we reached the Snow Belt north of Barrie. I didn’t mind, I appreciated the empty thoughts that came with highway driving, like passing clouds on a windy day. The skies cleared with the sunrise as we escaped the city limits. Fresh snow sparkled over barren fields and distant evergreens like a fine mist on a woman’s thighs after lovemaking. I drove for hours, but it felt like minutes. To my memory, that morning was perfect; the sun was out, the sky was blue, and the temperature was just above freezing. Rick was less of an ass than usual (he was asleep), and I was about to meet Mikaela, my future.

Powdered snow bathed the dark-blue crags across the mountain range as we pulled into the parking lot. Richard yawned, slapped me on the shoulder as a thank you and oozed out of the passenger seat. Frank was waiting for us, dancing from one leg to another like he needed to pee. He handed over our lift tickets and raced to the slopes. Rick and I grabbed our gear from the trunk and walked to the chalet. It was warm and inviting. Dark wood beams, white stucco ceilings, plenty of bench seating for a drink or a meal, and a well-stocked bar near the stairs leading to the changing rooms. Rick walked in like he owned the place. I followed carefully to keep my skis from damaging the walls.

“Hey, Charlie?” Rick jabbed my ribs with his shoulder while he fastened his ski boots. “There’s a girl for you. Go help her out.” Rick’s asshole grin stretched beyond his ears. The girl wore white, loose-fitting ski pants under a puffy white parka with grey and black trim. Her hair was naturally dark. I noticed auburn highlights when she leaned into the sun to tighten her boots. “You should go for it, man.” If you can imagine it, his grin got wider.

I nodded to be polite. I wasn’t that kind of guy. A guy like Rick.

“She’s with us. You can have her. All the couples cancelled.”

“So, she’s single?”

“No, dude. She’s Franks girl,” Rick snickered. “Her name is Mikaela. Go get her, cowboy.”

I was at a loss. Rick took off, and Frank was nowhere to be seen. That left me alone to help Mikaela. Her head was bent over her knees, still struggling with the buckles on her boots. This weekend was wrong in many ways, but I figured I could right at least one wrong.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m Charlie. I’m a friend of Frank’s — friend of a friend.”

“Mischa.” Mikaela looked up. She had an effect of not wearing make-up but for some subtle shading above her brown eyes. Her lips were pale, supple, and pursed.

“I thought your name was Mikaela.”

She offered me nothing.

“How do you know Frank?” I tried again, worried that Rick had pulled a fast one on me. Her lips curled for a moment before resting in a peaceful state.

“Frank?” she replied, “I hardly know him.”

Maybe I got the wrong idea from Rick, not that Rick was a reliable source. Perhaps she wasn’t Frank’s girl after all. “Me neither,” I said. “I mean, I hardly know Frank. Sorry for being forward.” I got down on one knee and took the opportunity to help her with her boots with my ungloved hand, ready to adjust her clasp. “Do you mind if I help?”

“I do,” she smirked but didn’t offer any resistance as I fastened each clip.

Mikaela looked like she was young and healthy, and from what I could tell then, she seemed to be the kind of person who could be the mother of my children. But I wasn’t thinking of that, I was happy with my life and the simple system I had in place. Disruption was not my intent. I certainly wasn’t looking for companionship, never mind a life partner. I was trying to be a good person.

“Is that too tight?” I asked.

She raised her eyebrows and smiled; her teeth were unique, a little crooked, just off-centre, endearing. “No, that’s fine,” she said.

Gradually, we made our way to the ski lift. The white-capped mountain loomed before us, 550 ft at the crown. I caught Mikaela’s sidelong glances through the fur-lining of her parka. Whenever I challenged her side-eye, Mikaela looked to the end of her skis at the tracks before her while I kept my eye on the people in front of us as we waited for the lift. It was a long way to go. No wonder Frank and Rick left us behind.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Mikaela put her hand on my wrist and glared at the mountain. I had considered that Frank might be waiting at the top of the ski hill to boost her confidence, but I quickly scrubbed it from my mind. There’s no way a guy like that would stick around for a girl like Mikaela; she couldn’t put her skis on straight. Rick and Frank were doing their own thing, and Mikaela and I were left in the powdered white dust.

I looked beyond the ever-longer lineup towards a quiet patch on the other side of the lifts and nodded to Mikaela. She followed me as we pushed out of line, gliding towards the bunny slopes. Mikaela watched me stand parallel to the hill and crab-walked up the slope.

“Here, walk like this,” I said.

Mikaela followed slowly. At the top of the tiny slope, I taught her to point her ski tips together in a pizza shape to go down. It took us over a minute to reach the bottom of the shallow hill.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “We made it one piece, at least.”

Mikaela brushed her hair from her eyes and nodded. Her cheeks were flushed from cold or perhaps exhaustion.

“How do I sit down with these things?” she managed between breaths.

“That’s probably not a good idea,” I said. I unclipped my skis and walked towards Mikaela. She mimicked my behaviour and fell to the ground, boots still locked to her skis. Her smile shone between the tufts of hair covering her face. I pressed my lips to stop me from laughing, but I’m sure my eyes gave away my sentiment.

“I’m terrible at this, right?” she said.

“Not at all. That’s usually how I sit down in skis,” I laughed. “Falling on my ass is one of my greatest talents.”

We sat in the sun for 30 minutes, chatting at the bottom of the hill while Frank and Rick braved the slopes without us. I learned that Mikaela graduated with a master’s degree in English Studies from Wilfred Laurier, that she was a creative artist and writer, and worked at a marketing firm to pay the bills. I told her my similar story, Fine Arts undergrad, graphic design, marketing firm, and paying bills. Mikaela struck me as a down-to-earth, happy soul who stayed out of trouble. I still couldn’t figure out why she put up with Frank. He seemed to be the polar opposite: an aversion to her attraction.

“Do you want to grab a coffee,” I asked, “or a hot chocolate?”

“I don’t think I can get up,” Mikaela smiled.

I straddled her skis and offered my hand. When she managed to stand up, we were nose-to-nose, more like chin-to-forehead. She smelled like lemon drops and sage. Mikaela tilted her head. Time stood still.

… Her breath, her lips. The grey lining of Mikaela’s parka disappeared until she melted into sky and snow, a blend of blue and white. The lift and mountain. The entire resort dissolved into that blue and white light. I was alone, captured by brightness. The instant became an eon. My back was taut, my fingers stretched on forever, and I was floating, my toes pointing downwards and my chin towards the sky. A bridge between ice and snow. …

“—Coffee would be great.” Mikaela’s voice brought me back. We were still holding hands. I clicked my skis back into place, and we set off to the lodge in a single gliding movement.

Mikaela and I met outside the changing rooms and walked upstairs to the Chalet to enjoy our coffees. I had changed into jeans and a brown sweater with a zipped V-neck. Mikaela wore a long, well-fitting, light-blue turtleneck and shiny grey leggings. I noticed a faded tattoo bleeding out from her shirt to her wrist. I didn’t ask, but I learned later that Mikaela celebrated life-changing events with a new tattoo. We relaxed by the fireplace and shared stories of our childhoods. Mikaela’s parents migrated from Serbia when she was two but divorced when she was nine.

I told her a little about my dad and stepmom.

“So, are your parents divorced?”

“I guess, sort of. My mom left us and then died in an accident,” I said.

Mikaela took my hand, and her eyes pinched.

“My dad and stepmom died ten years ago, but I’m doing okay.” I didn’t mention anything about my sister.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie.”

“No, I’m sorry, Mikaela. I’m a downer, not much fun at all. I’m actually quite dull.”

Mikaela smiled at my comment. “Call me Mischa, Charlie. We are friends now.”

‘We are friends now.’ It was the first time I noticed her accent; Eastern European. Faint but present.

“Sure thing, Mischa.” It felt a little sticky calling her Mischa the first time but being friends with Mischa felt good. Even so, I still think of her as Mikaela, even after being married to her for five years. Mikaela was Mikaela, and Mischa seemed to be another person entirely. Mikaela was timid, but Mischa was direct.

Mikaela slipped off her shoe under the table in the lodge and rested it on my chair between my knees. I slipped my hands under the table and slowly massaged her ankles.

“So, what else?” I asked.

“Have you heard of Pascal’s wager?” Mikaela slouched in her chair and inched her foot forward. “It’s a wager on whether god exists.” Her big toe was nearing her target. “The odds are in favour of god’s existence since a person who does not believe in god has less to lose if god exists, rather than to bet on his non-existence.”

I cupped her heel in my left hand and lifted her foot off my seat before she noticed my erection.

“So, what’s your wager, Charlie?”

“I don’t know. I guess I don’t have an opinion on the matter. If god exists for me, it doesn’t mean he exists for you.” I offered an olive branch. “Or vice-versa.”

I’m on the fence about god, not for or against the idea. I’m just open-minded. Also, I didn’t want to offend Mikaela if she believed in a god who casually slipped carnal signals below a tablecloth.

“I see,” she smirked. “Do you believe in me, Charlie?”

I did.

“Here’s my wager, Charlie. You will take me in a heartbeat if the stakes are high enough.” Her confident smile confirmed that she knew that my best ball player was up to bat. She was right; if it weren’t for Frank, I’d play ball. I liked her. It’s a funny thing, life. It happens whether you want it to or not. But sometimes, you can delay the inevitable.

I finished my coffee, calmed my erection, and grabbed my things. It was time to go. I asked Mikaela to tell Frank or Richard to catch a ride with someone else. I wasn’t about to wait for him to get drunk after skiing, only to snore in the car.

Mikaela hugged me in the parking lot without provocation, and that was that.

CHAPTER TWO

4:30 in the morning. three weeks after the ski trip, I got a call from Rick. I was staring at the ceiling when the phone rang. Dancing whisps of thought shifted effortlessly across the stucco. My mind was calculating the pulse of this light fantastic dance, hoping to find a rhythm to send me back to sleep.

“Yes?” I answered the phone.

“Apparently, Mikaela likes you.”

The whirls of invisible colours scurried to the corners of my bedroom.

Rick told me Mikaela had told Frank I was a gentleman and that he was glad I kept her company while he raced down the black diamond drops without her.

I was hardly a gentleman; I simply wasn’t a dick. I was about to say thank you and hang up.

“Charlie,” said Rick.

I didn’t like the up tone of his voice. It was taunting me like a child on a playground.

“Mikaela asked me to invite you to her birthday party.” Rick was drunk, but the tease in his voice was tremendous. “She’s turning 30.” He paused for effect, or my response—or he fell asleep. I listened to his shallow breathing. “Umm,” he continued, “I understand if you don’t want to go.” Another pause. His breath became a wheeze, then a snore.

“—I’ll go.”

“Great.” It sounded like his phone clattered on the floor.

My chest compressed; I hadn’t considered that I would ever see Mikaela again. The colours on the ceiling reformed into a blue crystalline shape. Mischa’s eyes danced behind it.

… The chasm expands and forms a gushing couloir. The crystal bridge grows with the gap. A body floats above natures flowing aqueduct. I cannot see her face, mother, sister, future. …

“Should I bring a date?” I called Rick later that morning. It was his turn to be silent. I held my breath. After the moment passed, Rick responded, yes, I should bring a date. He hung up on me and presumably went back to sleep.

A date? A date. Why would I bring a date? And who should I bring?

The first person I thought of was Aisha. Ash and I have been friends since we were kids, though friends may not be the right word for it. She was more like family. I met her when I was five. My sister Sarah was in preschool. Mom had left Dad a few months before. My dad took us to school to drop me off on my first day of kindergarten. This school was enormous from my young perspective. I was scared but had learned from my dad to tackle every new challenge with a brave face. That’s a tough lesson to learn for a five-year-old. “You’ll be fine, son,” he told me. My dad always put on a brave face, even when he faced his demons.

Suddenly, without hesitation, A young girl walked up to us, smiled at my dad, took my hand, and walked me to class. This was Ash. She was in grade two, but her confidence put my dad’s mind at ease. When it was time to go home, Ash came to our kindergarten room, took my hand, and led me outside. Sarah and my dad met us there as though they had never left. Ash continued this ritual for the next few months before I found my footing in the new school. It wasn’t long before Ash laid claim to me. In my second week of kindergarten, she kissed me on the lips as she dropped me off in class. All my friends laughed. I didn’t get it. But from that moment forward, from morning to lunch to recess, Ash kept an eye on me until my dad picked me up after school. Ever since then, we have been friends.

I called Ash minutes after I hung up the phone with Rick. It was still early, but I knew she would be awake. She complained about the ungodly time of day but said yes, she would be my date.

* * *

Twinkling lights dangled from trees as I strolled casually as if in a soft cloud on my way to Mikaela’s party. I wasn’t in a rush to meet my as-yet-undecided future. Perpetual snow fell lightly to the sidewalk, and I took my time to enjoy the active stillness. Mikaela’s party was at The Harvest, a bar in the South Annex. I had been to The Harvest once before for a 20th birthday party—the near-twenty-year-old was a friend of a friend of a friend. I don’t remember the name of the birthday girl or her friend. I’m not bad with names daily, but when someone has left my life, their name rises from my mind like smoke through a chimney. If the name had any weight, it might settle like black soot in the hearth until the chimney sweep brushes it away. When I arrived at The Harvest for the nameless girl, twice-removed party, I was rushed upstairs to a party room filled with empty faces lacking substance. All I remember from that time was the cake, drinks, and shots. And I’m certain I threw up in the alley next to The Harvest before I went home that evening. An experience I hoped not to repeat at Mikaela’s party.

Ash and I agreed to meet at The Harvest. The snowfall subsided as I waved to Ash from down the street, signalling my arrival. Her arms were crossed, in her fashion, with her foot tapping for added effect. “You’re late.” Ash looked at her wrist without brushing the powdered snow off her puffy blue parka. I wasn’t late, but I apologized anyway with a hug.

Ash worked at an uptown marketing firm called SanStar — she still does. It was the same firm that she’d worked at since graduating college. SanStar was stable and offered a secure pension. It wasn’t the kind of place you enjoyed working at, but it was a job that became a career for no other reason than that leaving that job left you ill-equipped to work anywhere else. In other words, it was behind the times when it came to technology and open-mindedness; to put it bluntly, it was like working in a dungeon with backwater seeping through your socks. And the higher you climbed, the taller your socks had to be. All things considered; my job was no better. I worked as a production designer at a boutique agency owned by The St. Anne’s Corporation. St. Anne’s wasn’t so much mucky as sticky. If you didn’t have clean shoes, you’d find it tough to escape the corporation. But you'd be okay if you didn’t step in anyone else's shit. It was my glamorous job to redesign print layouts to digital formats —a classy way of saying banner ads— before our IT department at the corporate head office in Ottawa posted them to the emerging world wide web. I started in this role in the late 90s. We were still in the dot-com bubble, and work was steady. The job paid my bills, and that was enough. I lived comfortably since I didn’t have a mortgage to worry about. Dad and stepmom left me their house when they passed away.

“Hey, deadbeat. Whose birthday party is this anyway?” Ash raised her brows; they were plucked razor-thin and spaced far apart. The look was comical.

“Her name is Mikaela.” I said, “Mikaela Mickiewiczs.”

“Mitskeh-what?”

“Her friends call her Mischa,” I said.

Ash scrunched her nose and pursed her lips. “What do you call her, Charlie?”

“I call her Mikaela.”

“So why are we here, Charlie? Is she cute?”

I shrugged, told her no, and left it at that. Ash roped her arm around mine, and we walked into the bar like a dainty old couple.

“Let me guess; you want to make babies with her, don’t you.”

I had made the mistake of mentioning that I wanted kids when Ash and I were younger, and ever since, she’s teased me every time I started a relationship. I did want babies; two kids, a boy and a girl.

“So, who else do we know here?”

“You know Richard,” I replied.

“You mean Dick?” Ash grinned.

“Ya, Big ol’ Dick,” I responded in kind.

“He’s a mouthful.”

We walked up the stairs to the outdoor landing, opened the big red door to The Harvest, and went inside. I told the hostess we were there for the Mickiewiczs’ party.

“You’re the first to arrive,” said our hostess. “Would you like a seat at the bar? We’re still setting up your room upstairs.”

I nodded. I could use a drink.

Ash and I took off our coats. She was wearing a black dress with gold trim. I wore medium-grey dress pants from work and a tan rayon shirt. We sat at the bar, and I looked at the special on the chalkboard behind the counter — fileted snapper with mixed vegetables and sassafras-battered onion rings. It sounded good.

“Order yourself a drink, Chuck.”

Whenever Ash called me Chuck, it meant the same as you fuck.

“And don’t think I’m paying for your drink either.”

I nodded.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I called to the bartender. He was older, tall, and thin; a scraggly grey beard covered his muzzle and matched his unkempt hair. “The lady here will have a cranberry soda.”

“Lady,” Ash scoffed, “that’s hardly true.”

“Hardly.” I squeezed lime into my G&T. Ash sipped her drink through a straw. Fifteen minutes passed, and nobody else arrived. We finished our drinks in silence. Ash tapped her foot against her barstool.

“You see,” I jabbed Ash with my elbow, “I wasn’t late; we’re early.”

“Great. Now I’m stuck with you,” Ash said with a frown. “I’m going to the lady’s room.”

Ash left me to sit by myself. I settled our tab and went outside for a cigarette, a habit from high school. The snow had turned to a drizzle; the streetlights danced in the mist as I smoked my cigarette in solitude. I let my mind wander between puffs of smoke. What possessed me to go to this party, and why did I bring Ash? I felt like an idiot, an absolute Chuckin’ fool. Like the ashes from my cigarette, these thoughts dissipated as soon as they materialized. What did it matter? I was here. The rain continued to drizzle without effort. The weather certainly didn’t care about me. Did it matter how I felt about the rain? About Mikaela?

“Charlie?”

I recognized her voice, and my heart skipped. I stubbed out my cigarette and took a deep breath of cool air. Mikaela walked down the street, holding hands with Frank. He had a flimsy, collapsible umbrella over his head, offering Mikaela little to no cover. Mikaela wore a silver coat that looked like a spacesuit. Despite the galactic vibe, she looked incredible. I didn’t expect to react to her so suddenly. I guess I didn’t know what to expect.

“Hi, Charlie,” Mikaela called again, slipping loose from Frank. “I can’t believe you came.”

She wrapped the damp sleeves of her puffy coat around me. Her eyes sparkled as she stood on her tippy toes and pressed her wet cheek against mine.

“Hi,” I said. My body tensed and relaxed. I held Mikaela for more than a beat, long enough for Frank to stare me down and for Ash to peek her head out from The Harvest. I was out of earshot, but I’m sure she sighed, “Holy Chuck.”

Rick arrived shortly after Mikaela and Frank, and we waited at the bar for the party room to be ready. Maybe ten other people I didn’t know and would never remember showed up later, and we left the bar to go to the party.

The upstairs room at The Harvest was decorated with grey streamers and a massive purplish-red balloon garland surrounding two slate-gray numbers: three and zero. Mikaela was 30; she looked more like she was 13, tiny and vulnerable in this grand space. Tables were arranged in a conversational style, facing inwards. Ash and I sat across from Frank and Mikaela, respectively; Rick sat beside Ash. Frank didn’t take his eyes off me all night, and god knows what Rick and Ash talked about. I felt like a fish without the protection of a fishbowl, simultaneously transparent and vulnerable. I kept my head down, staring at plates and cutlery. Swirling conversations blurred together, birthday wishes mixed with gossip and buffoonery. The eddy of chatter caught my head. Dinner came and went. Plates were cleared and reset for dessert. I finally ducked out after singing happy birthday in a voice as flat as paper before the cake arrived.

… Dark. Black. Warmth. Passion. Concrete and cement. Pressure from all sides. No tunnels nor bridges or slipping sleet. And nothing. …

On the sidewalk, coat in hand, the rain had stopped, and clouds blotted the moonlight. The streets were empty. My hands were shaking; I couldn’t light a cigarette. I couldn’t feel my limbs. “Charlie?” An auditory illusion. Mikaela’s voice from earlier that night. “Charlie, are you okay?” My coat dropped to the shining, wet sidewalk; I wrapped my hands around my neck and covered my face and ears. “Charlie.” It was Ash. “Let’s go.” She grabbed my elbow and walked me down the street to hail a cab. I turned to look; Mikaela was standing at the pub entrance. She didn’t wave but stared at me as Ash pushed me into the taxi.

… Across the chasm. Her voice is silent. A knotted ring appears, and her breath whispers, I love you, Charlie. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. …

“What the fuck was that about, Charlie?” Ash strained her whisper so our cab driver wouldn’t hear her cuss.

“What? What was what about?” I forced myself to speak. Breathing was arduous, and I was still tight as a knot. Unexplained panic attacks were common enough, but this…I was caught in a trap.

“You. You and Mikaela, Chuck.”

Ash didn’t make any sense. I hadn’t said more than three words to Mikaela the whole night. What was she talking about?

“Charlie, she was undressing you the entire evening. My God, she couldn’t have been more obvious.”

My mind went to Frank. Had he noticed?

“That girl didn’t take her eyes off you.”

I was at a loss for words, lost for thought.

“You should stay away from her, Charlie. You are a stupid, stupid Chuck.”

I’m sorry for what I’ve done.

* * *

Christmas passed, as did the new year. Ash called me at midnight. The events of Mikaela’s party were all but forgotten. We kept our conversation short and casual.

We should spend New Year’s together.

We really should, Ash.

Then you wouldn’t have to be alone, Charlie.

I wouldn’t have to be alone — and neither would Ash. That seemed to be the nature of our relationship. We buddied up whenever we didn’t have anyone else to buddy with. It had been that way since we were kids. If we ever needed a body to lean on, we would lend our bodies to each other. Still, we didn’t meet as often as we used to. It wasn’t until after New Year that I saw her again.

We met for coffee in January. Starbucks was new to the country that year — new to Toronto, at least. The chain hadn’t grown to every street corner yet, and there was still a false sense of luxury tied to anything that wasn’t Tim Horton’s.

“Double espresso, please.”

“Double trouble, Charlie. How do you sleep at night?”

I didn’t sleep, not usually; work kept me up. Things were busy for The St. Anne’s Corporation. As a result, I was up every night, shovelling digital shit to protect my job.

“Who needs sleep,” I downed my espresso like a tequila shot without the chaser. The heat from the drink spiked my adrenaline.

“You do, Charlie,” Ash chortled. “You’re not as young as you think you are.”

I shrugged.

“Any plans for your weekend?”

I planned to work. But I didn’t say so. “No plans for me, Ash. What about you?”

Ash told me she was clubbing on Friday night with her work friends. Did I want to tag along? I passed. The thought of strange, sweaty bodies bouncing on a dance floor offended me.

“Come on, Charlie. We both know you like sweaty bodies,” as if she knew me so well, followed by her usual line for bottom-feeder gossip. “Maybe you can bring someone along.”

“There’s no secret partner in my life, Ash. You’d be the first to know.” That was a lie. I didn’t share my personal life with Ash all that often, but somehow, she’d always find out one way or another.

“You’re getting old, Chuck. You should start making babies before your little swimmers lose their steam.”

I didn’t respond to the comment, as usual. I parried her jabs with passive indifference.

We sat quietly for a few minutes and finished our coffees. Then I hugged Ash and headed home.

My home: a deluxe bungalow on Heath Street. My parents were messed up, but they also had money. In the summer, the trees and greenery were beautiful. My kitchen was modest and mostly empty, but I had everything I needed to prepare simple meals. My mom bought a vintage espresso maker in the sixties — one of my few luxuries. It’s stainless steel with a robin’s egg blue surface coat. An old record player in the living room was another luxury, with an extensive record collection, including many albums by my namesake, Charlie Parker.

My dad loved “The Bird.” Fast tempos, rapid passing chords, and surprising chord substitutions. I grew up listening to Jazz and Bebop. I didn’t grasp the nuance, but the music became a misunderstood part of my psyche. My dad once told me that Parker’s daughter died when she was three. He told me this when I was ten, years after his daughter, my sister, died. Parker tried to commit suicide twice in ’54. I sometimes wonder if my father’s alcohol abuse and mental health can be attributed to The Yardbird’s erratic style or if my absent and long-dead father challenged death in the face of his agony rather than surrender to oblivion. I often feel the need to disappear completely, but I don’t think I’d ever consider suicide.

I never listened to anything by Parker; instead, I made another coffee and dropped the needle on a Chris Connor record. Ballad of the Sad Cafe carried softly through the house. After a few tepid sips from my fresh cup of black, I decided to skip the coffee altogether. I poured it down the sink before pouring myself a dram of Auchentoshan Single Malt Scotch. Whiskey: my gentle addiction, a gift from my father and Charlie Parker. I wouldn’t say I was an alcoholic (not then), but the call of the smokey drink was a little too smooth.

I stood in the kitchen, staring at my empty coffee cup, watching the ice melt in my drink when the album’s first side ended. I brought my glass to the bar in the dining room, took a sip of fire, and flipped the record. Good Morning Heartache echoed through emptiness. I continued to stare at my glass, debating its value as I rolled my fingers around its rim. The glass was full, but it represented emptiness. Something was missing in my life. Maybe Ash was right. Maybe I needed someone to care about, someone who cared about me. Could that be Mikaela?

Morning came; Wednesday, mid-week, a nothing day, lost between all the others. I showered and left the espresso machine alone that morning. Work was waiting. My walk to the subway station was brisk. I grabbed a coffee on the way to the office from a small shop near St. Clair station. The train took me to King Station, and from King Street, I took the streetcar to Liberty Village. Our office was on the second floor of a renovated building; industrial, factory-size ceilings, hardwood floors, visible ducts, and rough brick with ovoid hints of architecture.

“Good morning, Charlie.” Our receptionist, Danni, chirped as I walked in. I nodded and wandered to my desk. My cubicle was tucked into a corner annexed from the transitional open-concept office, right by the door leading to unisex bathrooms. My back-office associates included our on-staff IT support Steve, a mellow fellow if I ever met one; a fly-by-night “owl” developer, Stephen; and my project manager, Bruce. Bruce assigned me the work, I reported back to him, and he ensured that corporate IT posted things to the corresponding corporate or client website. I didn’t know what Stephen did since he rarely worked in the office. The odd time I saw him, he explained that an important part of his job was breaking things and improving them, like working your muscles raw so that they grew stronger. Stephen couldn’t exactly break things when they were in use, so he worked his self-imposed night shift. And Steve? He would unplug and reconnect hardware whenever it stopped working. “Job security,” Steve once said. “As long as something’s broken, I’ll have a job.”

That morning, the annex was empty. Steve was probably fixing a printer somewhere. Bruce was usually late; Stephen, the owl, was likely asleep after an all-nighter.

“Charlie to reception.” Danni’s voice warbled over the phone-enabled intercom. I quickly checked my calendar; I wasn’t expecting anyone. I dragged my feet back to the front entrance.

“Charlie?”

Her voice. My heart stopped — or was it beating faster? That tingling sensation when a fever pitches. Charlie? I stopped in my tracks and stared at my shoes. This wouldn't be real if I stood still and didn’t look up. —Her voice, Charlie? —I could pretend I was asleep and dreaming.

… I am invisible; this is a dream as I shrink to nothingness. The spirit will walk away, scale the frozen cliffs and fly into the night.

And it’s time to wake up. …

“Mikaela?” My eyes smiled as my cheeks flushed.

… This is real; this is not a dream; I am awake. …

“Call me Mischa,” she beamed.

“Mikaela — Mischa, I’m so glad to see — how did you know where I worked?”

“Frank told me.” Mikaela’s lips pursed like she held the key to a hidden lock in her mouth. She had her secrets. “I told him I wanted to thank you for the Christmas card you sent us.” The twinkle danced from her right eye to her left.

… Did I send her a card? I didn’t. Did I? …

Danni stood close by, as interesting and threatening as dry paint, listening to our conversation. She was 24 years old, three years younger than me. It’s a meaningful lifetime and an eon younger than Mikaela’s 30 years, but Danni’s youth made her sharp. Perhaps she was more of a threat than I imagined. She smiled at Mikaela before making eye contact with me.

“Did you want me to free up the boardroom for you, Mr. Parker,” said Danni with pitched eyebrows. My nostrils pinched like insect pincers, but I suppressed my frown.

“Thank you, Danni, no,” I said. “Mischa and I are on our way to get a coffee.”

Mikaela interrupted, “I don’t drink coffee,” she said, “not in the mornings.” Danni’s attentive eyes registered the cue. “I’ll bring you a cup of tea. Boardroom 3A is open, Mr. Parker. Why don’t you settle in?”

I wasn’t quick enough to understand the intricate dance between Danni and Mikaela: a pirouette and a twirl with me at the centre.

I took Mikaela’s coat and hung it in the nearby cubby. She wore a sheer black blouse cut off at the shoulders and slim, straight-leg, marmalade-coloured pants. I felt underdressed in my black jeans and blue denim polo shirt. I noticed another tattoo on her shoulder; it looked like a bramble of thorns. And the Tattoo on her wrist that I’d seen on the ski trip was an age-blurred Chinese symbol. I asked her about it. She said it stood for Mother (Mǔ qīn), but she did not tell me why.

Danni stood like a porter outside the barn-style doors leading to Boardroom 3A. Mikaela sat at the far side of a rustic, oak-finished table for eight to ten people. I sat across from her. Danni closed the door, leaving us alone to our musings.

“So, Charlie,” she started.

“So. Mikaela,” I replied. I wasn’t comfortable calling her Mischa, but she let it go.

“Charlie, I wanted to see if you were okay. I haven’t heard from you since my birthday. I thought you might call or send me a Christmas Card.”

… I didn’t send her a card. But what happened that night? Why couldn’t I remember? …

“I Am Okay,” my words were mechanical, and I heard the lie. “I mean, I think I’m okay.” If that was the truth, I think I’m okay, then what was the lie?

Mikaela pulled out a pack of Du Maurier. “Can I smoke in this boardroom?” She drew out a cigarette and let it dangle in her fingers before placing it between her lips. “I love this table.” She mumbled as she stretched her arms in opposite directions over the table, forming a Y, and rested her chin on its surface. The loose cigarette caressed the tabletop. “It’s just so smooth and warm.” She held the cigarette between the whites of her teeth. I noticed the hairs rise on her naked arms as she folded them under her chin. She lowered her head, looked into my eyes, and pursed her lips. “This table would be great for⁠—”

“Mikaela,” I broke her train of thought. “Yes, it’s a very nice table. And no, we can’t smoke here but can smoke outside if you want.” Mikaela straightened up and crossed her arms, put off by my stolid manner.

The barn doors opened, and Danni, quiet as a mouse, brought an empty porcelain teacup on a saucer with a tiny kettle and tray of milk, cream, and sweeteners. She left the room momentarily and returned with a cup of black coffee for me before leaving us alone again to our musings.

Mikaela rolled the cigarette delicately between her thumb and forefinger.

“Charlie, I’m sorry for what happened at the party.” The cigarette bounced up and down briefly, then stood straight in her hand. “I was thrilled that you came.”

That night was a blur. I couldn’t remember a thing.

“Your friend,” Mikaela went on. “She said you weren’t feeling well and were nervous in large crowds.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I’m a little bit timorous at times. Can I pour you some tea?” I offered.

“No. Thank you, Charlie.” Mikaela got up, threw her shoulders back and extended her spine like a leopard, ready for the prowl. “I want my cigarette.”

Mikaela left her tea in the boardroom, and I left my coffee. Danni smiled as we passed her on our way outside. The sun peeked out from behind a cloud; it was lovely. Mikaela offered me a cigarette, which I accepted, to keep my mouth and hands busy. We strolled down the street in a shuffle. Tension melted through my feet. This wasn’t so bad after all. Just me and Mikaela, taking a stroll. She didn’t seem upset about me leaving her party, and I guess I wasn’t so nervous to see her.

The industrial surroundings near the office were bland, but it wasn’t important. I was happy, Mikaela seemed happy, and that’s all that mattered. We passed brown buildings layered with textured bricks and grey buildings smooth as concrete with black framed windows. We continued our walk for another block in silence before Mikaela broke it.

“Are you a short-term guy, Charlie, or are you looking at all potential outcomes in your future?”

I didn’t know how to respond. I was at present with Mikaela, and that’s all I knew for certain.

“Frank is a short-term guy. He’s very generous in bed but completely selfish anywhere else.”

I didn’t know where this was going. I was happy being single and didn’t feel the need to fill my time with empty relationships. I always imagined getting married, having children, and living a long life. And if I had to wait for the right person, I would do that. It’s not like things worked out for my parents. Still, I felt like that’s what they wanted, a long life together with two kids: me and my sister.

“I guess I’m a long-term guy,” I said.

“That’s good to know, Charlie.”

I missed my sister and my mom. I sometimes wonder what happened to them. I wonder if my mom died because my sister left us. Or maybe they died together. I was too young when it happened, and I couldn’t very well talk to my dad about it when he married Bernice, my stepmom. And then they both left me. I’m grateful that they gifted me their house.

I turned to Mikaela. “Let’s head back.”

We turned towards the office and nearly touched hands. I could be with Mikaela. She was nice. Maybe she was the one. We could start a family: two kids, loving parents, parents who stay with their children. We could live in my parents' house, my house. The kids could run in the yard in the summer, play in the leaves in the fall, and build snow forts in the winter. My mind continued to wander. Everything was going well until Mikaela dragged me into a foreign reality.

“I enjoyed that kiss, Charlie.”

A kiss? When did I kiss her?

“I think we should do it again, don’t you?”

We didn’t kiss in the boardroom. It must have been during the party.

I had ducked out after we sang happy birthday before the cake arrived. I don’t remember a kiss.

We sang happy birthday, and I went out for a cigarette.

Then what?

“Anyway, Charlie. Frank is away this weekend. So, if you wanted to, we could …”

Mikaela left me to my thoughts. We could what? We could eat birthday cake and smoke cigarettes. And then, a bowling ball landed in my skull. I kissed Mikaela before the birthday cake arrived in the bathroom stall. I kissed her and ran.

… A fleshy spore-bearing mushroom blossomed in my gut. It grew ten times my size and disintegrated, expelling flesh-consuming fungal sporozoans into the atmosphere. My skin melted, leaving my drying bones to dry in the heat of a rising star. …

“Let’s grab another drink at The Harvest; at 7:00 on Saturday?”

“Okay,” I said. I didn’t know how else to react.

I should have said no.

* * *

I called Ash on Thursday. I needed to talk to some about what had happened. I wouldn’t chat with Danni or anyone else from the office. And I wasn’t going to call Rick. Ash was the only person I could think of, but she brushed me off; told me she was too busy to talk. Then she cast her rod and reeled me into meeting her for dinner the next day near the dance club.

Our office was quiet on Fridays. That day was no exception. After work, I caught the 63 Bus to Ossington Station. The dance club was near Bathurst, only two stops away on the Bloor Line. It had been mild in the morning, but light snow started to fall as I left the station. I wore a light coat and white Converse high tops, but it didn’t matter. The snow melted as it hit the ground. When I got to Bathurst, I lit a cigarette and leaned against a colourful mosaic of monstrous rock-star musicians that decorated Lee’s Palace. The Dance Cave wouldn’t open until eleven o’clock.

I wasn’t sure what I expected from talking to Ash, but I felt it was the right thing to do. I didn’t know if I wanted her permission to see Mikaela or if I wanted her to talk me out of it. I suspected that talking to Ash about Mikaela would likely start a fight — she never liked the girls I dated in high school or college. She badgered me about every relationship I’d ever had; still, I knew her heart was in the right place.

“So. What’s up, Chuck,” Ash called out from down the street.

The snow had stopped falling. The sky was a mix of blue and grey. I dropped my cigarette on the snow-swept sidewalk.

“You wanted to talk about something?”

We stood outside for a while before I asked Ash about the birthday party, specifically if Rick or Frank had commented on my leaving the party or if she thought something was unusual about my exit. I didn’t ask anything about Mikaela. Ash told me Rick and Frank were shit-face drunk and noted Mikaela was the only person who noticed when I left.

“She was staring at you the whole time, Charlie. Remember?” I nodded. “She’s no good and nothing but trouble.”

Ash didn’t know anything about the kiss. I would have heard about it by now if she knew.

“Let me buy you dinner, Ash. It’s the least I can do.”

“The very least, Chuck.”

We left the colourful façade of Lee’s Palace, wandered west for a few blocks to Lippincott Street, and grabbed a table at Paupers Pub. I ordered Fish n Chips with a light lager, and Ash had the Coconut Cauliflower Curry. We sat and chatted about nothing. Ash would try to bring up Mikaela, and I would dance away from it like it was nothing. After dinner, we wandered back to College and Bathurst. The Dance Cavers lined up around 8:00 and filled Lee’s Palace by nine o’clock. I smoked another cigarette after Ash introduced me to her work friends before I went home. That was Friday night.

* * *

Saturday. The night that I agreed to meet Mikaela at The Harvest.

I should have said no.

I kept myself busy with work during the day. St. Anne’s Corporation was trying to make money from the digital team, so they were willing to pay a few grunts like me to push out production work over the weekend to keep their clients happy. I was glad for the distraction; it kept my mind off the inevitable enigma of Mikaela/Mischa Mickiewiczs.

At 6:15, I looked in my closet. Our date at The Harvest was still a mystery, but I knew that The Harvest dress code was at least a step higher than the boxers and a t-shirt I had on. I settled on faded blue jeans and a white flannel button-down shirt. I grabbed a light winter jacket, jogged to St. Clair Station, took the Yonge Line to Wellesley, and walked to The Harvest. Mikaela was smoking in front of the pub. She smiled as I approached, put out her cigarette, and wrapped her arms around me. My abs tensed, and I held my breath. Her eyes sparkled, and she kissed me with soft lips. The waft of Du Maurier danced on her breath. I lit a cigarette; my shoulders lifted and sank with my first drag.

“How are you, Charlie?”

Her blushing cheeks were striking — her cheekbones, actually; my jaw could feel the strength of her smile. “Good, Mikaela. I’m great, actually.” I was smiling now like a fool. My anxiety fluttered to my belly and dissipated through my fingers and toes. This was the Mikaela I remember, the Mikaela from the ski lodge, and I could tell that Mikaela was the girl I was going to marry. We would have children, a boy and a girl, and we would live a long life together.

Time stood still. Our children were older. And we were older too. I stared into Mikaela’s eyes, and the tempest showed itself behind her calm front. I came back to our moment. Mikaela and I glanced at the red Harvest door, shrugged, and walked away.

Mikaela lived close by. We ignored our dinner reservation and went to her place.

CHAPTER THREE

After that one night, things moved quickly. There’s no doubt about that. We left The Harvest and picked up a bottle of wine in Chinatown on the way to Mikaela’s one-bedroom apartment on McCaul Street. We could barely contain our lust in the elevator. We started to undress as soon as her apartment door closed behind us. I discovered the rest of Mikaela’s tattoos on the first night we slept together. Of course, she had the Chinese characters for Mother on her wrist, but the first tattoo to reveal itself as she undressed rested on Mikaela’s nape, just below her collar, a lick of fire that crawled up her spine. The second, the nestle of thorns brushed on her right shoulder. Barbed wire: strung across Mikaela’s left hip. Her right thigh, a blossom of lilies, left shin, a root without a stem. All these tattoos represented change. I learned that later, but that night was about physical discovery, touch, and taste. I spent the night with Mischa, and when I left her place in the morning, I noticed our bottle of wine resting in its paper bag at the front door.

In the early days of our affair, Mikaela was still with Frank. But she was ready for marriage, a home with a nice front yard and backyard for the kids to play, and Frank dismissed her opinions on family and focused on his career and self-serving hobbies. I agreed immediately with Mikaela. It felt right, kids and marriage. I lived in a fair-sized house; why not share my home with a life partner?

During the next six months, I grew closer to Mikaela and further from Ash and Rick, from everyone in my life. We were happy and didn’t want anything to change. Nobody knew about Mikaela and me, except maybe Danni. Mikaela would meet me at work for lunch, and Danni would page me discreetly to let me know my sweetheart had arrived. My office pals Bruce, Steve, and Stephen never knew or asked. Our relationship didn’t affect my work; if anything, I was more productive in the office so I could spend my evenings and weekends with Mikaela. Mikaela and I would grab dinner on a nearby patio and visit the local markets. We’d go window shopping in Yorkville and joke about all the clothes and furniture we could never afford. On weekends, we would go to the Art Gallery, up the street from Mikaela’s apartment. We would almost always end up at her place on weekends or weeknights. I would either stay over and leave early or go home late and pass out. Mikaela rarely visited my place on Heath Street. She didn’t explain why, and she didn’t have to. Eventually, it became clear to me that for all her talk of commitment, marriage, and kids, the magnitude of a detached bungalow was overwhelming to her. Plus, she valued her autonomy, and I supported that.

Mikaela was a staff writer at an independent newspaper called The Voice. Most independent papers had been absorbed by the big-three regional papers in Toronto or crushed into non-existence. There was still value in print, but the immediacy of the burgeoning internet made it difficult for print-only to stay relevant. St. Anne’s Corporation suffered from the same problem. They ignored the current world-wide-web fad and held on to their offline assets like an old coot holds on to a damaged car from his glory days. Mikaela wrote editorial pieces, offered reviews of local art shows, responded to letters, and even contributed to the funnies. The Voice had ten staff members, including their contractors; everyone shared responsibilities. Mikaela was happy with the job, which offered her an outlet for her creative writing and paid the bills. The Voice would feature a monthly poem she would select from her backlog of unpublished creative works.

I remember one night: we shared an enormous sushi plate at Yamato. Mikaela barely ate as I devoured the rice and fish with a Sapporo to drink. It was our second month anniversary and still winter; gentle snowflakes danced in the wind outside. Mikaela wore a fitted black dress with ivory buttons down the front. A colleague left The Voice for a job at The Sun, she said and rolled her eyes, put a finger to her head, and pulled the trigger. She froze in that ridiculous pose. Her tongue lilted from her mouth; I could picture exes in her eyes like a dead cartoon cat. I was sitting by the window, and Mikaela sat across from me. Her dead eyes smiled, and she nudged her feet between mine under the table.

“Charlie. I love you, and I trust you with everything I have,” she said.

I couldn’t tell you how I responded that night; it’s another missing memory. Perhaps I said I love you too. Or maybe I didn’t. What I remember from that night is that I felt cold and naked. Our relationship was fresh, our passion was profound, and our sex remarkable, but was it just a flash of light, a passing fancy? Were we transient like the season or dead like a winter’s flake, doomed to fade away? Even though she spent most of her time with me, Mikaela was still with Frank. There were times when we were in bed together, Frank would call, and Mikaela would talk to him like I didn’t exist. Initially, it was alluring and funny; we had our secret — I was her secret, and she was mine, but I knew she was likely with him when she wasn’t with me.

Later that evening, we were back at her apartment. I was still wearing my white shirt and dress pants from dinner while Mikaela changed into a pearl-coloured silk top without pants. I hadn’t recovered from eating all that food at Yamato’s, which swayed like an unformed baby in my gut. Fortunately, I kept a bottle of Chivas Regal in Mischa’s kitchen, perfect for helping digestion. I like my scotch neat, but I added two ice cubes today to keep me tempered.

Mikaela stretched her bare legs across her sofa while fingering a glass of white wine.

“Charlie,” she said. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

I breathed deeply through my nose, my shoulders rising and falling. The night felt like death, cold and lurid. It seemed like the inevitable was about to arrive.

“I’m sorry, Mikaela. I’ve been cold,” I stumbled to prepare myself.

“No, Charlie. It’s not you. It’s⁠—”

“Stop.” My drink clattered as I set it down on her glass coffee table. The sound marked our inevitable end. “I’m going,” I said. “I understand.” I didn’t understand anything. I didn’t have a clue. But it felt like it would be easier if I took hold of my destiny.

“Wait.” Mikaela had tears in her eyes. “Please don’t go,” she said. “I’m not ready to lose you.”

I stood up and then sat down.

“Charlie, I have dreams. They are very dark and empty. I am alone in an empty wishing well. And I wish I had someone to care for me forever.”

She wasn’t ready, but she knew that she would lose me.

“It’s cold in the well, Charlie. The cobblestones are wet and slimy.”

She wasn’t going to leave.

“Promise you’ll take care of me, Charlie. That you’ll never leave.”

I stayed with her that night, and she told me she was wrong when she said she wanted a family and kids. The truth of it was that Mikaela wasn’t used to commitment. She couldn’t imagine a life without me but admitted she wasn’t ready to let go of the dependency between her and Frank. She asked me to trust her and to believe in us, which I did: Mikaela would remake herself like a spring blossom, or as a caterpillar became the butterfly, she would find her way to me. She just needed more time.

That night, over bare sheets, I learned more about her tattoos. Each tattoo marked events in her life that pushed her in new or unwanted directions. I traced the fire down her spine; she had burned every gift from her cheating boyfriend in high school. The bleeding thorns on her shoulder marked a sexual assault in college. The barbed wire on her hip became her guard against sexual abuse. I kissed the lilies on her thigh, her only reminder of another broken relationship and the baby they didn’t share.

“Look at this one,” she said. Her most recent tattoo, a rooted orchid planted on her shin, was an opportunity for growth.

Mikaela sat up, pulled the sheet over her knees, and cupped her hands around her breasts. “You’re my root, Charlie,” she said. I got this tattoo after we met when you cared for me in the snow.

“Does Frank know about your tattoos, about that planted root?”

“Does he care?” she balled her hand into a fist. “Frank’s skin is littered with meaningless tattoos. He does whatever he feels like and never thinks of it again.” The words echoed, whatever he wanted, and he never thinks of it again. Isn’t that what most men did? Was I any different? Hardly. I was sleeping with a woman I barely knew and labelled my feelings as love. An excuse for my arrogant and fragile ego. How was I better than Frank, or Rick, for that matter?

“Charlie. This root represents change but on my terms. I want you on my terms.” She took my wrists and pulled me onto her body. “These roots are the beginning; we can watch our love blossom.”

I didn’t ask her about the tattoo on her wrist, the Chinese characters for Mother, Mǔ qīn, but I noticed a white scar between the calligraphy from the Deep Palmer Arch over the Radial and Ulnar arteries. Was this tattoo for her mother, or was it her hope to have a child?

* * *

We celebrated our six-month anniversary naked, bodies entwined, laughing about secrets on the couch in Mikaela’s apartment. She called it off with Frank a month later, with little explanation. Mikaela moved into my place so we could be together. It started to feel like the beginning of the family. Even though we lived together, Mikaela kept her apartment for her creative writing and other projects. It seemed the right thing to do; it allowed us both some freedom. I still worked late nights and weekends for St. Anne’s, and Mikaela wanted time to focus on her writing.

We were still a secret item, Mikaela and I. Sure, Danni knew, but as far as I could tell, Rick didn’t, which, in turn, meant that Frank didn’t know either. And I certainly wasn’t going to talk to Ash about it; she would call me a fool, and god knows what she would call Mikaela. I enjoyed the undisturbed privacy of our relationship over the performance required for making our love affair public — explaining things to Frank and Ash, other couples reaching out for double dates and answering questions about marriage and parenthood. It’s not fun being a new couple in your mid-20s (me) or early 30s (Mikaela).

Eventually, we betrayed our exclusive engagement after colluding for nearly a year. I told Danni to stop being coy about my meetings with Mikaela. Steve, Stephen, and Bruce professed that they knew about Mikaela all along, which I still doubt to be true. Rick shrugged when I told him. “Charlie, you’ve been fucking that girl all along?” he asked. “She’s a fine piece of ass if you ask me.” I ignored that; Rick was Rick, and I didn’t expect him to change. He asked me if he should tell Frank with a knowing wink, and I told him no; Mikaela would do that out of respect for their past relationship. Ash would be the toughest nut to crack, or so I thought.

I met her for coffee at our usual Starbucks after work on a Friday. This winter was much worse than when Mikaela and I met the year before. The roads and sidewalks were frozen over; I’m sure the salt trucks and ploughs were hard at work in another part of town, just not where we were.

“Double espresso, for me. Can I buy you a coffee, Ash?”

She declined my offer like I knew she would, but I felt the need to butter her up, to do something to muster enough courage to tell her about Mikaela. The café was empty, which was good. At least nobody would overhear when Ash berated me for ruining my life. We sat at a tall table by a west-facing window. The sun was bright in the November sky.

… Staring blankly into the blue. What it must feel like for a city bird to soar through the sky on a day like this. I am weightless and naked, like a hollow-boned sparrow or swallow, exposing myself to everyone and no one. The vastness of the winter erases everything; the sky is my freedom. There is no need for any of this. Ice surrounds me in all directions but one. I can see the darkness that must be the ocean in that distance. I float away from the earth, carried by my own will and an unnatural wind. Time and speed are irrelevant; I am both by the seaside and far from it. I would fall and break the cresting waves if I lost my willpower. As I falter, my strength shrinks to a tight ball as small as a pine nut, carrying me away from the water. This ball of energy climbs from my stomach to my throat before …

“Charlie.”

I took a breath.

“Sorry, Ash. What just happened?”

“You tell me. I just spent the last five minutes telling you about my shitty day, and you obviously thought my life was meaningless and that we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”

If you hadn’t noticed, Ash and I have a history of intentionally ignoring each other for fun, but I have no memory of that conversation.

“I’m really, really sorry,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Chuck. Drink your coffee.”

The coffee helped. The lump in my throat dissolved in caffeinated bitterness. The sun warmed my cheek before settling behind the building across the street — that knotted ball of pine nut-sized power reformed in my groin and climbed to my stomach, where it settled, easing my discomfort.

It was time.

“Ash. I’m seeing someone.” The power in my abdomen dissipated. I said it, I told Ash about Mikaela. It came out of me faster and louder than expected. It’s not like I was breaking up with Ash. But it felt like I was disappointing my mother.

“I mean, I wanted to tell you, and I thought you should be the first to know.” I caught that lie in my teeth but decided to spit it out anyway.

“So, Richard doesn’t know?” Ash called my bluff.

“He knows, but….” I started to backpedal.

“I know about Mikaela, Harley.” — Harley, Ash’s nickname for me whenever it came to love — “I was wondering when you’d share your little secret.”

“How did you?”

“Frank told Richard that Mikaela was cheating on him with you.”

I couldn’t respond, so I didn’t.

“And Richard told me." Ash paused for effect. And I still had nothing to say. “If nothing else came out of that tempestuous birthday party, I at least gained a reliable source in Rick the Dick. Another one of my many spies watching out for you.”

My silence continued.

“I gave your friend” In Air Quotes. “Dick, my number at the party. Rick has been my eyes and ears ever since.” She paused. “I know everything, Charlie.”

This was true; Ash had always known my business no matter what I did. Ash and I went to different high schools, and we never saw each other, but she had her methods; she might leave a note with a mutual friend or write me a cryptic letter. When I went steady with a girl, Ash found a way to tell me she knew.

“Okay,” I started. My thoughts crawled down to my tongue. “So, you’re telling me Frank knew about the affair and let it happen?” I was still at a loss for the right words. I settled on, “This is fucked up.”

“C’mon, Charlie. Don’t worry about it. If you love her, I’ll play nice.” Ash’s flippancy did little to make me feel better. “Just be careful; I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt, Ash,” I said.

“I don’t know, Harley. I bet you two won’t make it through the winter.”

Ash wasn’t wrong. Most of my relationships didn’t last. The women I dated were kind, and I was considerate of their feelings. We always took things slow. But eventually, we’d break up. Still, I felt like things would be different with Mikaela.

* * *

I did all the right things. I took Mikaela to dinner at the most expensive place I could afford, The Keg Mansion. I asked for a bouquet of roses to be delivered with dessert as I got down on one knee. She said yes, through unfettered tears. I cried inwardly; I was overjoyed but didn’t want to ruin the moment. I’m smarter now and know better than not to cry. We stayed in a hotel that night, ordered champagne, and made love.

We married on New Year’s Eve, 1999. This was our second winter together. It had been a year since we met at the ski lodge in ‘98. Our first year together was mostly in secret, but once we went public, our relationship took stock. We went out more often, occasionally with friends, but mostly as a couple. We even spent a weekend at a cottage in Northern Ontario. Our love was strong, and our sex was constant. Getting married aligned with our goal of starting a family. Why wait?

We had a civic ceremony. Mikaela didn’t have any family or close friends, nor did I, except for Ash, so it made sense for her to be the maid of honour. Ash agreed to be Mikaela’s maid of honour after reminding me a thousand times that I was making a mistake. Rick agreed to be my best man; he wouldn’t have been my first choice; it’s just that he was my only choice.

The wedding was beautiful. Lilac was the theme but not the defining colour. Rick and I rented matching black tuxedos with delicate violet trim. Ash dressed in her best gown, olive green, complementing the violet and lilac flowers we brought to the ceremony. Mikaela was stunning—maybe it’s a cliché, but I got that feeling, like a drop in altitude, when I first saw her. The simplicity of her gown struck me, satin white with little embellishment. The line of the dress drew attention to her face and her hair, laced with gentle flowers. She was beautiful, and we were going to spend our lives together.

After we married, Mikaela spent less time at her apartment and more time with me in my childhood home, our new home. We followed regular routines, like a regular married couple, nothing glamourous. I would wake up every morning and bring her breakfast in bed. She would prepare lunch if we were home together. We would take turns making dinner or picking a place to go for a date night. We also took turns doing laundry and dishes. We had a system, and it worked. That’s not to say that the system was rigid. It couldn’t be. That’s not how a relationship works; there are always permutations to keep things interesting. A balanced way to look at things. For example, Mikaela kept her place for her creative writing or tight deadlines for work. So, if she was away, I might do the housework alone, but I could always count on her to return at some point. In the same way, I sometimes brought my work home and had other projects to keep me busy, and Mikaela adapted to these fluctuations. We knew we could count on each other.

We did indeed have our system, but something that we didn’t predict, though the signs were there, was the dot-com bubble burst. Many Internet companies folded. Other companies lost millions. Some of my colleagues and associates at St. Anne’s Corporation were subject to layoffs at some point in the year 2000, our first year as a married couple. Danni was the first to go, then Bruce, and finally Steve. Stephen stayed on only because he worked off hours and was never in the office. I kept my job since I was cheap labour and a fast producer who could turn out banner ads in a flash. As a result, I worked later hours, brought work home more often and saw Mikaela less and less. Mikaela continued her writing and creative work, sometimes from home or in her studio. It was harder to keep a rhythm going as we approached our second year of marriage.

Mikaela was inevitably let go from her job at The Voice in November that same year. Her last editorial spoke of the final days for independent agencies everywhere. Pen to paper, Mikaela captured the non-associated spirit, fatalism in her industry, and the strength to fight for what was right, despite the inevitable end caused by corporate greed. Mikaela marked her end at The Voice with fresh ink, a new tattoo of a haunted face with a sealed mouth. This tattoo lived between her right hip bone and pubis. Mikaela focused on her creative writing in her newfound public silence, setting her sights on publishing her own poetry and short stories. This continuing work-in-progress wouldn’t save us financially, but we were fortunate enough to own a home without a mortgage and still be able to pay rent for her apartment on my salary. Unfortunately, we saw less of each other. I focused on deadlines as she poured over her institutionalized freedom. We celebrated our first anniversary with a quiet candle-lit dinner at home in the year two thousand. We made love by the fireplace to toast the end of the millennium. I count this time as one of the last tender moments we shared before the end of our marriage.

CHAPTER FOUR

I’ve heard it said that every snowflake is unique — random shapes compressed in mid-flight — a work of art, doomed from the start. I’ve heard the same said about marriage — strangers pushed together by random circumstance — something beautiful at first, submitting to failure. Now, picture a day, not quite winter, not yet spring. The crystalline snowdrift has lost its shine. The sky reflects grey unsubstantiated slush. Still, bright light reminds you that the sun is present but hiding. We have all seen this and thought, when will this nothingness end? When will this season start over? These days without life are ready to sprout like death, waiting to be reborn. That was our marriage from 2001 to 2003—three years, going nowhere and constantly trying to catch up, like a rodent in his wheel, chasing eternity. I suppose our marriage wasn’t hopeless or desperate; it simply was not anything. Not in those years. This absence, to my knowledge, was the reason for the affair. But the affair wasn’t the cause to affect the end of our marriage. Ultimately, I destroyed us and have no one else to blame.

* * *

It was an early Sunday morning. I was still in bed after an all-nighter. I could hear Mikaela grinding coffee from the kitchen. I pulled on a pair of grey pyjama bottoms, splashed water on my face, and brushed my teeth before joining her. Mikaela stood on tippy toes and kissed me.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

I begrudged the kiss with a smile. I was groggy, resting against the island near the espresso maker. Mikaela brewed a double and handed it to me. “This is for you,” she said and kissed me again. There was a lilt in her voice that I found incredibly arousing and, at the same time, exhausting. I sipped my coffee in silence while she put on a kettle for tea.

“I’m bored; let’s do something,” said Mikaela.

After a short time, I responded. “So, you’re bored?”

Mikaela replied, yes, with a smile. “What are you going to do about it?”

I finished my coffee, set the empty cup on the bar top, drew her in, and kissed her head. My arousal squashed my fatigue. Mikaela folded her arms around me and snuck her fingers down the back of my flannel pyjama bottoms.

“Are you still bored,” I asked after a short lovemaking session on our kitchen counter.

We were sitting on our loveseat.

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you find a hobby?”

“Hobbies? I have lots of hobbies.” Mikaela pouted.”

I shrugged.

“We should have kids. We always talked about that,” she said.

Had we talked about kids? When was that? A long time ago. Was she telling me that we were pregnant? When did that happen? I couldn’t remember. Was I adult enough to raise a child? These thoughts seemed foreign initially, but then a decoloured apparition of memories, like blurred and faded photographs taped to the back of a musty linen closet, oscillated into view. I could see it: I wanted a wife and two kids. Then it was gone. When it came back: a family living together. And again, it absconded. My eyes watered as an olfactory hallucination of mothballs overwhelmed my senses.

“I’m going out for a bit.”

“What. Are you mad at me?” Mikaela asked.

I told her no. What difference would it make? I wasn’t mad at her; I was mad at us. My life couldn’t find a rhythm. Our patterns were broken, and she was bored while I was incandescent with ire. We needed something, and I didn’t know what. I needed a change, a spark, anything.

“Aww, I’m sorry,” Mischa pushed out her lip, mocking me like I was a baby. “I can make you feel better.” She nibbled at my ear — the smouldering flame.

“Not now, Mischa.”

I may have pushed her away harder than I needed to. I did. It was wrong.

I dressed upstairs and went out for the rest of the morning.

… Autumn, 2016. Years into the future. Mikaela was gone. The falling leaves were beautiful in late September: bright yellows, fiery oranges and reds, and a mass of green clinging to life. And death. Summer and I kicked the leaves as we walked and talked on our lunch break. Subsequently, I picked up a red leaf with dark veins. “Did you know that this leaf is red all year round?” I asked. “The green pigment captures all the energy from the sun, but when the pigment breaks down, the leaf shows its true colours.” Samantha looked surprised and a little perplexed. She asked me what I meant. I hadn't given it any thought. It meant nothing, I suppose. Perhaps the pigment is a mask, and we find our salvation in death. …

“Where the hell have you been, Charlie?”

Mikaela’s face was dry and pale. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying? Our opinions of boredom were as far from my mind as could be. I couldn’t imagine that she was still angry about that. I admit I was a little embarrassed about my overreaction. I shouldn’t have pushed her and left her alone when she was bored and eager to make up. But I needed the fresh air to think about what she said. What had she said? I remember putting on my boots and a light coat since the sun was out. Spring was coming. Still, there was a light dusting of fresh prism of snowfall on the ground. I walked to a park near our house and followed a forest trail between budding branches. The rotted leaves from autumn peaked through the refracting snow. This path continued forever, deeper into the wooded ravines that fed the Don River. As a child, I would walk this way. Sharp memories of my mother and sister came to me. Also, brown echoes of my father and mother fighting over something, over my sister. They were screaming. I left the house and my family and walked onward until I was lost. My parents found me hours later, huddled under a felled tree.

Early birds of springtime twittered in the air. Mikaela grabbed me. I’d barely stepped foot in the door. My hands were caked with mud. My fingers were blue as the sky on a windy winter’s day. Mikaela scrambled back into the house, leaving me with my wet boots and coat. The house looked empty and cold; I felt empty and cold. I kicked off my boots and took another shower to wash off the mud. The warm water brought the colour back into my fingers. I could hear Mikaela weeping from the other room while I dried my hair. I put on my white terry cloth robe and went to see her.

Mikaela’s head was buried in a pillow, her arms wrapped around her head. “Fuck you, Charlie,” she forced through her sobs. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have left you, but —”

“That’s right. You shouldn’t. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“But I was only gone for an hour.” Two at the most.

My words settled on a familiar silence. Mikaela stopped moving; spring birds stopped chirping. The house stood still. A dark ocean rose before me. My strength tightened. The ocean’s pitch shrank to a tiny point. The domestic silence, a distant ringing. The cries of a child, my sister. My mother.

“Charlie?”

Catalepsy.

“Charlie, it’s Tuesday. You’ve been gone for three days.”

Three days. Erased. I abandoned my wife for three days.

Those three days did not return; they never have.

Still, time rolled forward like a panel on an old alarm clock. It’s surprising how quickly we are willing to forgive and forget. Mikaela and I rediscovered our patterns as if they had never left us. We regularly enjoyed Sunday morning espressos on our loveseat. I wore the same grey flannel pyjama bottoms before my time was erased, while Mikaela wore a new blue Yukata kimono. Our morning routine: coffee, poached eggs, toasted English muffins, and minimal conversation. It suited me fine. I worked late on Saturdays while Mikaela went shopping. I appreciated the quiet mornings and took Mikaela’s silence as an agreement to our weekend formula. Perhaps her boredom with me had subsided.

Mikaela turned to me while I sipped my coffee. “We should have people over more.” Our silence broke.

“Like whom?” I asked. We didn’t have many friends. Ash, Rick, and Frank, by extension. Maybe Mikaela was close to her former colleagues from The Voice. I wasn’t close with anyone from St. Anne’s, except maybe Stephen, the night owl.

Mikaela shrugged. “Like maybe, Ash,” she said. “I could throw a party. It would be nice to have company.”

I couldn’t argue. If she could find her guests, I would gladly have people over. We’d been on our own since we were married. That could have affected Mikaela’s lethargy; perhaps her boredom wasn’t outlandish. Mikaela was still unemployed, and I worked almost non-stop. She didn’t take to being a housewife, not that I wanted that from her anyway. I told her it was a great idea and offered to help with the party wherever possible.

“Thank you, babe,” she said. “I need to go to the apartment for something. We can talk about the party when I get back.”

“Aren’t you going to take a shower?” I asked without emphasis.

“I’ll take a shower when I get there.” Mikaela went to the bedroom to get changed.

I showered, put on a pair of sweatpants and a light sweater, read a few chapters of a book, and warmed up a light lunch from the leftover quiche that Mikaela prepared the night before. I poured a St Remy Brandy in the afternoon, sitting in the same seat as we shared breakfast that morning. Despite our everyday routines, drinking alone in the afternoons was new. It wasn’t so much of a habit to worry about. Classic blues was another new and harmless habit. I played Blind Willie McTell’s Death Cell Blues on the record player and relaxed. Blind Willie’s tenor voice and 12-string guitar suited my mood.

* * *

Mikaela’s party was a success. She called it a non-denominational celebration of life and the death of winter. I was surprised by Mikaela’s network of friends—mostly from The Voice or connected to her colleagues somehow. The theme was moderately pagan: druids, witches, and lovers collided in our living room, and if I’m not mistaken, some of our guests stole away to fornicate in our backyard. Ash showed up and left quickly. Rick also made a short appearance ignoring me. He chatted with Mikaela and left without saying goodbye.

At the time, in 2003, Mikaela and I weren’t having sex as often. Par for the course. Most couples ran into this, right? It didn’t bother me. It was one less thing for me to worry about, satisfying my wife on top of all the other wasted efforts with work. After a time, it became more common for me to drink.

I didn’t consider myself an alcoholic, but it wasn’t too far off the mark. It was substance abuse, but the compulsive behaviour was not from a dependency on the substance. It was triggered by something else. I couldn’t pinpoint the cause, and when I failed, I resorted to drinking, and the cycle continued. I needed help but was too cowardly to ask for it. Mikaela must have seen what was happening. And she did nothing. If anything, she avoided me as often as possible. I was impotent and sloppy. Ash decided, early on, that she didn’t want anything to do with us, with Mikaela and me — mostly with me. She played her part in bringing Mikaela and me together on our wedding day, she said, but she didn’t want to be part of breaking us apart; we didn’t need her help with that.

That left Rick, the arrogant asshole I called a friend. He was there when I met Mikaela and was part of our marriage. And ultimately, Rick chose to be part of breaking us apart—the trigger. I invited him over regularly for drinks if I wasn’t too drunk. Mikaela didn’t seem to mind. She seemed happy about it. I didn’t know then that Mikaela and Rick had plateaued in a months-long affair. Sneaking around wasn’t fun anymore for Mikaela, at any rate, but a romantic entanglement in plain sight was an exciting challenge. Secrecy wasn’t so thrilling when the dullard in the dark — that was me — couldn’t decode the deception. The clues were all there.

On a frigid November night, I came home bundled in scarves, a toque, and layered sweaters.

“Hi, honey,” Mikaela called. “We have a guest tonight.”

A guest? That was unusual.

I found Mikaela sitting loosely on the couch. Her pale winter skin contrasted with her dark hair, which spilled over her satin blue kimono. She seemed relaxed and ready for a quiet evening. And soon enough, her loose robe revealed her small breasts.

Where was our guest?

“Hey, Charlie,” Rick called from the bathroom down the hall. “I hope you don’t mind; I had to use your shower — I got slushed by an idiot driver on my way over.” Rick walked into the room wearing my terry cloth robe. Then he sat on the couch beside Mikaela with ease. I wasn’t sure what to make of things, so I went to get changed in the bedroom and washed up. After taking my time in the bathroom, I went to the living room to pour myself a Tanqueray and soda — light on the soda. I remember that detail because I wasn’t drinking at the office that day. Mikaela had changed from her alluring silks to grey sweats, and Rick swapped the terry cloth robe for clean blue jeans and a Saxe-knit blue sweater. They were preparing dinner in the kitchen. It was like watching a play — a dance, rather — how they moved with each other effortlessly. Together, they made pasta Bolognese, a simple dish, but their performance was no less graceful. I was in shock, I’m certain, but I was also happy to see Mikaela smile. I uncorked a bottle of Barolo and set the table. We enjoyed the meal and polite conversation.

I replay this evening often. Mikaela handed me a child’s wooden puzzle with cut-out pieces. All I had to do was fit them in the correct places. But my brain wouldn’t accept reality. They likely had sex before I came home. The clues were obvious, she wore her satin blue kimono, showed her small breasts, and he was in the shower. And the rhythm of their movement and comfort while making dinner probably matched the steady pace of their lovemaking.

Still, that evening was sobering. It took months, but eventually, I became more present for Mikaela while I pleaded ignorance. The affair went on for another year without incident. Call me a fool if you must, but the peaceful bliss felt good for a change.

* * *

Certain memories are fixed, while others play games with your ego. On September 15, 2004. I woke up at three in the morning to the soft sound of Mikaela’s tears. The gentle sniffles and a delicate trace of her fingers wiping away a tear were unbearable. Why couldn’t she just let me sleep? I had been attentive; I took care of her. I thought my bad behaviour was behind me.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said. “I love you.”

“It’s not okay,” she said.

I held my breath to let her say what she needed to say. My denial, pride, neglect, and selfishness wouldn’t let me consider the truth.

“I think I love Richard.” Mikaela’s voice: a trembling whisper.

“I know,” I said. Trying to comfort her in my sleepy state. He was a friend. She leaned on him for support, no matter how intimate. That was something I could understand. I told Mikaela I understood and accepted responsibility for my drunken absence and that I pushed her to him. I promised that I would make things better, that I was sorry for all that I had done and all the things I hadn’t.

“You still don’t understand, Charlie. You never do.”

I looked into Mikaela’s swollen eyes. I really did understand. Rick filled a void in my absence and supported her in a way I couldn’t. I just didn’t want to say it out loud. And my ego wouldn’t let me consider the reality of their affair.

“I’m fucking him, Charlie. Do you understand it now?”

I still didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. Not clearly. They were fucking and had probably been fucking since our marriage began. The weight of this floated in the universe, waiting for the roof to open above me so it could crush me. But I held our house together and kept their affair in the stratosphere.

“Did you want to talk about it,” I said like a dilapidated shrink tapping his foot on the floor, hoping to finish the day early. “Did you do it in your apartment, I asked?”

She nodded.

“And sometimes here, in the house?” God, what was I on? Percocet? Ativan? I wasn’t drinking, and I wasn’t on any prescriptions. My brain was in fog mode.

“With Richard?”

“And sometimes Frank,” she shied a smile. “Sometimes, all three of us.”

— I wasn’t ready for that.

… Our house crumbled. Rice paper walls turned to dust. Toothpick supports splintered while sugar-coated windows melted with insulating cotton candy fibres. The icing-frosted stucco ceiling was the last to fall. Our candied kingdom was lost. …

I wasn’t ready for that. My body deflated like over-proofed dough.

Mikaela was crying now, loud sobs, not gentle tears.

“I’m a terrible person, Charlie.” She wasn’t looking for sympathy or forgiveness. “I ruin everything that I love.” Mikaela wanted punishment, and I didn’t know how to give it to her. If I clambered on top of her, held her down, screamed that I hated her — that I loved her. If I did those things, how would our relationship get better? “Charlie, please.” Mikaela’s pupils shrank to a point. “I’ll give you everything, I’ll do anything. Please fuck me, I’m begging you. I deserve it. I’m a horrible person.”

I wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. It occurred to me then that Mikaela might be pregnant with Frank or Richard’s child. She wanted to make things right by evening her chances, and she had chosen me to be the father. Maybe she was trying to make the best of a bad situation. I was a mummified carcass. Absent as a wilted cucumber. Still, I didn’t freely give her what she wanted, but rigour-mortis set in as it would for one who died in the throes of passion. If she removed my covers, she could take what she wanted. But she wouldn’t get anything from me. I’d make sure of it. And that’s what she did. She pulled the sheets from the bed and climbed on top of me. She took what I could not give until I came inside her. My body responded, but my mind was blank. Mikaela was dead to me.

CHAPTER FIVE

What was it that Alan Watts said?

“Life exists only at this very moment, and in this moment, it is infinite and eternal, for the present moment is infinitely small; before we can measure it, it has gone, and yet it exists forever….”

That is to say, life is a dance, and like the universe, it has no destination. And during that moment, when Mikaela mixed my semen with the cesspool that could become her child, I realized my expectations of love, marriage, and family were false. I had nothing to prove. My dead sister did not expect me to provide a life for my children. My parents expected nothing from me in their death. And I no longer had a purpose. Perhaps I never did.

Time passed, and I grew to accept my wife’s duality. To me, she was both Mikaela and Mischa. The woman I married and the woman who didn’t marry me. Mikaela was dead to me then, but there was no blame or shame in what happened. It was not my fault, and it was not hers. This was our journey, and for now, the dance continued.

The seasons drifted from a non-existent Spring to an infertile Summer. Autumn was ending. The leaves had fallen. It was October 7, 2004. Mikaela was still sleeping with Rick. And Frank, for all I knew. I accepted this. Mikaela and I were still living together, off and on. I was still working extended hours to support the unending layoffs from the Liberty Village office. Despite its resistance to technological advancement, St. Anne’s Corporation still had a vision for the future of digital media. Unfortunately, that vision was archaic and resulted in multiple lawsuits from smaller, unsupported, failing firms fighting for fair rights in the local market. I worked entirely from home now, and Mikaela spent most of her time in her loft. We were civil when she came by for a change of clothes or to run the laundry — her machine stopped working months before. Her spirits seemed up. She looked like she was in good health. I kept my health to myself, or rather, I ignored my health. I was not okay, but I was as ignorant of my pain as of Mikaela’s affair with Rick. “How’s he doing?” I would ask when she popped by. Yes, he’s fine, was always the answer. At this time, we shared nothing except for the legal document stating that we were married. That was fine by me. Mikaela was little more than a body I didn’t have to sleep with or see too often. “Have you met anyone?” Mikaela would ask casually. She knew that I hadn’t and wouldn’t — she had all but broken my fragile trust in women, and I always kept to myself.

November 1, 2004. It was another frigid day. Mikaela wore a brown hoodie and her grey sweatpants. I watched from the kitchen as she moved her laundry to the dryer. The remaining leaves outside the window had lost their pigment, barely hanging on, ready for death. The coming winter promised to be cold.

“I broke up with Richard last week,” she said out of the blue in the grey afternoon. I imagined that Mikaela had grown tired of Rick’s asinine behaviour a long time ago, and without the sexual allure of being caught in the act, he was a boorish prick. I was right on both points. Mikaela showed me her new tattoo commemorating the end of her life with Richard. She turned away from me to lower her sweatpants. She had this tattoo inked on the left side of her lower back, just above the swell of her buttock. The tattoo was of a vibrant blackened heart melting from her skin. I considered it without evocation. What did it mean? I didn’t know. But Mikaela’s gesture appeared to be an olive branch, an invitation to re-ignite our intimacy. She lowered her sweats another inch. I felt a rise in my groin, but I didn’t take the bait.

* * *

Mikaela came around more often than usual after that. I didn’t mind so much. It didn’t take long for my brain to adopt a new system which included her. We enjoyed dinner regularly on Saturdays and breakfast on Sundays. We fell into many of our old patterns on the surface, but we didn’t sleep together. Mikaela never tried anything with me, and I was happy to have a neutral partner in the house. When winter came, Mikaela stayed for days at a time, then weeks. She moved most of her clothing back into our bedroom and some of her furnishings from her apartment. We didn’t have guests, and we kept to ourselves. Mikaela started writing in our kitchen rather than in her loft. I worked at my desk. This was a neutral arrangement, and I was content.

* * *

December 31, 2004. We toasted our fifth anniversary without flourish. But in January, things became more intimate. We would cuddle and prattle about sex but never acted on it. And we talked about what happened.

“I love you, Charlie, and you’re so good to me. I’m sorry for what I’ve done.”

I didn’t respond.

“We can still start a family,” she said. “I’m still fertile. The doctor says so.”

When I didn’t respond to her proposal, she offered to end the lease on her loft to move in forever.

“I can stay here with you. We could be such good parents.”

I didn’t know what she wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Mikaela’s breathing was as loud as the sobs on the night she confessed her marital transgressions. If she was serious about moving in, what would I do? I don’t think she realized how broken I was. I don’t think I did, either. I decided to sleep on the couch that night and, secretly, every night following. We were still moderately intimate despite our sleeping arrangements. We crawled into bed together, said our to-dos, kissed gently and closed our eyes. By midnight I was on the sofa until five in the morning. Mikaela didn’t even notice.

* * *

It didn’t take long to discover my nightly getaways to the couch. On a night in February, she woke to refill her water glass in the kitchen and found me sleeping soundly in our living room. She went back to our bedroom and back to sleep. In the morning, she told me how adorable I was and that she placed a kiss on my forehead.

“…the present moment is infinitely small; before we can measure it, it has gone, and yet it exists forever….”

“Charlie, love,” Mikaela started calling me love in the new year. “Charlie, my lease is up at the end of the month.” Her eyes danced quickly, looking for a reaction. “I think I should give notice.” Whatever twinkle she had turned to gravel when she saw the empty cavity behind my eyes. Her grit turned stone-cold. Mikaela was angry with me; that was clear. To her, we were a couple again. I think she believed we were in love, if not lovers. Maybe I thought so too, but I could not explain how I felt then — that she still did not exist. Not really. I could see her, touch her, feel her breath, hear her voice, but she was also an empty space in my mind, the skipped part of our spinning record. We were still separate entities. Nothing had changed, and everything changed all at once. I was insentient, going through the motions. Mikaela was flesh and blood, aware and responsive.

“Do you think I should give notice?” she asked. Dry as sandpaper.

I had my suspicions by this point. The baby continued to keep her morning sickness under control. Her breasts were tender, but she hardly noticed since they were mostly untouched. The child growing inside her had a plan for her, a plan for us — fully formed hands, fingers, feet, and toes. Without an embryo, the fetus would open and close its fists and mouth. The baby couldn’t know its father any more than I did. Was it Frank? Richard? Me? It didn’t matter to the baby. I alone, along with Mikaela, was part of her universe as she swam with the stars across the galaxy.

Mikaela kept the apartment.

* * *

Mikaela got a part-time job at the Queen and John Street Starbucks later that month. Her freelance writing couldn’t support her rent. She stayed at her place on days she worked at Starbucks and at my place when she didn’t. This seemed like a healthy change. A barista’s life was to live in the moment without pressing deadlines. Each customer was a challenge, and every customer served was a task completed. Gradually, she wrote less and less until her freelance gigs stopped entirely. Even so, things seemed to be stable. We hadn’t made love for a long time. But it happened one Saturday night, the night before the liminal leap year’s day. We became one again. Before we said goodnight, I leaned in for a kiss. Her soft lips were a surprise — why had I imagined them to be brittle? I kissed her again and again. Then I kissed her chin, her neck, her waist. We were gentle. Rediscovering our bodies was like a magic trick, an illusion that couldn’t be real. A thing that used to be so intimate and understood had become a mystery. We made love until midnight. Leap Year’s Day was upon us. Mikaela took a shower. I stayed in bed.

“Charlie, Are we okay?” she asked after her shower.

“I think so,” I offered.

“So, we’re okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” My voice drifted with my thoughts. I was starting to get frustrated by this line of questioning. Was Mikaela unhappy with me? Had I not shown her forgiveness? I pulled her close, under the covers. I kissed the fire tattoo below her nape, the delicate scar between the tattoo on her wrist. I thought about the ink of barbed wire on her hip, the rooted orchid that was our relationship: our opportunity for growth. This was good. We were okay.

Not long after, I recognized the pattern of her breathing. She was asleep. We had been married for over five years. We’d seen our share of trouble; we’d kept secrets from others and each other. We both grew up with pain and death and loss. Mikaela’s slender, tattooed body was a constant reminder of her pain—the rooted orchid, the molten black heart — a reminder of her break from Rick and her infidelity.

The next day, after our morning coffee, I told Mikaela it was time for her to move out.

* * *

“What? When?” Mikaela was stunned. I told her tomorrow. “You’ve got to be kidding.” Her pitch was up. Mikaela was ready for a fight. In our years together, I don’t ever remember us fighting. We clearly didn’t agree on everything, but this aggression was new.

“A week then,” I said in a neutral tone. “You can go home to your apartment today and get your things next week.” This exchange felt like a game to me. Let’s see how much I can say until Mikaela blows her top while I keep my cool. This wasn’t me, it was cruel, but it felt important for some reason. Regret came much later. In fact, I still regret this now. Who knows what I could have prevented? Could I have saved her? Or myself, for that matter? And the child that I’d never know.

“You righteous piece of shit.” Mikaela was yelling now. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

I kept a straight face, but I was ready to laugh. “What have you ever done for me,” I surprised myself when I said it. The words sounded unreal, scripted, like a soap opera.

Now it was Mikaela’s turn to laugh. Her eyes went so wide that her brows raised the roof. Incredulous, that’s what they said. Those eyes that I fell in love with. That spark of wonder and hope and despair.

“We’re done,” she laughed. Mikaela threw a few things into a duffel bag and slammed the door with embellished flair as she left.

…

No. That’s not how it happened. Maybe Mikaela laid all her clothes on our bed and packed her suitcase. Perhaps she had hugged me and left without a word. I don’t remember. My downward spiral started after that. I hear echoes of arguments and hours of yelling. Maybe it took a month for her to move out, but when she was gone, so was I. I know that there were comings and goings; once a week or once a day, once an hour, she would come by and get more of her things. I never offered to help, and she didn’t ask, but the regular cadence kept me alive. Mikaela was a crucial part of my life. She still is, in her memory.

March 14, 2005. As the death of winter thawed, after our divorce was final after Mikaela was gone forever, I left my sleeping house with a change of clothes, cash, and no direction. I walked out on life.

She’s gone, Charlie.

Let her go.

BOOK TWO: SUMMER

2005 - 2015

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. I walked out on life.”

Memory plays tricks: it was love at first sight. And when was that? When did we fall in love? The moment frozen. Until it melts. Without Mikaela, I walked out on life, and the dance continues; time moves forward. We are all present, there is no past, and the future is gone in a nanosecond; memory is now, it was not then. And the present moment dies endlessly, replaced by the next.

And now.

CHAPTER ONE

… Imagine a circle with a dark perimeter. The circle is not smooth or equilateral. It is jagged and unbalanced. You can see as I break the circumference by passing beyond the radius like a sewing needle, only to return to its centre — my childhood home. The home I live in. Stitch by stitch, my dark circle refolds. It becomes a nebulous blob that grows smaller and smaller with competing malice and remorse. Milkweed crawls underground to live but must choke its neighbours to survive. My addictions are fuel for my fire. Liquor and cigarettes. The black of my lungs. Sourness in my veins. The grip on my skin. All things mirror the aerobic decomposition of leaves and flowers. Yet after a while, my absent behaviour abolishes my need for alcohol and carcinogens. I wander barefoot over soft wet leaves, still rotting. I live in the nearby woodlands, under highway bridges. These places are only flashes of light—nothing to remember. Another moment. This is the nature of my springtide. …

“Charlie.”

… Towards the end of my ruinous tenure, I wander aimlessly, tripping over upturned roots. I imagine my dark circle collapsing around me. I close my eyes, folded in darkness. …

“Charlie, it’s time to go home.”

… Fall turns to winter: dying to death.

And then, life. …

My eyes fluttered like a mourning cloak: dark in the centre, reaching out to reveal a spotted, bright light lining the edges. The edges of what? Visions before me were green and bright and colourful. Trees opened to a blue sky. I could see the yellow curve of the trout lily, the white petals of the bloodroot, and the purples and pinks of flowering red currant. The sun’s warmth drew the rot from the dark, mulched earth and leaves.

CHAPTER TWO

I left the house after our divorce — after I lost Mikaela. I walked out on life in March, but life didn’t leave me. I wandered through frosted parks and forests as the winter thawed to spring. I walked, slept, woke, and drank whatever I could find hoarded from my house or other homeless strangers. I repeated this simple cycle to erase my being. My memory from that time is still lost, but I’m confident in one thing: Ash brought me home. I don’t know how she’d found me or how long she tracked my comings and goings. All I know is that she was there. If Ash hadn’t brought me back, I’d gladly have shrunk like a ripe field-grown tomato lost from the harvest.

I went home for good on the first Sunday in May. My first cold shower felt lifelong. After the shower, I caught my reflection in the mirror, a white and yellow towel wrapped around my waist; my ribs showed, and my cheeks were gaunt. Still, I felt stronger despite my wretchedness. After my shower, I collapsed on the couch and slept until the following morning. Ash stayed with me the first night. I don’t know whether she slept or just stared at me all night. The smell of coffee and a hot breakfast woke me up. I couldn’t stomach it, so I watched Ash eat my scrambled eggs and drink coffee. She left the bacon she had prepared for me untouched.

“Charlie. I love you, and I’m mad at you for what you’ve done, but I need you to promise me that you won’t leave your home for a few days.” I stared at her through a milky film. “Can you do that for me, Charlie?”

My words came out slowly, without conviction. “Ash. I promise.”

After she left, I took another cold shower. And after that, I grabbed my robe, turned on the water heater, went to the living room, and waited for my house to wake up. It looked the same as when I left it, despite delicate layers of dust — fine powder of dead cells and particles colliding and settling as life carried on. I put on Miles Davis Miles in the Sky on the turntable. My armchair was as easy as ever, ready for me to relax. Fortunately, I had emptied the liquor cabinet during my oblivion, leaving me nothing to do but listen to the groove.

It felt good not to depend on substances for a while. The milkiness in my eyes became gradually less cloudy. I spent my days on the couch, listening to records, staring at an empty sky-blue wall. Ash came by over the next few days. She brought me food, made my lunches, and ensured I was sober: mom things. After that, her daily visits became weekly. One day, Ash asked me how I was doing. I said I was okay. This was mostly true. As I mentioned, the house was the same; it didn’t ask anything of me, and neither did I of it. We were okay as long as we —me and the house — stuck to our patterns.

Still, my habits smouldered under the surface, waiting for a trigger.

“Charlie, I’m a good listener if you need someone to talk to.”

I remember she said those words, and I nodded. I would not talk to Ash about my feelings or regrets. I appreciated her company but didn’t trust myself to say the right things.

* * *

A few months passed, and my fog lifted. My new cycle ran like clockwork: Get up, brush my teeth, shower, eat breakfast (usually buttered toast, sometimes with blueberry jam), turn on a record, stare at the wall, and that was it. Time would carry the day forward, and when evening came, I would brush my teeth, go to bed, and repeat the pattern in the morning. Lunch and dinner were the only variables. Sometimes they happened, and sometimes not. I rarely left the house except to buy more toast or jam. I had enough money set aside to keep this pattern going for years. Perhaps to my death.

Eventually, to nobody’s surprise, Ash interfered by finding me an entry-level position at a marketing firm. At SanStarTech, where she worked so she could keep an eye on me, she said.

My fog returned on the morning of the first day of my new job at SanStar; this fog was grey, with particles of lint swimming by every so often. After breakfast, I opened a couple of cans of white tuna for a tuna salad, my first lunch on my first day of work. Say what you will about bringing fish to an office, I was planning to eat my lunch outside anyway. The tuna from each can looked bright and smelled clean. But the jar of three-year-old mayonnaise was more like congealed cheese. I packaged the opened cans of tuna into an airtight container and left for work without my lunch. Maybe it was time to be responsible, to buy proper groceries from the 24-hour Dominion on the way back from the office. Time to stop acting like the fool I was and start acting like an adult.

The sun was high that morning. I was in awe of the brilliant colours of early summer, green hostas, white and purple pom-pommed alliums, clusters of orange firestorms, and tall spirals of burgundy loosestrife. My tan army cap shielded my unaccustomed eyes from the sunlit blue sky. I wore khakis to match my hat and a short-sleeve forest-green button-down shirt. I walked to work, remembering the neighbourhood as it always was — familiar offshoots from Avenue Road, Lyndon, Clarendon, and Cottingham Street. I passed Hazleton Avenue off Davenport before reaching Yorkville and eventually crossing at Wellesley before getting to my new workplace on College Street. The blocky, concrete building looked out of place in this part of the city, with its bold sign at the south-facing entrance. The SanStar lobby was as dry as its grey perimeter. Ash met me there and took me to the seventh floor to start my new life.

I spent the morning at SanStar doing paperwork with other new hires. They looked far too young to be working at an agency like this. These kids were at least ten years younger than me. When we broke for lunch, I left the group, bought a tuna sandwich at a local café called The Callaway, and ate it on a bench in a nearby park. The bench faced south, and I’d be blinded by the sun if not for my tanned army cap. After eating, I pulled my cap down and let the sun’s energy sweep over me.

After lunch, we met our HR lead, Marjorie Withers, in the lobby. I poured a motor-oil-black coffee into a paper cup before a guided tour of the office and a history of the business. Marjorie was a staunch employee. Despite the summer weather, she wore a pressed grey wool skirt and a white blouse covered in a knit sweater and buttoned to the collar. Grey roots showed through Marjorie’s auburn hair dye. Large horn-rimmed glasses framed her face. The office walkabout was lacklustre. My young cohort seemed less impressed than me.

I gleaned that SanStar clients were dry pseudo-civic corporations with little vision or understanding of the evolving technical revolution that surrounded us at the time — this was my observation; Marjorie said no such thing. Oddly, the lack of client incentive for innovation and creativity was the only reason SanStarTech survived the end of the dot-com bubble. Boring clients hadn’t ventured too far into the virtual space, and their boring customers didn’t want them to. The aged grey concrete that bore the weight of the Eight-story building absorbed the crash that brought down many other start-ups. Unfortunately, SanStar’s stunted growth trapped them in the past for their future, modern clients. When the tour was over, Marjorie did her best not to roll her eyes over self-serving questions from the young upstarts in our group. I learned enough about the company, and what the future had in store made no difference. I was here to do a job and wasn’t about to commit anything more to memory than my functional day-to-day routine.

Later that afternoon, I stepped outside for a cigarette. The sky clouded over, capturing my mood and the day's overall theme. Grey, melancholy, and lackadaisical. Also, it looked like rain. There didn’t seem to be a SanStar break policy to prevent me from stepping away occasionally; at least, it hadn’t come up on my first day. I was uncomfortable with people moving around my cubicle and glaring at me like I was a surprise gift nobody wanted. I wanted to be alone or at home. Walking out on the job permanently was out of the question — though tempting — since Ash would kill me, but leaving in short spurts was a reasonable compromise. But, as it turned out, being alone outside for a cigarette didn’t seem to be in the cards for me either that day.

“Hey. First day?” A guy with cowboy boots, faded blue jeans, and a black button-down shirt walked over from the corner intersection. “You’re not supposed to smoke near the building,” he said, dropping his cigarette and crushing it with his pointed toe. I followed his lead and smothered my smoke with my sneaker. “Name’s Grant. Last name, Fearghus, if you care.”

“I’m Charlie, Charlie Parker. I started this morning.”

“Like the Yardbird,” Grant said. “You know, the musician.”

“Yeah, I know him.” The clouds lifted and returned with little respite. “I don’t play sax if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Not at all. It’s just a good name, Charlie Parker.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t talk much.” He eyed me with a grizzly look. “That’s okay, me neither. Want to grab a coffee?”

I told him no; I should get back to reading some training material before I quit for the day. Grant left me alone after that.

* * *

It did rain at quitting time. My cap was soaked when I got home, along with my khakis. I skipped the grocery shopping for the downpour. I wasn’t hungry anyway. Instead, I poured some water from the tap into a tumbler, sat on the arm of the easy chair, and fingered the cup like it was bourbon.

CHAPTER THREE

“So, you chatted with Grant?” Ash called me out the next day at the office, hovering near my desk like a malnourished hummingbird.

“I guess so, yes,” I provided my response. Ash had an odd look, like I had done something wrong — that she disapproved of. I followed with, “I wouldn’t call it a chat.”

We let the conversation hang until Ash treated me to lunch at Callaway’s. The sky was clear, and The Callaway patio was open. We were the only people sitting outside. I guessed the other customer had asked for takeout so they could eat at their desks.

“Grant’s good guy, Charlie,” Ash still had that askew look. “Grant works in finance. You wouldn’t know it to look at him.”

That was true; I don’t usually see a guy in cowboy boots when I picture an accountant. Despite my appearance, I hoped Grant didn’t think of me as another washed-up drunk with a failed marriage. That’s what I saw every day when I woke up and before I went to bed. Maybe he did see that way, and I guess that would be okay. I wasn’t pretending to be something I’m not.

“Grant’s a good listener, Chuck, he doesn’t say much, and he doesn’t judge.” Ash paused. “Did you talk to him about Mikaela, Charlie?” And her face opened like a fresh blossom.

Why would I talk to anyone about that, never mind a stranger?

“Heaven forbids you should talk to me about it.” The flower in her eyes wilted.

My brow pinched as I dragged my hand across my forehead. The sky clouded again, but it looked like the rain would wait for us to finish lunch. A pang gnawed at my skull behind my ear like a termite and crawled to the cavity behind my left eye.

“Charlie. You look terrible.” This was true. And her comment shifted into one of her quick but pointed tirades. “Are you sleeping at all? If you’re not going to talk to anyone,” she glared at me with contempt, “you need a hobby to keep yourself focused.”

A hobby? I pinched the bridge of my nose. As usual, she was probably right. Something to fill the empty shell in my skull.

“Hobbies are good,” I said.

We finished lunch, and Ash asked me to follow her to the SanStar parking garage. She walked to the back of her dusty blue Honda Civic. Its original colour was Atomic-Blue, but the airborne smut in the garage had formed visible sediment. Ash took transit everywhere, but occasionally, she needed a car. That day, she needed a car for my new hobby.

“I think this would be good for you,” she said as he opened her trunk. “I brought you some gardening tools. This one is a hand spade,” she treated me like a child, “this is for pulling weeds.” A long-pronged metal stick with a handle reminded me of the ice pick from Basic Instinct. “And this is a resting pad for your knees, Charlie. You’re not getting any younger.”

“Thank you, Ash,” I said.

Ash drove me home after work with my new gardening hobby, nagging me about something on the way. I moved the tools from her trunk to my garage, hugged Ash, and never looked at the hand spade again.

CHAPTER FOUR

Three years passed.

It was 2008, the year of H1N1 and the British Columbia Pipeline bombings, York University went on strike again, and Linden MacIntyre won the Giller Prize for The Bishop’s Man.

In that three-year period, I kept working; I did what I was told to do, nothing more and nothing less. I committed to the routine, and after work, I would go home to start another. And the cycle continued. Grant and I smoked at the corner and drank coffee at Callaway’s. We continued to chat about work and the weather. It was Nothing beyond the surface initially, but Grant didn’t take too long to label me as a fatalist. His outlook on life was very similar to mine in a surprisingly non-financial way.

“Here’s the thing,” he said over a cup of black. “You like to do the same thing over and over. And I’m like that too. I get a cup of coffee and a Western sandwich every day. I smoke before I get in here and again when I leave. And you’re the only person that I want to talk to.”

I nodded. I had nothing to add.

“But here’s the thing,” Grant repeated, “you don’t much care for making up your own mind. That’s where we’re different. I do my job like you but on my terms. And on my terms, it’s not about the money and financials; it’s about the system.”

I took a bite from my tuna sandwich. Callaway’s made the best tuna mix I’d ever tasted. Not too wet, not too dry. Just the right amount of mayo and green onion. And they always had fresh bread, and their double toasting was perfect every time. They also had a good egg salad, but the tuna was my favourite. Both sandwiches were excellent on light-rye with a bit of butter.

Grant went on. “Here’s the thing, Charlie. You act as though you don’t have a choice in the matter. Like destiny brought you here. You try not to show it, but I see the hard luck syndrome written all over you.”

Again, I had nothing to add. I don’t know that I agreed with him, but that was beside the point. Grant’s perspective had little to do with my reality.

“See, here,” he continued. “I do the same thing every day, and I’m not looking to make any changes, but I know how things work, and I’m exactly where I want to be. I brought myself here, despite my hard luck.”

Grant, the fatalistic yet determinist cowboy, carried on like this while drinking several coffees and cigarettes over the years. He sure did have a lot to say for a guy who didn’t talk much. I was glad for it. We could sit quietly, or I could listen to him go on and reflect on his perspectives. Grant didn’t expect me to change or follow his advice. I was allowed to be me, and that was good enough.

I’m not exactly a take-charge kind of guy. Maybe I am a fatalist, as Grant suggested. My only decision was to divorce my ex-wife. It’s weird looking back, knowing what I know. There are still things that I can’t remember. And other memories are more detailed than real life. After meeting with my therapist, my confidence improved. Habits and patterns got me through each day: breakfast at home, coffee on the way to work, lunch on my own near the office, then home for dinner. Was I lonely? Hard to say. I enjoyed time with my colleagues in the office and the occasional work event. I didn’t need anything more. At this point, I knew other people at SanStar, Mel, a graphic designer, and Annie, one of our internal comms specialists, but I wasn’t talking to anyone other than Grant or Ash — not in any meaningful way. I still didn’t, or couldn’t, share my feelings with Ash. I barely said three words to her in a day. My absent struggle with alcohol in 2005 was under control; caffeine and cigarettes kept me whole. Despite that, I wasn’t well, even though my trauma with Mikaela was filed away in a dresser, buried under a mountain of regret. I could not process her loss, and the passage of time only pressed it deeper into my psyche. Ultimately, I recognized that I needed help. I didn’t ask for it, but it showed up anyway.

Ash put me in touch with the SRG, SanStar Resource Group, without asking. The SRG connected me with a caseworker to help with my unspoken trauma. The ‘wellness centre,’ as it was called, was far enough from the office, so nobody would know that I was dealing with personal problems unless they followed me, and nobody would follow me other than Ash.

After work on a Thursday afternoon, I walked from the office on College Street to Bloor and boarded an eastbound train to Coxwell Station. I stared at the vastness below me as the train crossed the Don Valley. Treetops, bushes, a winding river, and dark, round vacant spaces. These hollows brought back memories of my forgotten springtime. The memory was fleeting. Still, it was enough to make me consider the feeling of stepping off the viaduct ever so gently and falling into one of those vast and empty circles. My imagined collapse wasn’t a rush to the end but a drop into a limitless vessel of possibility. The thought of lifeless hope brought about a warm and frightening chill. A chill that welcomed change.

The therapist’s office was in the same brick building as the local hearing aid centre. I deemed it easier for my current state of mind to take the stairs at the back of the building than wait for the elevator in the crowded lobby. I found the grey painted stairwell both welcoming and suffocating. The steps leading to the basement tempted me as a suitable safe space to compress my feelings to a pin’s head. I climbed upwards.

I found suite 301 and asked to see Dr. Wong. The clerk directed me to a small room at the end of a pale green corridor. The walls in the interrogation room were baby blue, soothing and disarming. I sat in a pecan wood chair and rested my arms on a white table facing an identical pecan chair. The walls were bare. A white framed vent in the ceiling vomited cool air into an already frigid space. I closed my eyes and hugged my shoulders. An image of Mikaela’s naked and tattooed body lay on a metal slab. A new tattoo, not yet healed, of a jagged scar crawled from her naval to her pubis. Her pale skin looked grey under fluorescent lights. My groin tightened, and I crossed my feet when someone knocked at the door.

“Can I come in?”

The voice was toneless, muted by the door. It was not a welcome voice.

“Hello, Mr. Parker,” said the voice as it came in through the now open door, followed by a woman who was presumed to be Dr. Wong. Dr. Wong wore a lilac loose-knit sweater, and a dark grey wool skirt.

I stayed in my wooden chair, still as the wind over a tranquil lake.

“I am Dr. Wong,” the voice confirmed. “Chün Wong. You can call me April.”

Chün Wong, my therapist, April, stood in the doorway: wooden, staunch, and congenial to my current state. She smiled, revealing deep, delicate marionette lines that rose with her cheekbones. Her almond-shaped glasses rested on her small but flat elfin nose. Dr. Wong pulled out the other pecan chair and sat across from me — perfect posture.

“Mr. Parker,” said the voice of my therapist, Dr. Wong.

“Call me Charlie.”

“This can be difficult,” said my therapist. “For many men...”

* * *

— For many men? What did she mean; was it difficult for men to sit in a room for a psych evaluation? Did she often see men in my state?

“...for men … to talk about … their feelings.”

I said very little to the voice that day — to my therapist, Dr. Chün (April) Wong. It feels strange describing this day from memory. My relationship with April may have started cold, but it is still strong today. I blush to think about it.

I met with Dr. Wong once a week for three weeks and then once a month until the new year. To my memory, she never spoke more than four or five words at a time.

How are you, Charlie?

What are you feeling?

When will you kiss me?

That last one was five words, and I don’t think she ever said it aloud. The secret twinkle in her eye told me what I needed to know. As for me, what was I supposed to say?

I am broken.

And numb.

A kiss from me would lead to regret.

That hardly touches the surface. Should I mention my sister, Sarah? My dead or absent birth mother? How could I even begin to talk about my stepmother, Bernice or my ex-wife, Mikaela?

I am not here to be saved by you, April, nor to make love to you. Doctor, you’re just another girl who thinks I’m something I’m not.

* * *

“So, did therapy work out?”

It was 2009, a year later, in the early days of May, shortly after I finished my sessions with Dr. Wong. Ash and I were enjoying a coffee at the Starbucks near the office.

“Yes, I guess it did.”

“What did I tell you?”

Ash certainly didn’t have trouble expressing I told you so.

Yes, therapy helped. I rarely thought about my past life; I could enjoy a drink now and then, and I’d even stopped smoking, which didn’t hamper my habitual conversations with Grant.

As mentioned, Dr. Wong and I rarely spoke during our early sessions; we sat together, sharing a few words. April’s statements were robotic, self-regulated and pre-programmed. I had taken to mono-syllabic responses myself. The framework of the blue-walled office and the wooden chairs around a white table lent themselves to clinical discussions. Eventually, however we shifted our meetings to the evenings at Dr. Wong’s two-story house in Rosedale. Her home was near Ramsden Park Trail. For my part, I would head home from work, eat a light dinner, walk through Davenport to Hillsboro, cut through the wooded park trails, and pass by the tennis court to Roxborough Street. When I’d arrive, April would be waiting outside. She always invited me in, bringing me upstairs after I took off my shoes.

The walls of her study were brown or rouge, or a colour that shifted with our mood. It was a professional’s office, almost a stereotype — a soft brown leather couch in one corner, a jade-green semi-gloss shade over the light in the other, and a maple wood desk between us. I couldn’t help thinking how long it would take for April to bring me to the couch — to seduce me. This was out of character for me, thinking about a woman that way. My few relationships were timid, monogamous, and based on mutual love — or so I believed. Did I believe that April had a crush on me? Yes. Did I think she would act unprofessionally? Maybe. Did I want her to take control and make love to me on the floor? I didn’t know. As I said, this was new to me.

Despite her crush on me, we never went to her bedroom or fooled around. Her safe space helped me share my feelings and opinions outside of her office with my colleagues, appreciate my job, and trust women again. We never talked about the affair or Mikaela at all, not directly, but she understood what happened, probably better than I did.

CHAPTER FIVE

Time continued, and my memory was sharp. Life was good, and my existential past was behind me, even if my future was pre-written. I bought an old Lyon and Healy parlour guitar on a decisive whim from a local pawn shop in 2011 (an active decision to find a hobby, unlike my suggested proclivity for gardening.). The guitar looked like it was built in the 1920s; the strings were wiry, the chipped bridge pins appeared to be made of bone, and the body was scratched. I’d tried to play guitar as a kid but never took to it. So, as you can imagine, I wasn’t very good at it when I was in my late thirties. Still, this hobby led to other healthy habits.

By 2012 I was jogging regularly in the summertime, another favourable decision on my part. I started a new running cycle: morning, lunch, evenings, and weekends. I felt healthier than ever, better than in high school and college. When I wasn’t running, I took long walks whenever I could. I did whatever I could to stay healthy and focused. My life was improved, and I felt confident. I bought new Asics runners, and it felt like I was flying — it’s funny how new shoes make you feel like you’re walking on clouds. I was sleeping better, feeling stronger, drinking less, and I had quit smoking — again.

My responsibilities at SanStarTech changed along with my healthy habits. I started as a production artist, like my role with the St. Anne’s Corporation, but with more manageable hours. I did what I was told and didn’t try to do anything else. Despite that, I graduated to being accountable for several client websites, acting as an all-in-one webmaster, email support, and production manager. I managed a small team: junior developers, designers, and content folk. Technology was booming everywhere else in the world while we supported our decomposed legacy systems on outdated browsers to keep our risk-averse clients happy. Even so, things were busy at work. SanStar acquired new clients. As a result, they were hiring new people every week. I met a guy in his late 20s named Nick Cabera. I also got to know Soo Jin Pak. Soo Jin must have been 22 then, tall, and slim, with long straight black hair. Grant described them both as ping pong balls without paddles. They didn’t do much until — Grant motioned an underhand swing — you give them a little pat with the paddle. That made me think, was I the paddle or the ball? I felt like a pinball fired into the cosmos bouncing through unmoderated magnetic fields, bound to be consumed at the end of the game.

* * *

I met Summer in the spring of 2015. This day is still like a hyperrealistic memory or a 60 FPS Video Game. And, like something living and breathing, hidden behind the brushstrokes and pixels. A 50-thousand-bit pulse. I could never describe it. And you could never imagine what it felt like.

Ash, Soo Jin, and I went for lunch. Ash wore a dull blue windbreaker, and Soo Jin wore a long grey coat. These were muted colours to my memory of the moments that came later that day. I dressed in my Asics, shorts, and running shirt. We crossed the street to join Grant. Grant finished his black coffee in faded blue jeans and a drab tan jacket when we arrived. I ordered the daily special, ate quickly, and exited when Grant went outside for a cigarette.

“You going for a smoke, Charlie?” Ash teased. She knew I’d quit smoking but couldn’t resist poking fun at my newfound health regime.

“You going for a run there, Charlie?” Grant asked when I joined him. The question was rhetorical, of course, since I was wearing my running gear. With a nod, I jogged down the back alley towards the bridge leading to the park bench and the wooded parkland. Natural light and colour washed over me. The sun was out, and the leaves were their regular green. A calm and welcoming breeze trembled through the leaves. Plants and bushes were ready for life, budding after a long winter. The forest would soon be filled with Bloodroot and Dutchman’s Breeches; whites, blues, and purples would appear, inviting the onset of the warmer summer months. I continued running for two kilometres before returning to the south-facing park bench to cool down. My trusted companion, the park bench, was waiting for me. I pulled my running shirt over my head and rested it on my shoulder to pacify the light sweat on my skin. I bent over to adjust my shoelaces when a familiar voice visited me from what seemed like a far-off plane.

“Hey there, stranger.”

At this point, to my memory, everything shrank to a sphere the size of a pinhead. Angels danced their figurative dance as reality lost its grip. The sky bounced from the greyish-blue illusion of our scattered atmosphere to a miraculous azure blue sea filled with cotton ball clouds. The sun didn’t exist as such, and neither did the earth. I was a block of granite, and the sun became Summer. The moment lasted a lifetime, and then it didn’t. That is how I remember the first time I met Samantha Jordan, my Summer.

Quite literally, I looked up from my laces and had to shield my eyes. Normal-looking clouds rolled over the sun, and a sudden breeze flew through me.

“Oh, hey,” I said. I had forgotten that I could speak. “You’re Samantha, right?”

“Hey, Charlie, she said. “Ya, that’s me, Samantha. You can call me Sam, whatever.”

I recognized Samantha from the office. We had never spoken, but we were in meetings together occasionally. I knew she worked with Soo Jin or Nick, but I had yet to learn of her job. And until that moment, I had no opinion of her whatsoever. Still, every thought of that moment, whatever state I was in at the time, the endorphins from my run perhaps, evokes a feeling that a well-secured lock was opened inside me that day. I want you to understand that from the start — pixelated euphoria.

Summer and I didn’t connect after our first meeting. The events leading to today wrinkle my memory. That moment on the park bench stands out as the beginning of something new but not the cause of our complicated relationship. Nothing else happened for about a month. My habitual patterns continued: solitary walks and quiet lunches. I spent evenings at home with my dead father’s record collection and played my rattly old guitar.

CHAPTER SIX

One month later, after the day that Summer and I met in person — albeit briefly, Ash organized a lunch outing up the street from our office. Ash invited Grant, Soo Jin, and me, then Soo Jin asked Summer to join us. We walked north from the office on the west side of the street. Ash walked with Grant, Summer with Soo Jin, and I trailed along at the end of the line. We were an unlikely crew, thrown together by circumstance like flies in the wind caught in a friendly spider’s web. Ash wove the thread we all followed. Grant was often by her side, not necessarily of his choosing, more so because Ash felt it necessary to give her attention to some boy other than me. Soo Jin and Summer worked together occasionally, so it made sense for them to connect. And me? I didn’t have a place, so I followed behind everyone else. Eventually, Soo Jin fell back in line with me, and Summer moved up with Grant and Ash.

“How are you enjoying your new job, Soo Jin?” I asked. She had recently moved from one admin position to another within the Internal Comms Team. Her responsibilities were the same.

Her head bobbed as she answered, good, good.

Soo Jin was nearly as tall as me, but she positioned herself low enough to look upward into my eyes. She gave the impression of swooning whenever she talked. “I’m good, Charlie,” she said, “you’re so caring to ask me that.” Soo Jin pulled me aside and grabbed my hands as she rocked in place. She stared at me through her black horn-rimmed glasses. It made me think of my therapist, Dr. Wong. Something inviting and unsettling in that gaze. I squeezed her hands and urged her to walk with me to keep up with our friends. Soo Jin cradled her right hand around my left while we continued to our lunch spot.

The restaurant was a small mom n pop Italian place specializing in sandwiches. It looked like any old shop from the outside: big glass doors, large windowpanes in a white frame. The sign above the shop was a fluorescent light set, with some translucent red, green, and white letters spelling Maggie’s Itali ... Sandwiches—the letters A and N were missing in Italian. The interior matched the exterior, with checkered floors (white and grey tiles) and white tables. The wallpaper mixed red and green in a scattered pattern. We were escorted to a round, white-plastic-clothed table for five by a Filipino woman with dark hair and tan skin. Ash took it upon herself to seat everyone.

“Soo Jin, you sit here. Grant, you’re with me. Charlie, you sit with Samantha.”

Ash placed me directly across from her, between Summer on my right and Soo Jin on my left. Around the table, we sat: Ash, Grant, Summer, me, then Soo Jin.

Almost immediately, Soo Jin’s right hand rested against my knee. Summer eased into her seat and started conversing with Ash across the table. Grant immediately got up to go for a smoke. I stared over the table at Ash; she raised her eyebrows and looked from Soo Jin to Summer and back to me with a wink. I thought she was trying to set me up with one of them; whether it was for a date or her enjoyment of my discomfort, I couldn’t tell. Gradually, Soo Jin’s hand moved from my knee to my thigh as Grant sat down after his nicotine aperitif. I kept quiet but placed my palm over Soo Jin’s hand to keep it from crawling further up my leg.

Summer and Ash kept talking about work. Following their conversation was like watching a ping-pong match. Their work didn’t affect me, but I had nothing else to do but listen.

“What does it take to get a waiter around here?” Grant called out towards the bar. Grant’s affection for clichés was amusing. After a glance at our menus, we placed our orders. Sam ordered a meatball sub. Ash asked for the eggplant sandwich without onions. I ordered a veal sandwich, light on the tomato sauce. Grant created his meal from the make-your-own pasta options. Summer ordered a custom pasta dish Soo Jin settled for a Blood Orange San Pellegrino — I’m not hungry, she said. I almost agreed with her. The food options weren’t great.

“So, Soo Jin,” Ash got the conversation going. “How do you like working with Samantha?”

Soo Jin blushed and said that having her on the team was great. She lifted her hand off my leg.

I turned to Sam and asked how she was doing.

“Things are good, Charlie,” she said. “I like working with the team, and things seem okay.”

My cheek warmed from Ash’s glare.

“That’s good, Sam,” I said. “I’m glad to hear that.” I paused to take a deep breath through my nose, hoping Ash didn’t notice. “Maybe we’ll get to work together sometime.” I feel like Summer blushed a bit, but I could be wrong. I was never very good at reading social cues. Grant was the only one that made sense to me. He was a straight shooter; what you see is what you get—except for his surprising interest in philosophy.

“So. Charlie?” Grant joined the conversation. “Have you heard of Pascal’s Mugging Theory?”

I shook my head. No, I hadn’t, but this sounded familiar.

“As the theory goes, it’s a problem in maximized expectations. Risk against reward.” Grant thumbed the ashes from an imaginary cigarette. “If a mugger walks up to you, gun in hand, with the fear of god in you, and offers you a ten percent gain if you give him fifty dollars, do you give him the money?” I held an imaginary cigarette between my lips. “So, what’s your wager, Charlie?”

… The familiar darkness. A question about god. “It’s a wager on whether god exists,” Mikaela smirked through the intimate murk. “Do you believe in me now, Charlie?” I stopped breathing. …

“I don’t know.” I stumbled back to the present. — Ash noticed but nobody else did. Also, I had an uncalled-for erection. I don’t think Ash noticed that.

“I guess I don’t have an opinion on the matter.”

Grant nodded.

Summer and Soo Jin turned toward me, as if my answer was worth a million-dollar prize.

“Is my life at risk if the mugger offers me interest?” I asked Grant to clarify. “Or will he take the fifty and kill me either way?”

“He’ll kill you either way,” Grant ended his line of questioning, and I calmed my erection under the table.

Thankfully, our server arrived with our food and Soo Jin’s drink.

…Without warning, I wake up in the forest. It is the middle of the day, the sun is bright, and buds are stretching out to the sky, ready to bloom. I am naked. A damp layer of dirt trails from my fingers and toes over my arms and legs, connecting in an X pattern near the crux of my rib cage. The earth crawls from its cross to my solar plexus, kneading into the pit of my stomach before inching between my pubis and trailing over my flaccid penis. I am weak. I feel the strength leave my body with the filth collecting at my groin. Soldier ants spring from track marks on my arms, followed by workers that collect the sand from my body.

It doesn’t take long for the ants to finish their job.

Now I am barren. Nothing protects my skin. The few leaves above me part ways as the sun touches my bald flesh. I am consumed, and soon I will be no more. …

“Charlie,” it was Ash. “It’s time to go.”

My colleagues were waiting by the door. They paid the bill. My mind was a block of cheese, fat and moist. I placed both hands on the table and used my limited strength to stand. I nodded to our server and walked to the door with my friends.

A block of cheese.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A week later, after I finished a quiet lunch, I tightened my laces and started jogging through the alley to the bridge and finally to the park.

“Hey there, stranger.”

That familiar voice — Summer’s voice. She was sitting on the south-facing park bench near the wooded running trail. The same bench where she found me after my run earlier that month. She was soaking up the sunshine where she sat.

“Hey yourself, Sam,” I said. “What are you doing here?” Such a silly question when you think about it. It’s a public park — I didn’t own the rights to that bench. She was enjoying her lunch break as anyone else might.

“Actually,” Summer started, “I was hoping you’d pop by.”

“Really, why’s that?” I feigned a smile.

“I was hoping,” Summer paused again, trying to decide which words to express her desires like she hadn’t decided about me. “I was hoping,” she continued, “that I could join you for a walk in the woods.”

“Um, no, mmm.” I stammered. “I mean, I was going for a run in the woods, not a walk, to clear my head; I —”

“Uh-huh,” she said — not a hint of a sardonic tone in her voice.

“Okay,” I resigned to her wishes. “I can walk; I’ll walk. I’m tired of running anyway.”

“Charlie, you’re silly,” she said. “You can run. I think I can keep up.”

Samantha was beautiful. Did I mention that? Other people thought she was gorgeous, not me. While the softness of the curly waves of her tender brown hair was inviting. Nothing about Samantha repelled or attracted me. She was simply sunshine. The strength in Summer’s aura was physical as well. Her legs were strong, and she had broad shoulders. I’m sure she could bring me to my knees in a tussle.

“No, really,” I started to gain some confidence. “I don’t need to run; a walk would be perfect. It’s just I — it’s nothing.”

Summer smiled, “let me guess, you want to be alone with your thoughts.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Charlie. Let’s walk, and I won’t say a thing. You can be alone while I walk with you.”

She was true to her word. And that was it. A connection was made — a bond without pretense or limits.

I started walking, and Samantha joined me, a hand’s width between us. She didn’t talk, and I didn’t say anything either. I hadn’t felt so peaceful in a long time.

The remainder of the day lacked warmth and colour. After work, I went home, brewed coffee, and sat silently. The resonance of the house I always lived in carried an unnatural stillness. Something was unplaceable was missing. I stared at my old guitar in the corner, trying to conjure life from its aged frame and tight strings. But nothing happened, nothing changed, and my record skipped towards another day.

* * *

Summer and I took to walking regularly after that, establishing a new pattern. I would go for an early lunch; she would leave the office a little later and wait for me at the park bench. If either of us were running late or had a change of plans, we would text each other. We avoided the scrutiny of our peers to avoid unwanted company.

We maintained the aura of silent contemplation on our walks. But sometimes, we talked about life, death, and a little bit of everything. Summer told me about her family, opinions, and fascination with death as a finite end of a thread with infinite ways of unwinding. I shared some of my history with Mikaela, our marriage, our plan to start a family and our divorce. I didn’t share any details about Mikaela’s affair with Rick or the nuances with Frank. And I didn’t try to explain what happened between my mother and father. My feelings towards them and their relationship were locked up so tightly that I didn’t have a clear enough picture to share. Instead, I briefly mentioned my parents’ death and told her about my sister.

“She died when I was young,” I told her.

“Do you think about your sister often?”

“Sometimes I do, but not in any tangible way. Sarah is an empty spot in my middle. Sometimes she grows, and I become less of myself. Other times she’s just there, and I am me. I think of death as an end, as you do,” I said. “But it’s not something that goes away. Death is the end of life, but a continuum for the living.”

“I can relate to that.” Summer paused as if contemplating her next words. What to say, or what not to say. “My parents divorced when I was a little kid,” she continued putting the pieces together. “So, I don’t even remember my dad. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. His existence is a disentangled ball of yarn.” An interesting term disentangled yarn. Summer paused again and decided that this conversation was a little too ominous. “I still hang out with my mom on the weekends,” she offered. “We go for walks like we do, but we talk about other things — mom things: when are you getting married, when will I be a grandma, stuff like that.”

“Do you want kids?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said with confidence. “Yes, I do. What about you?” Summer hesitated. “I mean, things didn’t work out with your ex. But I don’t know. You could still find the right person, settle, and start a family.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “If I found the right person, someone I could be comfortable with, who could be satisfied with my shortcomings.” Once again, I thought about Sarah and my naïve expectations to complete the journey she didn’t have.

“Come on, Charlie. You’re a great guy. You’d be a great dad.”

It hurt to hear her say that. A great guy doesn’t prefer solitude to socializing with friends, and a great dad doesn’t lead his wife to shame. My thoughts drifted back to Mikaela. I took a breath before speaking.

“I loved her, you know? Mikaela. It shouldn’t have mattered what she did.” — I let it linger, but Summer didn’t ask what Mikaela did. “I wonder if we would still be together if we hadn’t split up,” I said. “What kind of a life would we have?” It felt good to open my heart to someone, like the warm breath of the rising sun feeding the land with light. I don’t think I ever did that with Mikaela, and maybe I should have. Summer listened and took everything at face value. We could discuss pain and sorrow without consequence—marriage, infidelity, divorce, death. Heartache is inevitable in life; it’s simply what happens to non-committal people like me. And Summer didn’t judge me for it.

We continued our discussions about death during our many walks. It was familiar to both of us. Summer was fascinated by it, consumed by it. Death wasn’t something to be afraid of, she said. It was an end. It wasn’t a new beginning — not for people, at any rate. When people died, she told me they didn’t come back, which was the way of things. The limitless possibilities after death were on a separate plane from our existence. I considered this. It was like my own belief if not a little more abstract. For me, seasons are a cycle: the transition from spring to summer, new birth, and livelihood, then to autumn, the fall of life, leading to winter’s death, and finally to re-birth. My life had that rhythm, except like a broken record, it would skip. I would travel the earth from summer to fall to winter but never the re-birth of spring. My cycle was locked by death. I still wonder how to break free and find myself on the other side of decay. What did I need to do to defeat death? I couldn’t say.

I went home on that first day after our first walk. Summer’s brightness warmed my heart. And gradually, I learned to breathe deeply again. I trusted her, and it felt like she trusted me. Being open came naturally to us. There was no reason not to trust each other. Not much else changed in my life. I still ate breakfast, went to work, walked with Sam, enjoyed a quiet dinner, listened to a record, and plucked at my guitar.

* * *

A new morning on a new day. I was at the office and doing my job, keeping my focus. “Hey, Chuck.” It was Ash; I could tell she was ready for an argument. “We’re going to dinner tonight with the internal comms team.”

I let her statement hang, waiting for a question.

“Did you want to join us?”

“No thanks, I have plans,” I lied.

“Sure, you do, Chuck.” Ash left it at that.

Summer met me for a walk after a quick lunch at Callaway’s. White clouds crossed the sky, filtering the sun. Leaf netting blocked the sky even further, effecting the look of sun-shaded puddles as we kept pace through the trees. I reconsidered Ash’s invitation.

“Did you hear about this dinner thing?” I asked. “Are you going?”

“I don’t know, Charlie. Who else is going?”

I had yet to learn who might be going other than Ash, since she invited me.

“Do you know if Nick is going?” Samantha pitched her voice.

“You … should ask him,” I said. What did it matter if Nick was going? I had forgotten about Nick. Like Soo Jin, he was a ping pong ball without a paddle. What did I care?

“Are you going?”

“No, I have plans.” My snap response was faster than my reply to Ash.

“You do not. Come on, Charlie, you should go. It’ll be fun.”

Something didn’t feel right. Was this a test? Was I meant to go to this thing to prove something? If so, was I proving myself to Ash or Summer? Or did I feel the need to prove something to myself?

“I’ll consider it,” I said. I stared at the dancing shadows for the rest of our walk, knowing that the answer was still no.

I went outside for a break in the afternoon, hoping to find Grant for a change of perspective. He wasn’t smoking at the corner, which was uncharacteristic for this time of day. So, I crossed the street to The Callaway, and there he was, buying coffee for his next cigarette. Ignoring my original instinct, I kept walking through the alley toward the bridge. This wasn’t a problem that he could solve. I was a forty-three-year-old man. And besides Grant and Ash, I worked with kids in their twenties or thirties. What was I doing here? What was the point? Ash was older than me, but it felt like she had a pulse on the ground — a feeling for something that I was missing. She fit in; I did not.

A moment of paralysis overtook me on the bridge — an overwhelming fear of breaking things, specifically harming others. I barely knew Samantha, Summer, but she immediately impacted me. Why? Like a glass house, my life was transparent, fragile, and empty. I was nothing and nobody. Why should I try to be anything else? And if I continued down this path, Summer would surely get hurt.

I did not go out with my colleagues that night. I went home, enjoyed a quiet dinner, poured myself a Cutty Sark, and chose an old Charlie Parker record, Jazz At The Philharmonic from 1946.

It seemed like my life revolved around Summer. But what did she mean to me, and who was I in her life? If I had to put a label on it, that label would have been friends — a couple who enjoyed each other’s company despite our weathering moods. Yes. Friends was a good label and a fitting one for us. Friends can be together and distant. And friends didn’t have to hurt each other. Still, while it felt good, it couldn’t last.

After the record turned over, I went to sleep.

* * *

I met Summer at our park bench the following day. She wore a tight-fitting salmon-coloured tank top and black leggings. Her shades were on, and her body was draped over the bench. I dressed in short sleeves and casual grey slacks. It was the week of the Solstice, and the sun beamed down on both of us. I felt warm, and that warm feeling reached for her.

“You truly like the sunshine, don’t you,” I asked. “I mean, you bathe in it. There’s never a time where you aren’t soaking up the rays.”

“Absolutely. My mom used to call me Summer when I was a kid because I loved the sunshine so much.”

Samantha was Summer to me from that day onward, though I never called her Summer aloud. I left the nickname between Sam and her mother.

We left the sun for the shaded wooded path. I asked about the dinner event, and Summer responded, “Meh, it was a work party.”

I guess I didn’t miss much.

“Did Nick show up?” I surprised myself: there was no jealousy in the question, but I felt the green envy twisting through me. There was no reason for that. Samantha wasn’t mine, not more than the summer or sunshine.

“He did,” Sam answered with elongated vowels, heeee diiiiid. “He’s such a great guy. He kept me company, lots of fun.”

Fair enough, I thought. I had no reason to consider him a threat. And yet, I did. Samantha and Nick were comfortable with each other; there was nothing wrong with that. I cared for and trusted my friend. Still, my residual low self-esteem was nauseating. I thought about Mikaela and how much we loved and trusted each other. Even towards the end, despite her infidelity. Could I trust Nick? Should I trust Samantha? I stood at the crossroad without direction. But why? Did I care so much about Summer? Should I ask her to marry me? No. None of those things made sense.

… Darkness returns; the decay appears like peeling flesh from a roasted pepper. …

“You okay, Charlie?” Summer held my shoulders. My right arm was twitching, while my left was limp.

“I’m fine, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t look fine, Charlie. It’s like you saw a ghost.”

I stared into the woods, looking for something solid to bring me back.

“Sam, I’m okay, thank you.” A gnarled tree trunk acted as my anchor.

“Hey,” she said as we started walking. “Do you ever wonder if you’re depressed? I mean, not you literally, but about depression in general; do you think about that?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Why the sudden line of questioning?

“I think I’m depressed,” Summer continued. She smiled and laughed it off.

Should I trust her? Why was she telling me this? I stood at another crossroad as the sun set and the twilight turned black. Should I walk away or ride this out?

* * *

I had never thought about depression, not beyond the surface. I understood that it was something we all experienced and different for everyone. I learned from Mikaela that what people often call depression isn’t real depression. Feeling the blues is nothing compared to the chronic pain experienced by others. Mikaela was chronically depressed. I didn’t know that when we were together, but I understand it now.

My therapist, Dr. Chün (Alice) Wong, told me that depression was a mental condition characterized by feelings of severe despondency and dejection. This was often coupled with feelings of inadequacy and guilt. Those words were meaningless coming from my therapist but hearing those words, I think I’m depressed from Summer’s mouth carried the weight of an atomic explosion. Was there some hidden force that pushed her through the earth? Would she explode if a twig snapped at the wrong time? What if an angel flapped its butterfly wings?

Summer and I didn’t walk together the following week — not once. It was a healthy break, I think. It gave me time to think about what she said: do you wonder if you’re depressed? The failure of my marriage nearly killed me, and my self-destructive tendencies were undoubtedly unhealthy, but after I returned, I was doing okay. I wasn’t depressed. Dr. Wong never said I was depressed. Mikaela never seemed to think so. I had come to terms with our divorce and distanced myself from everyone from that time in my life. It was an old chapter in a book that I didn’t need to revisit. After the cold winter, Ash saved me from self-degeneration, and I had a second chance. Who was I to question that gift? I had a second chance to continue my life on my terms. I wasn’t depressed. I’m not depressed, I’m simply a temporary visitor to the Low Feels Blvd.

Still, I wonder.

* * *

Life went on despite this looming melancholy vibe. In the evenings, I went home, prepared my dinner, and afterwards, I picked up my guitar and set my mind to it. Up to the month before, the best I could do was pluck single notes, no better than tapping aimlessly on a piano. I had read about music theory, tonics, dominants, and such. If I were to apply any of the patterns I’d read about, I had to practice playing chords to build a proper progression. I learned that many songs followed a four-chord progression following the I-V-vi-IV design. The first (tonic) to the fifth (dominant), the minor sixth, and the sub-dominant fourth. The songs I listened to those days, however, were primarily twelve-bar blues, repeating a three-chord progression of I, IV and V, the tonic, sub-dominant, and dominant. I understood the theory but failed miserably when playing the blues. I hadn’t mastered bar chords. So, I settled on learning songs with open cowboy chords. I started with The Everly Brothers, Wake Up Little Susie. I had learned the chord patterns for D, A, E and G (though the open G-chord was still a stretch for my fingers), and I struggled with the F chord in that song. So instead, I started working on Cold, Cold Heart by Hank Williams. The chords were A major, D, and G major. I couldn’t tell which was the first, fifth, or fourth yet, but I could play that song from start to finish by the end of the week, even with my clumsy fingering.

* * *

“Hello, stranger,” I called to Sam the following Monday. I had taken to her stock phrase, especially considering we’d missed a week of conversation and walking through the sunshine in the muddled forest. The thick clouds promised rain, and the humidity welcomed a downpour. “How are you, Sam?”

She didn’t look well. It wasn’t just the lack of sunshine but a blank look in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. She hardly registered my arrival.

“Are you okay?” I asked again with the tiniest hope for a response.

“I don’t think I’ll be very good company today,” she said.

I made a quick decision and sat beside her without uttering a word. We stayed there, seated beneath the cloudy sky, for nearly ten minutes. I imagined the sun hiding from us, keeping her warmth to herself. I’m not sharing today, said the sun. Today, I’ll let the gloom swallow them.

I took Samantha’s left hand with my right and stood up. She followed as we walked into the wooded trail. Soon after, raindrops fell as we continued our journey in silence, two kilometres into the forest and two kilometres out. When we came back to our bench, I kissed her cheek.

“You are always good company.”

Sam and I met at the bench when we could in the following weeks. We walked and talked but never discussed the day Summer disappeared into a winter’s fog, summer to winter, forgoing the fall of autumn leaves. We had been walking like this for a while, chatting about work occasionally, but it occurred to me that I knew very little about Summer’s life outside of work; to be fair, she knew very little about mine. We had shared our childhoods, hers without her father and mine without my mother and sister. I’d ask the occasional questions, So, how’s life? What’s up for your weekend? But her answers were non-committal. While I didn’t push, I was trying to figure out what had happened to my warm Summer’s smile. Maybe she had a falling out with her mom. I wanted to learn more about her present life but didn’t know where to start. I knew next to nothing, notwithstanding our shared fascination with death, having lost family when we were young.

We walked onwards. This was a brighter day. Sam was delightful, the sun was out, and I was relatively cheerful. It was time to try again.

“Hey, Sam.” I started. “Did I ever tell you that Ash and I grew up together?”

This was new knowledge for her. Sharing a little about myself might offer a safe way for her to open herself to me. We were friends, so it was reasonable to be curious.

Summer looked at me with a wry smile I hadn’t seen for a while.

“You know she has a crush on you, don’t you?” she said.

“She does not,” I scrunched my face.

“She totally does, Charlie. Don’t you see the way that she watches everything you do?”

I gave it some thought and shrugged. I guess it looked weird from the outside, but we grew up together. She was my big sister, not my lover.

“It’s scary, Charlie. Ash is obsessed.”

I’d known Ash since I was five years old. How could she possibly have a crush on me?

“She does, Charlie. She loves you,” Summer went on. Her tone was light and harmless.

“I’m surprised you two haven’t shacked up.”

That was crossing the line; I would never hook up with Ash. That would be like sleeping with my mother. And suddenly, the pieces fell together. Ash did love me. She practically raised me and rescued me from every challenge I faced. How could I have been so insensitive? Sure, I treated Ash like family, but with far less commitment than she offered me.

“Can we please not talk about this right now?” I thought it best to forget this immediately, put it in a drawer and lose the key.

“Okay, Charlie. I’ll drop it, but she loves you.”

The season went on; autumn was closing in. Summer and I didn’t talk about Ash, death, or anything else. We enjoyed each other’s company, and that was fine by me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Days after we chatted about Ash and her love for me, Summer and I sat on our park bench after our walk and enjoyed the sun's intermittent warmth. I wore olive-green khakis with a thin off-white long-sleeve t-shirt. Summer was dressed in autumn reds: a dark-cherry top and chocolate-mauve pants. It was a partly cloudy day with varying amounts of sun. The breeze was all but non-existent. If you listened closely, you could hear noises from quivering trees; the crags and creeks of bright life getting ready to fall. There was the same comfortable silence between us: a moment that would last forever until it didn’t. In that liminal moment between seasons, Summer decided to share something about herself. It was not quite what I expected.

“Charlie, have I told you about James?” Our calm silence: broken.

I’d overheard conversations between Summer and Ash about this guy, James, or Jim, and considered it to be the rumour that this was, in fact, Samantha’s partner. She had never mentioned him to me before, so I assumed it to be negligible office gossip. Everything was heresy until I heard it from the horse’s mouth as far as I was concerned. In other words, these were rumours, not truth.

“I’ve heard about Jim,” I said. “Yes. Not directly, though — not from you.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie, I can’t believe we haven’t talked about him. I guess I assumed you knew.

“James and I are together. He’s my partner.” Then she added, “He’s good for me,” and paused.

I filled in the blank with my imagination. He’s good for me ... most of the time. I’d never met him, and I had no reason to doubt that he was a good man. Even so, I assumed he was a cause of Summer’s buried suffering.

“Thank you for telling me that, Sam.” My voice was flat.

“You don’t have to be a jerk about it, Charlie.”

Sam stopped smiling. She recognized my resentment. James became a reality then, and I hated him within seconds. It was unfair to be that way, and I regret my reactions. But still, they were honest.

“Thank you for telling me,” I tried again. This time I used my stern voice, and it showed.

“What the fuck?” Summer had tears in her eyes. I didn’t mean to make her cry. I wanted to be happy for her. If she loved James, then I should accept him.

“Summer — Sam, I’m sure James is a great guy, and I’m glad you are with him. I’m sorry if I seemed cold.”

She wiped her tears, laid her hands on my lap, palms up, and I put my hands in hers. I took it as an olive branch, a gesture of forgiveness, but the river behind her eyes flowed much deeper. Summer visited the deep well at the river's end and stirred the pool with a stick, hoping to find something in the shallows.

“Why are you so nice to me?” she asked.

“Because I love you,” I responded before stopping myself.

The words, ‘I love you,’ floated in the air between us and didn’t fall to the ground, as much a surprise to me as they were to her. After a moment, a warm wind swept them away, and a large white cloud passed before the sun. Its shadow cast a bitter taste on both of us.

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Charlie.” Summer stammered. “You don’t even know me.” She pulled her hands away. “I’m not a good person, Charlie. I’m terrible, and I don’t deserve you.”

I thought to correct her and explain how I felt and why: she did deserve me, because of how she made me feel and how she cared for others. Because she was a good person. But I kept my feelings to myself. Maybe I recognized her soul and the good within, but she was right; I didn’t know anything else about her life. And at the first sign of sharing something personal, I proclaimed judgment.

After catching my breath and reflecting on my behaviour, I asked Summer to tell me about Jim. She told me briefly how they’d met and that he had cheated on his girlfriend to be with Samantha. Sam said their relationship was exciting initially, but he became distant over time. “That happens to couples, doesn’t it?”

I agreed; Mikaela and I had gone through that.

Summer continued to say that Jim had been compulsively dismissive recently and that she suspected he was cheating on her. She described the signs I remember from my marriage to Mikaela. Signs that I ignored them from a place of trust. I couldn’t let Summer make the same mistakes.

“Have you confronted him?” I asked. My heart was in my throat.

“I did.” Summer closed her eyes. The clouds cleared, and the sun reflected off her damp cheeks. I waited for her to speak. It wasn’t my place to tell her what to do. I had my baggage and kept it with me. Eventually, Summer wiped her tears and looked at me.

“He denied it, Charlie. He said he wasn’t cheating.” The sadness in those eyes quickly turned to hatred. “I wish he didn’t say anything because now I know he’s a liar.”

I loathed the man I had never met. An emotion that I’d never felt. I never hated Frank or Richard, even when they cheated me of my dignity. As for Mikaela, I considered her actions a direct reaction to my failure as a husband. It was as much my fault as it was hers.

But Summer didn’t deserve to go through that.

“How do you know he cheated?” It was unfair to ask.

“I found her lingerie in our laundry bin beside his cum-stained boxers.” The centres of Samantha’s eyes shrank to a point. “I mean, it wasn’t my lingerie. I’d know my own underwear, Charlie.” She gasped. “You believe me, don’t you?” And I did believe her. I had labelled this man a villain, and his infidelity proved me right. I would do anything to stop him from hurting my Summer.

— My Summer. Who was I to possess this woman? She wasn’t mine any more than she was his. And still, I was ready to play the hero, to rescue her from this ogre. I had no more rights over her than I had rights over Mikaela. As far as I was concerned, Mikaela was free to do what she wanted despite my fragile ego. So how could James have any less right to cheat on Samantha? Could such a dichotomy exist? The part of me that could accept and forgive Mikaela’s adultery yet would condemn a man for breaking no vow.

“Samantha,” I said. placing my hands on her cheeks. “I believe you, and I promise to be here whenever you need me until my life is over.”

Rainfall started, and we sat on our bench in silence.

* * *

The end of August was exceptionally wet; the onsetting September winds and falling leaves kept Summer indoors. I saw less and less of her as the occasional sunshine turned to rain. We were lucky to see each other once a week, if at all.

I kept up with my schedule. Each day I would walk or jog from The Callaway to our bench. Sometimes I sat and waited, hoping that Summer would come and meet me. Mostly I would get up within a few minutes and continue my run. On rare occasions, we would have short walks, and eventually, I learned that Samantha worked things out with James. The lingerie in the hamper was just a misunderstanding. “He’s just a big old goof,” she’d declare with conviction. I didn’t bother to ask for his excuse. He was still an asshole in my books.

CHAPTER NINE

Samantha turned 33 on September 13 of that year. There was a very small gathering for cake and congratulations at the office — the mother hens in the internal comms department clucked over Samantha’s youth and good fortune. There was a to-do of to be that age again; when I was your age, I just became a grandmother last week; why haven’t you settled down? She stood in a corner while everyone sang happy birthday. After that formality, the assembly line started until everyone had their cake or slice of cantaloupe.

I stood outside the room admiring the spectacle from a safe distance.

Summer and I barely spoke anymore since the weather kept us inside with busy work schedules, so I was shocked when she invited me to her home for a private birthday party. Not private like me and her, but private with friends and family. I agreed to go as a friend but regretted it in the end.

Getting to the party was roughly the same route I had taken to visit my therapist. Unlike when I visited Dr. Wong’s office near Coxwell, I was less focused on a lifeless fall to oblivion and more captivated by the vibrance of the leaves in the Don Valley as we crossed the Bloor-Danforth Viaduct towards Broadview Station.

James and Samantha lived in a loft on Carroll Street, just off Dundas. Their loft was in a brown brick building south of a car dealership, with a view of the valley. When I arrived, I rang the buzzer at the main entrance and was met with a curt male response, “Second floor, 2-1-7.” I found my way to the stairs, climbed to the second floor, and walked to the apartment. Without a knock, the door opened. A tall man with large dark-framed glasses and fuzzy blonde facial hair stared at me. “I’m here for Samantha’s party,” I said. “You must be Jim.” He nodded and waved me in with a tilt of his head. Not much of a talker. I buried my feelings about him since Summer seemed okay with whatever had happened between them. It wasn’t worth the energy needed to hate someone. If she loved him, I guess I should leave that between them.

Sam and Jim’s apartment was bright despite the failing early evening light. Wall-to-wall hardwood floors drew my eyes into their space, and floor-to-ceiling windows offered a beautiful view of autumn leaves. A small kitchenette stood to the right of the entrance; wrought iron stairs to what I assumed to be the terraced bedroom were on the left. Beyond the stairs, I saw a group of colleagues enjoying the brisk evening air on a fair-sized patio. I turned to thank James, but he was already gone.

I placed my house gift, a bottle of ‘98 merlot from the year I married Mikaela, next to a table by the kitchen and walked through the open glass door to the patio. Soo Jin was the first friend to greet me, all smiles and touchy-feely fingers running up and down my arms. I offered a polite hug and made my way onward. Soo Jin trailed after me as I targeted Nick, Annie, and Mel from work. I scanned the open space and noted that Ash was notably absent. Finally, I zeroed in on Summer. She was chatting with someone that I didn’t recognize.

I zigged through the modest crowd and smiled at the faces around me. Sam was smoking a cigarette on the deck with her friend. I didn’t know that she smoked.

“Charlie.” Summer reached for my open hand. “I’m glad you could make it.” I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Happy birthday, Sam,” I said. She thanked me with a smile.

“This is Lauren,” Summer introduced us. “Lauren, meet Charlie.”

Lauren was stunning: tall, slim, and sultry. She had short brown hair cut in a way that featured the angles of her cheekbones. Lauren took my hand and pressed it with hers.

“I’ve known Lauren for years, Charlie. We went to the same college. We used to go clubbing back in the day — Lauren’s nickname was Lure because she would draw in all the boys.”

Lauren’s hand lingered on my waist. I kept my eyes on Summer.

“Actually,” Summer started, “Lauren introduced me to James.”

I smiled.

“Did you meet him?” Summer asked. “Jim,” she called back towards the loft.

“I met him,” I said. “He let me in.”

“Okay, good. Can I get you a drink?”

Lauren’s hand cupped my right buttock for a second. It was a slight yet obvious play: I own you. As Lauren the Lure walked away, I watched her curved hips bobbing from side to side and felt self-conscious about the tightness in my groin. She was something else, that Lure.

“Charlie, good to see you, bro.” Nick stumbled behind me— thoughts of Lauren and my groin disappeared. I could tell Nick had had a few drinks: his eyes were watery, and his skin was pink, even in the dimday light. “Let me get you some Remy’s,” he said, disappearing into the house. I turned back to check on Summer, but she was gone, so I went inside. There was a collection of seats with cushions by the window and a few low-floor tables. I chose to sit in an easy chair. Nick pulled up a pillow and presented me with a clear plastic cup filled to the brim with brandy. “This’ll warm you up,” he said.

“Cheers, Nick.” I raised my glass. “To birthdays.” We clinked our cups. “To birthdays,” he echoed.

I watched Jim and Lauren chatting in the kitchen from my seat and kept my eye on the front door, wondering if Ash would show up. I had mixed feelings about that. Did I want her looking over my shoulder at a social party? I hoped to relax, though I didn’t see how I could in a room full of strangers.

I decided to make the best of things. People aren’t strangers if you get to know them, right? I wandered over to Lauren and Jim, placed my now half-full cup of Remy’s on the kitchen island, and watched the two of them chatting about old times in some faraway place I couldn’t imagine. They had chemistry and a history together that leant to polite taps on their mutual wrists and forearms. They were comfortable together and seemed to have little interest in me. — I thought of Rick and Mikaela.

I sipped my drink without a care for anything, watching them play. I didn’t like what I saw, finished my drink far too quickly, and stumbled out of the party.

Summer called me the next day, Sunday. I told her I was sorry for leaving so soon.

* * *

December came and went. Sam and I rarely saw each other and never spoke at the office. Work continued as it always had, tedious, mindless, and boring. Winter was upon us, so I started working out at home rather than running through the Toronto ice and slush. I always ate lunch alone, walked through neighbouring streets close to the office, dissociated from my relationships and burrowed into an empty nest. I don’t think that anyone noticed this change in me. Ash seemed to have disowned me since Summer’s Birthday party, and Summer seemed to be on a separate path.

I was alone, and that was simply the way of things.

In the spring, I started to look at classifieds and online job postings. I found a new job within a couple of weeks. I gave my notice at SanStar, and that was that.

CHAPTER TEN

On my last day at SanStar, Summer and I went for one final walk through the wooded path. It was raining, spring showers. I met her at our park bench. She wore a brown fedora to keep the rain out of her face. The curl of the felt brim matched the waves in her hair. She also wore a brown leather jacket to match and snug blue jeans tucked into a pair of brown boots. She looked beautiful. She was always beautiful, but maybe something about this moment, something sad, made her more radiant. We didn’t have much to say during our walk. We enjoyed the time we had in silence, a shared solitude.

I don’t think I understood how attached I had grown to Samantha. I’d found something in her that I hadn’t had before. Was it love? I can’t say. And it doesn’t matter. As far as I was concerned, it was based on a fallacy, a lie I told myself. I believed that I could trust her and that she trusted me. Summer made me feel confident, and I told her things I hadn’t told anyone else. But this feeling couldn’t be real. There were so many other unspoken truths. Imaginary truths can’t exist without lies. I needed to leave her to find my truth and move on with my life — to continue my dance through the universe following a stoic’s path, compartmentalizing and devaluing pain and passion for tranquility. To adopt the teachings of Lao Tzu and accept that people are at the mercy of the elements. The Dao De Ching suggests that while I cannot control nature, I am a part of nature. I could accept that. In giving away control, I might find it; with that, I might find a new path through the universe.

Later that day, after I packed my things, I went by Samantha’s desk, put my arms around her and said goodbye with a single silent kiss on her head. I could feel the leering eyes of her desk mates, but I didn’t care.

* * *

My new job was at an exclusively Digital Startup, not limited by printing presses and archaic processes like The St. Anne’s Corporation. The company had offices in New York, Tokyo, and Toronto. Despite its international reach and forward-thinking work ethic, it was still a very young company, and while it had dollars to spend, the founders realized that they lacked process and consistency.

Efficiency Coach: that was my title. And as an efficiency coach, I drove policy and process changes. This startup needed someone with corporate experience, someone like me. For whatever reason, they trusted my inclination toward repeatable habits and structure. They also recognized my nature and tendency towards acceptance and stability versus the ad hoc nature of their company culture.

When I started, I led a team of designers, and programmers, not unlike my small team at SanStar. Our shared objective was to describe what they did and identify ways to improve their processes. And subsequently, find a way to scale these efficiencies to the organization.

It didn’t take long to identify blatantly obvious gaps and inefficiencies. As a result, after the first month, my job shifted from team collaboration and discovery to writing documentation, then sharing it with leadership directly. My new “everyday job” placed me in meetings interchangeably with executives, managers, product owners, and other leaders. And every day, they nodded and agreed to the changes I suggested. But, of course, nothing changed on the ground with the people who did the work.

My supervisor treated me well, even though nothing of consequence happened. At the end of the year, I was rewarded with a bonus for doing what I considered to be nothing. It turns out that nothing meant a great deal when you were dealing with the C-Suite. By accepting that nothing has value, you acknowledge that the only way to exist is to accept that you are nothing and do not exist. So, in doing my job, which added little value, I moved up the chain and received great praise, rewards, and a higher salary.

I had more money than I knew what to do with, and my easygoing (office) nature, backed by statistics and blue-sky ideas for improvement, kept the founders happy. I had hoped for a fresh start on my own terms, to start new habits, and it looked like my path was in the clear, but not surprisingly rekindled old ones. I collected my ever-increasing pay cheque every week while the leaves budded and blossomed. I explored my surroundings between meetings and discovered new places to eat and drink. And drink. And drink. I wandered to the lakefront from the financial district and stared at the boats in the harbour, sipping espressos and eating delectable, overpriced sandwiches. I popped into fancy restaurants after work almost every evening. I stayed out late — often alone — drinking beer or whiskey. As a result, I’m sure to have gained at least five kilos before the summer flowers bloomed. I’m not proud of what I became, but I needed to change and escape from Ash, Summer, and everyone I knew in my former life — getting away from people seems to be what I’m good at.

I did manage to pick up one new habit that was perhaps worse than drinking, overeating, and smoking: Dehumanizing people. I excelled at it, gamified it, and won every time. I don’t say this out of pride; I feel terrible for what I did, but to say that the culture I was in rewarded me ever more for my base nature.

I had entirely lost interest in genuine human contact at this point. My colleagues, my co-workers, whatever you want to call them, I did not care about them at all. They served a purpose at the office, and I treated them as cogs in the machine. I ignored them entirely otherwise. If they didn’t factor into my paycheck, they did not matter. I was always a loner and enjoyed the solitude. I started reading Bret Easton Ellis and adopted the anti-heroic skills for active dissociation between my wants and their needs.

When the leaves started to change again, my detachment from my workmates became uncoupled debauchery. I met women at the bars I frequented, slept with them, and tried to drive them away if they ever approached me again. It became a game: how long would it take for me to win the trust of a regular at a restaurant, have sex with her, then make her stop attending the community they were so fond of? I was pretty good at it and proud of myself at the time. These were terrible mistakes that I made that reflected the dark monster that I had become. I wish I could tell you that these things didn’t need to happen for me to find myself, but I can’t. If you hit rock bottom, all you can do is go up, right? But if you burrow through the earth and emerge as soot, all you can do is float away.

* * *

I met Ash for coffee on a Wednesday in October at our usual Starbucks meeting spot from days gone by.

“So, you forgot about your old friends, Mr. Moolah?” Ash started in on me before we even ordered our coffees. “Are you too rich for us now?”

I had no excuse, so I just agreed with her. There was little else I could do.

We placed our order — a Quad Venti for Ash and my usual double espresso. I’m embarrassed to say, but after drinking quality espresso, it was difficult not to frown at the coffee they served at Starbucks. Ash was right. My life in the fast lane affected me; fancy drinks, easy women, and an even easier high-paying job. I knew I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t intend to share that with Ash. If I let the curtain fall and exposed myself to her questioning, I’d have to explain why I left. It wasn’t for more money or to further my career; I quit because I’d fallen in love with Summer. I couldn’t stand by to watch her with James. He was an oaf, and he certainly didn’t respect her. Ash would have a field day over that one.

… Fallen through the green grass, wilted by sunlight, crushed by the frost and reborn. In love. …

“So,” Ash asked, “Have you seen Samantha lately?”

That was another reason I left SanStar; to get away from the rumours that Ash started. It was targeted teasing at first; Ash always taunted me about my relationships. But as is often the case, the rumour mill started printing daily tabloids about the mysterious walks I took with Summer; or how we avoided each other in public. I could accept the inevitable jab from Ash, but that gossip affected Summer. She didn’t say anything outright, but I could tell she was uncomfortable with the whisperings about our forbidden relationship, though fabricated.

I sipped my thick-like-burnt-tar-coffee as Ash babbled about the latest news (more gossip) at SanStar.

… Fallen through the rotted earth, fueled by sunlight, sprouting through the frost and reborn. In pain. …

I’m sure I nodded off at some point because, in the next moment, Ash was one step out the door.

“Ash, I’m sorry.” I left my coffee with my coat in hand.

“Are you, Charlie? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you have a sweet deal with all your new friends.”

“Ash,” I stammered, “I don’t have any friends.”

“Sure, you don’t, Charlie.”

Ash left me standing outside the coffee shop. I waited for the dark clouds to unleash their rain — my punishment for disappointing Ash. That rain didn’t fall until much later.

When I got home that night, I called Dr. Wong. I had not seen my therapist for years, but she was there for me once; maybe she could help me find my way. I needed someone I could trust; if that was ever Ash, I had already ruined my chances.

I called Dr. Wong’s office, which was forwarded to her personal phone. Dr. Wong told me to come over to her home office right away. Her husband was out on business, and her schedule was clear.

When I arrived at her house near Ramsden Park, Dr. Wong, April, met me at the front door. She was barefoot, wearing a dark red silk dress. I took off my shoes, and she brought me to her study. The colouring was no different than before; sparks of green and shades of brown and red enveloped the space.

“How are you, Charlie,” she asked.

I didn’t know how to answer.

April stared at me in the same seductive way as before; it wasn’t so much in her glances as on the pout of her lips.

Are you looking for an affair? I’ve been through that, and it’s not a good idea.

My husband is boring. I could read it in her eyes.

My eyes responded I’m sure your husband is a tedious lump.

I imagined her four-word comments to her husband, oh yes, fuck me. And his single-syllable grunts during sex. I did my best to drive those crude thoughts from my mind.

“So?” April sat behind her mahogany stronghold.

“I’m feeling better,” I said. But, of course, I was not better; I was just different. My perspective had changed. It was easy to argue that I was worse.

“I’m glad.” April took a drink from a tall glass filled with a shallow clear liquid — probably water, possibly gin.

“From our last sessions,” she began, “You mentioned grief.”

Had I said that? Grief?

“Did you want to...” Dr. Wong lost her voice. She put her almond-shaped glasses on the maple wood barrier between us, pinched her impish nose, and squished her eyes. “...talk about your grief?” I felt a dull pain swell around my temples. I couldn’t focus, and clearly, neither could April.

“I don’t think I can, doctor — April,” I started. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

April placed her hands, palms down on her desk and rose like a spirit from the celestial earth. A pixie with powers of illusion and elemental transmutation. Her red silks opened, begging to swallow me whole.

“I understand your pain, Charlie.” April’s face was sincere. “You are alone. You haven’t found anyone since you lost her. You couldn’t replace her. You haven’t had anyone else in a long time.”

April was wrong; I had had many women and found someone — I found Summer, but I abandoned her, just like I abandoned Mikaela. But not one that mattered. April, Dr. Wong, my therapist, my new lover. She mattered, and she took me to her bed.

She was kind, and she was gentle, and her tenderness mattered.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I walked home after my one-night stand with Dr. Wong. The one night that mattered. As I crossed the park, I stared at my feet as they crushed dead leaves with every step. I was fascinated by a rare red leaf with yellow veins, still clinging to life. I picked it up and studied it below a nearby streetlamp. The edges around the leaf were frayed and dry. I ran my finger over the yellow spine and traced the trailing streams of life between its leathery skin. This leaf, like all the others, would be dead by winter. Dead leaves don’t come back with the spring. I considered the sacrifices in nature. Bacteria break down organic matter. Nutrients feed a healthy forest. Sometimes death is the only path back to life. From soot to nothing to something else entirely.

* * *

The new year came and went. I connected with Ash occasionally, primarily by text and occasionally over coffee. In my spare time, I was actively reading a paperback every week and passively listened to a few audiobooks at a time. I started writing in February; short stories, poetry, and the like — not dissimilar to Mikaela’s hobby. I also started running more that year; I tried my hand at a 10k and was surprised I didn’t collapse. My general health improved, and my habits were manageable. I drank beer rather than whisky and only smoked socially, which was to say rarely. I had defeated my demons again — my drinking and newfound misogynistic impulses.

Work was going well. Somehow the recommendations I put forward showed measurable merit. I still attended meetings with leaders and stakeholders while my three direct reports managed the results and on-the-ground legwork. Perhaps I was worth their investment after all. My business colleagues invited me out whenever there was an opportunity, and I occasionally joined them. Mentally I was alert and stable. My reading, writing, and poor music skills kept me busy. Winter skies opened to a brighter sun, and springtide greenery became vibrant blues, purples, and yellows — the life around us found its way back to the earth.

* * *

It was Wednesday, August 16, 2017. I remember the date because I had booked an appointment to meet Dr. Wong for a quick check-in. We agreed that we shouldn’t meet at her home, so we met at her office near Coxwell. I told April about the good things that had happened in my life recently and thanked her again for everything she had done for me. After my short, valuable, and uneventful meeting with my therapist, I settled into a book of short stories on the train.

“Hello, Charlie.” The lilt in her voice was easy to ignore at first — I kept reading.

“Charlie?” The lilt of her voice beckoned an answer and exposed a hint of concern. We rolled on and on over the railway tracks.

“Hello, are you there?” A desperate softness in her voice broke me from my literate dream.

I raised my head. A pink hat displaced Samantha’s face. The hat was garish and didn’t suit her face or complexion.

“Hi, Sam,” I said. “Your pink hat. I barely recognized you.”

“My secret disguise,” she smiled. “How are you? What’s new and exciting?” I leaned in for a hug and rested my head against the pink hat; Summer’s chin warmed my right shoulder. I held on as long as I could without making it uncomfortable.

I gazed under her soft-pink, wool-blended flat cap; her commonly bright eyes never seemed so dull, coloured deep green, but with grey rings circling her irises, like a viscous sea clinging to deadwood. My nose pinched.

“How are you?” The words croaked from my throat. God, her eyes look old.

“Same.” Her lips curled, and her nose flared. Her eyes darkened further, hiding something like ancient ruins eroded by time: long past. Our past.

The subway doors chime at the next stop, Donlands Station.

I closed my eyes. Summer was still there when I opened them — this was not a dream. She was real. — Those dead eyes. — Was it something that James had done?

The doors chime at Pape Station.

Summer’s stop was two stations away at Broadview. After that, she’d be gone. I had one minute to stall or tell her everything. To thank her for the times she rescued me from self-destruction. Instead, my body shrank, as I filled my lungs with stale subway air. My lips parted. It was time to share my regrets. Share my feelings. Rekindle our friendship.

“Sam, are you okay?” I asked.

“What? Yes.”

She was not okay.

Oh my god, Charlie,” she said, “I didn’t tell you; James and I bought a house — or we put down the down payment at least. Isn’t that great?”

I swallowed my tongue. Time mushroomed and sank. Electrons collided with protons, and neurons fired sparks in my stomach. A knot formed then unravelled and expelled. I blinked twice, expecting the metal doors and reinforced windows to bounce back my reflection, confirming that Samantha was an illusion.

Silence echoes through the noisy train car.

“So, you and Jim bought a house?” I said with a cough, dry like salted perch. “Congratulations.”

Congratulations? Such a fool’s expression. What else could I have said? I should have told her that James was an asshole. She knew that already — she must have. God, I was vapid. Words couldn’t express my disappointment — no, my disapproval. What was she doing with her life?

The tracks click beneath the train car like a ticking time bomb.

“Charlie, we should go for a walk and catch up.”

The door chimes again — her stop, Broadview Station.

“It was good to see you, Charlie.” Summer leaned in. I put my arms around her, and she pressed against my cheek. I love you, Sam. The words danced on my tongue but never found my lips.

“It was good to see you, too,” I said. “Say hi to James.”

Summer adjusted her pink cap as the doors chimed behind her.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but, knowing the outcome of our relationship in retrospect, I can guess that Summer was staring into the void, the darkness in her eyes.

* * *

Summer and I agreed to meet on August 19th, the Saturday following the day we met on the subway. Plum-coloured leaves clung to the trees in the east end when we took our first walk through the neighbourhood surrounding her new house — their new house. They hadn’t moved in yet, but it was inevitable.

It was chilly outside, but the sun was shining, and there wasn’t much wind. Summer wore a brown coat, blue jeans, and a navy-blue toque — she did not wear her pink felt hat from the previous Tuesday. I wore a pair of light brown chinos, a black-on-grey flannel shirt, and sneakers — I did not bring a cap. We looked at aged mansions while walking through this old neighbourhood near the lake. Walking together felt natural, like our months apart had disappeared. Like old times, like we had always been together.

Eventually, we took a break from our stroll, on great granite slabs by the shore. A fine mist blanketed the beach to the west. The sky was pale grey, and the faded leaves danced in time with waves. It was warm enough for us to take off our shoes. We listened as the waves crested against large pebbles in the sand. I’m confident I didn’t say anything substantial that day, not about my feelings for her or my regrets, and she didn’t mention Jim. We didn’t say much at all; we shared unspoken memories instead. I recognized them in the twist in her smile, the light in her eyes, and the curve of her hip. I hope she recognized something in me. We sat by the stirring water for an age. We grew old together for a while.

She didn’t mention Jim.

After we left the beach, we walked barefoot along the boardwalk. I carried both pairs of shoes in my bag. Our hands brushed gently like two leaves from a fallen tree. The little finger on my right hand joined her left. The evening mist tickled our ankles. Before I left her, Summer’s eyes looked young again. Their grey rims had cleared. I aged ten years at that moment as she regained her youth. It was good to be with her again. Still, seeing Summer twice in one week was too much for me. I had made the right decision by closing that door on our relationship. Whatever stability I had found was lost. My bad habits were waiting for me in a corner with a baseball bat, ready to knock me down. With another bump, the record skips, a pinball is loaded in the chamber, and the fragmented magnetic cycle continues.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Hedonism: The belief that pleasure, or the absence of pain, is the highest moral principle for every decision. Pleasure can be many things. I would count the struggles with my guitar as a pleasure. The challenge therein does not cause any pain. Reading is a pleasure, as is my creative writing. All these positive pleasures counter the ever-present lasting pain. Hedonism finds value in the positive and denounces the importance of pain. It is an ethical philosophy. Debauchery is not. As a bad habit, indulgence in sensual pleasures is not nearly as bad as self-indulgence. After my time with Summer, I needed something less destructive and potentially future thinking. I felt that I found this in Grace.

* * *

Grace was a young, chatty, and attentive redhead. She was new to our firm. At first, I avoided Grace like I did most people. I was polite and distant whenever I passed her in the hallway. I didn’t see any point in treating her any differently from anybody else. But on her second day, Grace cornered me and started chatting about herself. She gabbed, and I listened. I found out that she had a boyfriend of three years, a 32-year-old VP called Hank. Hank worked in sales on the fourteenth floor. I hadn’t met Hank or anyone from the fourteenth. Grace assured me that their relationship was “nothing serious.” Hank was six years older than Grace and wasn’t interested in commitment. Hank didn’t think she was pretty, she said; didn’t I think she was pretty? It was close to lunchtime when her jabbering slowed. I tried to make a polite exit, but she put her left hand on my shoulder, then rested her right finger on the bony arch of her cheek.

“So?” She piqued. “What do you think?” She twirled the loose knots in her amber hair.

— Pleasure or pain? Hedonism or debauchery? —

Grace drifted to and fro as we stood by the elevator, and her thigh would frequent mine. Finally, I told her I had to go for lunch and left her standing there. She raised her hand to her face in the ‘call me’ position and winked. I mimicked the action. Eventually, Grace and I went out for dinner after work. Then I took her home to her apartment and slept with her. I didn’t care for her, and she didn’t care for me, but sleeping together was comforting, if not inevitable.

This was a week after my walk by the lake with Summer. This was not a one-night stand for comfort or revenge. This was a new habit, that I hoped would bring about a positive change in my life. Maybe I did not need to be alone to be happy.

Grace continued dating her VP boyfriend; I stayed single and kept to myself at work. We met at her place occasionally to make love. She would chatter before or after sex, and I would listen. Spending time with Grace helped build my confidence in a very different way than being with Dr. Wong or my destructive one-night stands. I never opened myself to Grace as I had with Summer, but I didn’t have to. Grace’s trivial problems reflected my deep-set emotions somehow, which put my life into perspective. I started to feel like we could work, like maybe I didn’t need to objectify her.

After a few weeks of keeping our affair out of the office, I asked Grace if she was okay with going public. I was ready to take that first step. “No. I don’t think so,” she said. Grace was still committed to her haphazard boyfriend. I decided not to challenge her as I didn’t have a good enough reason to ruin a good thing.

By mid-September, Grace and I had made a habit of staying at her place to have sex in the mornings before work. On one such morning, she pulled the sheets over her breasts, sighed deeply, then smiled. I smiled back and nuzzled my nose behind her ear. Without missing a beat, she asked, “Have you been tested?”

— Tested? —

I told her I got tested before we started our affair and reminded her that she was my only sexual partner.

“I think Hank is cheating on me,” she said.

“Why would he do that?” I asked. Why wouldn’t he? I mean, they weren’t serious.

“My GYN told me I had trichomoniasis. Fuck knows what that is,” she said, “but apparently, I have it. I don’t have any symptoms, thank god.”

“Okay,” I said. I figured Hank got infected by another partner. Enough said.

“Do you get an itch when you piss?” she asked. Grace’s crass side stayed out of the office. At work, she was upstanding, and neither of us stepped out of line.

I looked to the ceiling with my arms behind my head and sighed.

“Trichomoniasis is asymptomatic in men,” I offered.

“I’m supposed to take antibiotics, Charlie. I don’t want to take antibiotics; they’re not safe.” Grace paused, “And I’m supposed to tell all my partners.”

— All her partners? —

“Consider me told. Besides, we’ve been using protection, right?”

The skin beneath her eyes tightened. It was subtle. Her face turned green.

“Have you told Hank?”

No response. I keep my mouth shut.

With a wink, the colour returned to her face, and she let the sheet fall from her chest, showing the swells of her breasts, hips, and rounded tummy. Then she crawled on top of me for one last go before work.

My phone rang as I dressed while Grace was in the shower. I looked at the call display; it was Summer.

“Hey, Charlie,” she said, “I’m not waking you, am I?”

My body seized and released, followed by a short-lived bout of the shakes.

“Hey, Sam, I’m awake,” I said while yanking up my khakis. “What’s up?”

I strained my ears, listening for clues to her state of mind. Was this a happy call, or was something wrong? I recognized that I hoped to hear bad news, wanting to play the hero to rescue her. I’ve reflected on that feeling many times.

“It’s my birthday, silly.”

I couldn’t believe it. I checked my calendar: Wednesday, September 13, 2017.

“I’m — happy birthday, Sam,” I said.

“You’re blushing, I can tell,” she whistled through the receiver. The truth is that I was pale as a ghost.

“Yeah, you got it,” I said. I blanked on Summer’s birthday last year but had seen her less than a month ago.

“So,” Summer dragged the vowel. “I was wondering if you wanted to attend my birthday party.”

“Tonight?” I cut her off as my heart skipped.

“Not tonight, silly,” she said. “I booked a party venue on Friday night. I was going to go with our work friends.”

Our work friends. That didn’t sound as strange as you’d think. I planned to decline, but it felt good to be included. Maybe it was time to stop fighting for the future and commit to my past.

“I’ll send you a link so you can pay ahead of time and skip the ticket line, Charlie.”

Grace stepped out of the shower as I hung up with a towel around her head. Droplets glistened from the light of the window on her delicate skin.

“Who was that?” she asked.

I put on the rest of my clothes and left the question unanswered.

* * *

Like my one-night stand with Dr. Wong, my relationship with Grace was less destructive than my malicious affairs. I wanted those women to feel my pain. In contrast, I did not want to hurt Grace, nor did I want to hurt myself. I truly believed that being with Grace was a good idea. Looking back, I would classify my actions as debauchery, an excessive indulgence in sensual pleasures. Sex with Grace was incredible but not always positive. Nothing we did together brought me closer to my objective sense of peace. And I would never start a family with her. That was out of the question. Grace was attractive and great in bed, but we called it quits that day. Soon after, she broke up with Hank, quit her job and moved to Germany, almost like our relationship never happened.

It’s funny, but Grace sometimes reminded me of my mother.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I was indifferent on Friday morning, two days after I broke up with Grace and the day of Summer’s birthday party. There was a certain curiousity about seeing Summer and our friends but hesitance over seeing others like James or Lauren, the Lure. I finished work quickly and left the office at 5:30, deciding to walk to the venue, hoping the cold might give me time to reflect. I left the straight path up University Avenue to weave through the college campus. Soft white powder covered the sidewalks; a light breeze made the snowfall dance. Snow in September was rare but not unheard of. I stared into unlit classrooms and empty dormitories. I was the only person outdoors and felt comfortably alone as the evening light fell.

It was dark when I got to the venue to meet my friends from another lifetime. My determination to ignore James and Lauren seemed pointless by this point. This day would pass like any other. It was not in my power to disrupt that flow any more than I could stop the wind from brining on the cold. I scanned the strange faces in the lineup, looking for anyone familiar. Unfortunately, none of my friends had arrived, so I took my place at the end of the ticket holders’ line and pulled up the virtual ticket on my phone. Doors open at 7:30, it said. The time was 7:37.

“Hey there, stranger.” I turned to the familiar voice. Summer’s face was hidden by a navy-blue parka, not unlike when her pink cap disguised her from me on the train. It was only a month since I last saw her, and still my heart skipped a beat.

“Hey, Sam. I’m glad to see you.” I hugged her and gave her a peck on her cheek. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

“I just wanted to say —”

“Chaaaaarleeeeee,” Soo Jin cut me off and joined our party of two. She wore a tight-fitting black coat with a warm inner lining. Her long, straight black hair was topped with a toque.

“Hi Soo, how are you?” I muffled through her shoulder as she wrapped herself around me. “I’m good. Still good,” she mooned.

A moment later, strong arms reached around my rib cage, and a familiar chin rested on my right shoulder. “Ash, how are you?” Her coat was loose-fitting, thin, but well insulated.

My head was swimming, but I could keep my feet below me. This was more difficult than I thought. It was one thing to see Summer again, but Ash and I hadn’t talked for a long time. I needed to ground myself.

“What happened to Sam?” I stuttered.

“I’m right here, dummy,” she popped up behind me.

Ash dragged my attention back to her.

“It’s good to see you too, Charlie. I’m doing great; thanks for caring.”

“Ya, it’s been a long time, Ash. I’m sorry.”

The ticket holder’s line started moving.

“Is it only the four of us?” I asked into the cold night air. Summer led the way, Ash grabbed my jacket, and Soo Jin entwined her arm with mine. The winding line led to a dark side entrance. The club towered above us as we got closer to the door. There was no sign of Lauren, and James was thankfully absent.

“Tickets and ID.” The security guard stared me down as I fumbled for my phone and wallet. I showed the scanner man my e-ticket. “Coat check’s inside, to the left.”

I’d lost track of Summer, Ash, and Soo Jin while I checked my coat.

“Oh, good. I found you,” Soo Jin came running. I welcomed another hug. Without her coat, she wore a loose, long-sleeved black cotton dress; black leggings and flats completed her outfit.

“Where is everyone,” she asked. — My question exactly. I looked around the club. High ceilings bathed in purple light.

“James, it’s James,” Soo cried out.

— shit —

I followed her gaze; James stood out in the crowd. I still didn’t like him, but he was as good an anchor as any. Once we found big Jim, Summer and Ash were sure to turn up.

“Hey, Jim. How’ve you been?” I turned his strong-handed shake into a friendly tap on the shoulder.

“There’s food back there,” he motioned, chin over the shoulder. “Samantha will be there with Lauren.”

— shit —

Even from a distance, I could see how The Lure’s charm cast a spell on others. Her smile was curt; paired with her pale freckles and sharp eyes, she was a catch, and many men were fishing. Soo Jin, James, and I walked over to them.

“Nice to see you again, Lauren,” I said with a jaw-cracking, unnatural-looking, forced grin. She repeated the aphorism back to me. Her smile, it was something. She was damn cute. I don’t remember what she was wearing but for that smile.

“Come on, Harley,” Ash showed up from nowhere and grabbed me. “Let’s get some drink tickets.” She dragged me away, hoping to keep me to herself, but Soo Jin followed us. With Ash on my right and Soo Jin holding my left hand softly, we waded into a sea of bouncing bodies. There were six food stations and three drink lines on the main floor, but only one place to buy drink tickets. Soo Jin and I planted ourselves in the drink-ticket line while Ash ran off, hoping to find a shorter queue.

“So, how are you, Charlie? I miss you.”

“I’m doing okay, Soo. I miss you too.” I hesitated a little. “I miss everyone.” Soo Jin rested her head on my shoulder. I didn’t mind; having someone familiar lean against me felt good. I rested my lips against the black hair that framed her pale forehead. I nearly kissed her but thought better of it. Ash returned soon enough and told us about a shorter lineup upstairs. I slipped away from Soo Jin and followed Ash while Soo Jin drifted behind us. The second floor was less crowded but noisy, and the music was too 90s for my liking. Still, it was easier to navigate the crowd, but there wasn’t a moment where my body wasn’t intimate with another human. The smell of sweat was fresh and not too off-putting. I did my best to follow Ash’s lead, but I had to ensure we didn’t lose Soo Jin. I trailed my left arm so her soft fingers stayed in touch with mine.

“It’s a little further in, Ash yelled toward us. I grabbed Soo Jin’s hand and held her tight as we rushed forward.

“Finally.” Ash turned to us and yelled into my ear. “How many drink tickets do you want?” The noise was deafening, but Ash’s voice pierced through like a banshee’s.

“Three,” I said,” but I’ll get my own.”

“You bet your ass you will. What do I look like, an ATM for your service?”

I smiled at Ash and turned to check in with Soo Jin. “Are you getting any drink tickets?” She shook her head. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked, and she blushed, then turned her eyes away. Her lips said, “No.”

We got our drink tickets, but the lineup for alcohol was too long. We decided to try the third floor instead, luckily, the drink lineup was shorter up there. I ordered a beer in a can. Ash ordered an unusual Caribbean fusion drink. Soo Jin continued to trail behind us, distracted by the urban sculptures hanging from the ceiling and tucked into corners. I noticed a closed-off art exhibit to the right of the stairs with a sign: NO DRINKS ALLOWED. I filed it away as a place to hide if my system collapsed. It was time to find the rest of the gang on the main floor.

Jim’s capped skull towered over the crowd, standing apart from the others. James and Samantha had canned vodka ciders. Lauren was drinking beer like me. The three of them were trying to match the beat of a groovy live band. Lauren looked to have the rhythm right, but James and Sam’s awkward pulse offset any sense of timing.

“This music is so,” Summer started. “— snoring?” Lauren finished. “Ya.”

Everyone else agreed. I thought the band was good, but who was I to argue with youth?

“We should hit the second floor,” Ash offered. “They were playing 90s hip hop a minute ago.”

“Come on, Jim. Let’s go, big man.” He stared at me and followed along. Ash led the way, followed by Summer and Lauren. Soo Jin was hanging off Lauren’s shoulder. I followed along behind them to make sure James came with us, he was part of our team, and we wouldn’t get through the night without him.

We wove between the stiffs on the second floor and found a decent space on the dance floor. The Jackson Five were singing — a welcome change to the music from earlier. Lauren was going all out; that girl didn’t care what anyone thought about her. She was a welcome sight with this crowd; James bobbed his head and moved his feet one at a time. Ash raised her arms to the rhythm. Sam was still trying to find her zone. And Soo Jin swayed left to right, then back to the left. Me, I found a rhythm that matched Lauren’s. I was glad to dance. Where would I be if I had been more open with my colleagues, more welcoming? I should have done this more often, with Ash, when I had the chance.

I was vibing off Lauren’s energy. She was hot, I couldn’t deny it; she’d tilt her chin and look at you like she meant business. I admit I was drawn to her but knew where that attraction would lead; nowhere good. Glancing over at Sam; she did not look happy. A strange thing since it was her party.

“You okay, Sam?” I asked.

“Ya. This is fun.” She smiled and blinked her eyes toward James.

He stood a few paces away, staring at nothing. I couldn’t believe she’d let a guy like that bring her down. The next song was a jig, so I grabbed Jim’s wrist and got him to bounce; Sam followed suit. Ash and Soo Jin were bobbing their heads with us — Lauren was still lost in her pulsating cadence. We all worked up a good sweat, even Soo Jin wiped a delicate sheen from her pale forehead.

When the song was over, Jim was gone. I looked at Sam and shrugged.

“He does that,” she sighed, “not his scene.”

“Can I get you a drink, Sam?”

She shook her head. “You go ahead.”

I headed to the bar with my second drink ticket and ordered a gin and tonic. Ash sidled up to me. I put my arm around her shoulder, and we danced a bit with drinks in hand.

“It’s good to see you, Ash.”

She smiled and turned her head, ignoring me on purpose, and danced us back toward our circle of friends. I raised my head to see where James was hiding; nowhere I could see. I could tell that Summer was looking for him too.

“Are you okay?” I asked her again.

“Meh. Jim does that. No big deal. He lets me do my thing. I let him do ... whatever.”

The music droned on, my feet were tired, and I was ready to go. I took my last drink ticket from my pocket and returned to the bar.

“Have you seen Soo Jin?” Ash yelled from my left as I was ordering my last drink.

“What,” I replied. “Has she gone missing?”

“Yes, I think so.” Each word was pronounced.

“Did you text her?” I asked. Ash said she did. I took my phone and punched a quick message:

where r u soo?

“We should look for her?” Ash grabbed my left arm before I got my drink and led me through the crowd. I turned back to our empty circle. James was still nowhere to be found, Sam was checking her phone, and it looked like Lauren had disappeared to the washroom.

Ash and I cleared the first floor. We scanned each food stand, drink stand, and the crowd. I headed to the front entrance to check with security. I couldn’t find Soo Jin anywhere. I assumed that Ash checked the washrooms. We headed back to the second floor. I searched to the right, Ash to the left. Sam was still on her phone, with no sign of Soo Jin, James, or Lauren.

“I’m going to the third floor, Ash.”

“Go ahead,” Ash shouted up the stairs. “I’ll keep looking down here.”

I searched the third-floor crowd and circled back without finding Soo Jin, Jim, or Lauren. As I headed back to the stairs to see if Ash had any better luck, I noticed the NO DRINKS ALLOWED sign by the art exhibit. Maybe Soo Jin went in there to wind down. Problem solved, I’d peek in, find Soo Jin and head back to the party. I trusted James and Lauren to find us on their own.

The din of music and chatter faded as soon as I left the dance floor. It was peaceful in the gallery, almost sacred. Back-lit photos lined the labyrinthine walls, contrasting nature and urban decay. I tiptoed around each corner, hypnotized by every pixel of light. I lost myself in the maze, surrounded by magical indifference. I felt myself lift off the ground, floating through the circular labyrinth; the glow from the photos tickled my cheekbones. I kept my eyes on the floor and got lost in myself. I knew I would get trapped in my head if I stopped moving, floating, rising towards vaulted ceilings. My air-bound frictionless feet shuffled left forward, right behind. In this dream, I could hear the outside world, the welcoming alternative beats and chinny guitar noises.

— Something caught my eye. My body landed with a start. —

It wasn’t Soo Jin.

There he was, Big Jim in all his shining glory, pants around his ankles. Lauren, on her knees, stared at me, luring me in with her eyes. Join us, they said. Then she went back to work on Jim’s shiny cock.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I was standing outside the exhibit in the middle of the dance floor. Not catatonic, but close to it. I was in shock. I was in fight mode — no, flight mode. I was ready to run before I did something I would soon regret.

“I found Soo Jin, Charlie.” Ash stared me in the eyes; hers brown, mine infinitely grey. “Soo found her way back to us, after all.” Soo Jin stood with Ash and smiled; then her eyes dropped to the floor.

“Charlie,” Ash shook my right arm.

It wasn’t my place to tell anyone what I had seen. And if I didn’t leave, I’d fall apart.

“Charlie, get yourself together. Look, there’s Lauren —”

“Ash, I got to go.”

“You still have a drink ticket, silly. Besides, who’s going to dance with Lauren? You’re the only one who has that kind of stamina. She’s a ball of energy.” Ash’s words hit their mark.

“She’s a ball, all right,” I said, biting my tongue.

As Lauren rejoined our group, she grabbed Sam by the hand and twirled her around before bumping her hips with Ash. She brushed her thighs against my ass and ran her hands down my spine. I heard a “woooooo” from Sam through my clouded judgment. I turned to face Lauren, Lure. Her eyes neared my waist as she shimmied — how low can you go? She mocked me with a flash of innocence. I felt her short hair slide against my shirt as she raised herself to face me. “Want to dance?” she asked.

“I’m getting a drink,” I said and stumbled away.

The drink line was short. I asked for a rye and ginger, no ice and swallowed it. The sweet burn was a welcome comfort. I placed the glass back on the bar top and made my way to the exit.

Ash caught up to me, coat in hand. “What the hell, Charlie.”

“Ash. I’m leaving. This was a mistake.” The rye burn had moved from my lungs to my head. “Tell Samantha I’m sorry.” An alcoholic’s fog consumed me and carried me away.

Luckily, Ash followed me to the Station to make sure I was okay. I didn’t tell her what I saw. I didn’t tell her what had happened. I love her to death, but I couldn’t trust her to keep my secret. Big Fucking Jim was fucking The Lure. That would break Summer’s heart; she would die. I couldn’t keep this from her, and I couldn’t tell her either.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ash left the station after I boarded the train. She insisted I text her when I was safe at home — I didn’t feel like I would ever feel safe again. Mikaela cheated on me with Richard and Frank, Grace cheated on her fiancé with me, and now: proof that Jim was cheating on Samantha with her best friend, no less. What was this world we lived in? And what should I say to Summer? Maybe she knew what was happening; had she confronted him and come to terms with it, as I did with Mikaela? Maybe she loved him enough to be okay with his side hustle.

My mind ran in circles until I got home. I texted Ash and knocked myself out with a double of rye bourbon.

Her head bobbled over his manhood in my dreams. Their faces were hidden, but it was clear that this was Jim and Lauren.

When I woke, I tasted the bitterness of his tip on my tongue. My teeth foamed as I brushed them. My mouth was dry, my eyes were swollen, it was 5:00 am, and there was no reason to go back to bed. I stood in the shower until the water grew cold. I dried my reckless body and looked in the mirror. Dead eyes stared back. I thought about Mikaela, what she had done with Rick, and how it made me feel.

I made up my mind. I had to tell Summer what happened.

I scrambled to my phone. Two missed calls — no voicemail — and a string of texts from Summer.

12:57 am: Hey, where’d you go?

1:03 am: Charlie. Ash said you had to leave.

Are you okay?

5:14 am: I’m worried.

I wrote her a quick reply, apologizing for leaving. I told her I was okay.

I wasn’t okay. I was far from it. I changed my mind. I wasn’t going to tell her. I decided to keep my mouth shut.

* * *

I did my best to forget what I’d seen. I tried to tell myself it was a dream and nothing else. But I couldn’t get Lauren out of my head. If I secluded myself, then Ash and Summer would ignore me, and no one would know. I could return to the office, my expensive and luxuriant fortress, and focus on my predictable and empty life. I hadn’t had time to process my breakup with Grace. We could reconnect. So many unanswered questions. Was she pregnant? Did she get back together with her fiancé? Would they raise my child together? I needed solitude, to rebuild my fortress and sort through the infinite cabinets in my soul.

It was 6:30. I showered, dressed, packed a small lunch, and went to the office. It was Saturday. I had access to the building. I had access to the gym, the sauna, and the well-stocked self-serve cafeteria. I could move in here and think. Nobody would ask questions. Day in, day out, meeting after meeting, plenty of pats on the back; keep up the great work. Nobody could tell that I was distressed. Or perhaps they assumed it was part of the job. Who knows what secret desires and suffering they possessed? I’d play my part, say my goodbyes at the office, go out to a bar, then go home well past midnight to drink myself to sleep. Oddly, recognizing this familiar (though extreme) pattern eased my anxiety. This was familiar territory; I had done this before and could do it again, but I didn’t want to and didn’t have to.

Instead, within the month, I had a new pattern, compartmentalized as it was. Start the day at the office, come home, make dinner, and settle in with a record. Work was work, home was home, and everything else was irrelevant.

As before, everything was steady until it wasn’t. It was impossible to resist temptation and avoid the inevitable.

I was home, listening to a cover of Thelonious Monk’s Well You Needn’t by the Kevin McCarthy Trio. The sparse semitones played on the jazz guitar were inspiring. I tried to follow along on my clunky guitar before the phone rang — it was Ash, of course. Nobody else would call.

The SanStar crew is going to a games room tonight, she said. Did I want to tag along?

No. I didn’t.

“Come on, Charlie.”

Or maybe I did. Wasn’t this part of the cycle? I’d battled my demons again and again. And who knows what secret desires and demons my former coworkers possessed? Maybe that was the point of life, to fight and agonize together in solitude.

“I don’t want to go,” I said with a flat tone, then asked, “Is this a Hallowe’en thing?” It was Friday, October 28, and Hallowe’en was around the corner.

“No,” Ash frothed. “You don’t need to wear a costume, Charlie. So are you coming or not?

I didn’t respond.

“Samantha will be there.”

No. I didn’t respond.

“Grant’s coming to this one.”

No. And then:

“Okay, I’ll sacrifice myself for Grant’s sake, Ash.” I hadn’t seen him since before I quit. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed our pointed yet pointless conversations.

I showered, changed, pulled on some reasonably stretchy pants and an aubergine-coloured T-shirt with an off-white print, grabbed my unused pool cue, put on my coat and hat, and headed out the door. I found the aptly named billiards club, Balls, at the corner of John and Adelaide. The Billiards Club was decorated with spider webs and a combination of Q-, 8-, and eyeballs. A few people were dressed up, including the wait staff and bartenders. It was after 8:00, and our group was cleaning their plates. Ash wore a silvery short-sleeved blouse; Soo Jin relaxed in her traditional black. Summer wore tight jeans, a loose beige blouse, and an ascot around her neck. It was coloured robin’s egg blue. Mel, Annie, Nick, and Grant were at the table, as well. They rose to greet me, a soft hug from Annie, an enormous smile followed by a light kiss on the cheek from Mel, and a firm grip and a grin from Grant. I sat between Grant and Ash; Mel sat beside Grant to the right. Summer sat across from me, chatting with Annie. Soo Jin sat between Annie and Nick. This was a larger group than I expected.

Grant and I chatted a bit about jazz, before Mel offered me her last slider and the rest of her Mac n cheese nacho appetizer. I took the food and offered to buy a drink for her before I excused myself from the table.

I wove through the pool tables, careful not to bump someone’s shot. A tiny empty dance floor was at the front of the room, and a handful of brown leather couches lined the wall.

I found the bar and started a tab: Two Cruiser pale ales. I tapped my fingers on the counter to a made-up jazz rhythm in my head. The bartender nodded and filled two glasses.

I asked Grant to swap seats when I returned so I could chat more with Mel.

I hadn’t spoken to Ash, Summer, or Soo Jin yet.

“Cheers,” Mel and I clinked our glasses. “Last I heard, you were engaged.”

“Married, actually,” Mel replied.

I recognized I was diverting my responsibilities to closer friends, but I dismissed the idea and kept chatting with Mel. We finished our drinks, and our chit-chat pattered away. Wy had very little in common.

“So, how’s Charlie?” Summer interrupted us.

“I’m fine, good. It’s nice to see you, Sam.”

My autopilot responded for me, a canned response. “How are you, Samantha?” Samantha. So formal. Had I ever called her that?

“I’m. Fine. Good,” Summer mocked my response. But her smile caught me off guard. Her smile looked fixed and inviting at the same time. Was she okay? I took a deep breath.

“Can I buy you a drink, Sam?” I offered, rising quickly.

“Sure,” she said, leaning across the table to stand up. “Can I come with you?” The darkness in her eyes, the permeable ring. So familiar.

“Of course.” I tried to play it cool. My heart was racing, a myriad of what-ifs running in my head. What if she knows I know about Jim and Lauren; what if she broke up with Jim; what if I fall apart?

“— Come on, silly. Let’s go.”

Summer took my left arm and led me to the bar at the back of the hall.

We were alone in a crowded room that didn’t exist — not for us. Summer shifted to my right. I stared at the drinks behind the bar, hoping the bartender would interrupt my gaze. “Are you okay, Charlie?” Summer’s voice barely registered. I was tired of people asking me that question. Was anyone okay?

“Can I get you another pale?” The bartender saved me.

“Yes,” I said, “two of them, please.” I reminded myself to take regular, slow breaths. “On my tab.” I smiled, tight-lipped. Sam rested her hand on my right shoulder.

“You don’t look so good,” she said. Her voice was cheerful.

A cold sweat clammed up my pores.

“Do you want to go?”

A hint of trepidation in her voice. How many times had I abandoned her? Running away was part of our repertoire.

“I know you just got here, but I’d understand —”

“— Don’t be silly.” I stammered. What did she understand? That I was a failed husband and a terrible friend? Did she forgive me for my sins? I had no right to absolution. I was lying to her, keeping his secrets. I wasn’t ready to talk to her.

“Come on, Charlie, sit with me,” she said.

We grabbed our drinks, and I followed her to a nearby booth.

“Talk to me.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I just can’t.”

She reached for my hands under the table. I could see the concern in her eyes, as I’m sure she could see my tears. Her hands were delicate, quivering like a feather in the aftermath of a tornado. She tightened her grip and relaxed. She knows that I know. That’s all I could think about; she wants me to tell her. Holding her hands was like silk and razored scales all at once. If I pulled away too quickly, I would bleed.

“It’s okay, Charlie,” she breathed. “We can catch up later.”

I stood up, left her there with her drink, and walked the long way around to the washroom; I didn’t want anyone, especially Ash, to see me with tears after talking to Sam. I splashed some water on my face before heading back to our table.

Sam had brought her drink back to the group; she and Nick racked up a game of eight-ball. Mel and Annie were clucking like chickens, Grant was his stolid self, and Ash and Soo Jin were chatting as I sat down. I set my focus on the pool table. Sam bent over her cue, lining up a trick shot — I turned my gaze to the empty dance floor. Take regular breaths, I reminded myself.

“What’s got into you, Chuck?” Ash called me out. “Have you seen a ghost?”

I looked at Soo Jin.

“Me?” Soo Jin looked surprised. “I’m not a ghost.”

Soo’s long dark hair and pale skin made her the spitting image of the ghost girl from Ringu. I sat down again and focused on the table.

Deep breaths, keep breathing.

“No, you’re not a ghost, Soo. Are you?” I said with a taut smile. Soo Jin blushed despite her pale complexion.

“Look, Ash. I should go. I have an early meeting tomorrow to prepare for.”

“Sure, you do, Harley; it’s Saturday, you know,” Ash said with a wink. “Tap Sam on the bum before you go.” Was I that transparent?

Soo Jin got up from the table and hugged me. “I miss you.” I squeezed her back; I miss you too.

“I’m not getting up for you,” Ash stayed put, stirring her drink.

“Don’t look at me,” Grant didn’t get up. I patted him on the shoulder. Mel and Annie continued to cluck as I walked over to see Nick. “I didn’t even get to talk to you, bro,” Nick leaned in for a hug.

Summer walked with me to the street. Ash pretended not to stare as we walked away. I didn’t say a word. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. I tried to draw the curtain and close the windows to my being. But she saw me, naked and honest. She knows that I know. I wanted to escape, but I couldn’t have if I had tried.

After a moment, she leaned in. So close. And warm. I felt all of her against all of me. Her cheek pressed to mine. I heard her exhale; there was something — sorrow from her for me or something she kept to herself. I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t move; I didn’t hold her; I just kept breathing.

Don’t forget to breathe.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The comment about the ghost at the club — Ash had said it. Well, I had seen a ghost. It was the singular ghost of my mother and my sister. The ghost of Mikaela and Grace. And it was my ghost, and Summer’s. A single spirit for us all. Grant told me something, ages ago. Whenever you meet a ghost, don’t run away. Because the ghost will take your fear and it will kill you. This was another gem from Alan Watts. Grant finished the quote,

“Whenever confronted with a ghost, walk straight into it, and it will disappear.”

There was truth in that. It’s important to confront what is haunting you, or it will consume your every decision in life. You must own your demons to be rid of them.

* * *

I took a shower when I got home that night after I talked to Samantha at the billiards club. The warmth of the water washed the tension from my muscles. Summer didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know, and I didn’t really say anything, but I felt we understood each other. We travelled down the same stream with separate paddles but similar strokes. I understood that fixing things between Samantha and James wasn’t up to me, just like it wasn’t up to her to improve my broken life. We had to face our own battles before we could support each other. A calmness like a weighted blanket followed me as I crawled into bed. There was nothing else for me to do but wake up the next day, drink a cup of coffee, then shower before heading to the office. Then I would return home for a drink, a small dinner, to spin a record, and read a paperback. I’ve had my ups and downs, and this felt like a comfortable plateau. My plateau — a well-carved rice crop on the side of the mountains in Banaue. Lush green fields fed by natural irrigation from the rainforests, so far above sea level that a brewing storm would need to be catastrophic to affect my mood. Still, the storm was inevitable.

* * *

A week after we met at the billiards club, I received a text from Ash — an invitation to join the SanStar Crew for lunch. I was floating downriver, aligned with my plateau towards serenity — I could manage another meeting with Ash and our collective friends. I’d tend to my stressors as I’d tend to my crop and ride the waves to the ocean if needed. If a lunch date cast me into the abyss, perhaps it was time to wear my lead-lined shoes and let the storm take me.

I called the office in the morning, rebooked my meetings, and negotiated a few deadlines. I drank my coffee, showered, and dressed: a pair of jeans and a plain long-sleeved shirt. I took a deep breath and headed to the train. I was calm and ready.

“Sorry, I’m late.” I scanned our table. Soo Jin, Grant, and Ash. No Summer. I went to Ash and hugged her. “I saved you a seat next to Sam,” Ash pointed out two empty chairs. My heart skipped, and I smiled before choosing another empty seat next to Soo Jin, directly across from Ash. Grant shifted to my allotted spot: the chair next to Sam’s designated seat. Soo Jin leaned against me and squeezed my hand under the table.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Summer barreled in, out of breath. “My meeting ran late.” Her complexion was pale, and her hair dishevelled. She sat in the space next to Grant, across from Soo Jin. Soo Jin’s surveying fingers rested on my right knee and drifted up my thigh before spanning across the table and twining with Summer’s fingers.

I looked over to Ash. “Thanks for thinking of me; for inviting me to lunch, Ash,” I said.

“You think this is about you?” She grinned with a wink that implied that this was all about me and always about me.

We ordered our lunches, a Western Sandwich for Grant, two specials for Summer, and Ash: curried fish wraps. Soo Jin asked for an uncharacteristic burger, and I ordered a spicy chicken club — also out of character from my usual tuna on rye.

The Callaway conversation was light. My head bobbed from Ash to Soo and a nod to Grant occasionally. Summer and I didn’t contribute and barely looked at each other. We were spectators watching the same old game from the sidelines. I felt a gentle stroke over my wrist as I cleaned my dishes. Ash’s eyebrows raised, waiting for my reaction, and I knew it was Summer’s touch. Sam interrupted Ash’s game of cat and mouse.

“Thank you for organizing a lovely lunch, Ash.” Summer got up. “I, uh, I need to go,” she said, “To check on something. In the bathroom.”

My ears popped, registering an immense silence. Everything in my heart told me to go with her. But I didn’t dare; Ash was waiting for gossip to feed her rumours. I sat, my hands gripping my lunch tray. Time stood still until Summer returned. Her complexion was gray, like the gums of a diseased cat. The silence in my ears exploded as time crawled forward. She hugged Ash and apologized for leaving so suddenly.

“It was wonderful to see you, Charlie.”

Time slowed to a halt again as my mountain crumbled and the world fell away — noiseless chaos. Summer approached me for a hug, then backed away and left. My lead-lined sneakers kept me in my seat.

… A collapsing star without fuel offsets gravity. My outer layers explode, a supernova hidden from view. The island sinks into the sea: crushed, disintegrated. I become a mass of nothing, a neutral volcanic blackhole swallowing and expelling plateaus, peaks, rivers, and jungles. I lack gravitas where nothing is real — a purity of protons and neutrons. Emptiness, devoid of feeling. This is good for me. I am nothing in my best state. The fallen angels, my mother, my sister, my wife, my lover, they cease to be. There is only Summer; I am nothing but her stepstone, the bridge from here to nowhere. …

“Go, Harley,” said Ash. “Samantha needs you.”

BOOK THREE: FALL

NOVEMBER

“What have you learned?”

“To exorcise my demons.”

As a child, my parents would rake our yard in September as the warm bouts of sunshine started to fade. The largest piles of leaves came in October. My sister Sarah and I would dive into these massive loose structures and put all our parents' effort to waste. Our mother and father never chided us; I suspect they created these piles for our enjoyment. The leaves were gone by November, fallen to a bitter brown end. November also brought on the persistent bitter cold. Flurries started in mid-November, and winter always fell in early December. I remember rolling snowballs till they were half my size, almost taller than Sarah. We would build a snowman every winter until the year she died. With Sarah gone and after my mother left us, I would make my own snowball structures, a series of pyramids, each with a tea light in its centre. I would light the candles in the evening before bedtime, and the wind and cold snuffed them out before morning.

— Sarah left with our mother — my fallen angels.

CHAPTER ONE

The summer was over. Autumn wrapped itself around the city. Leaves were losing their colours and falling to the ground to be reabsorbed by the earth. A golden sun kept me warm as I walked through the alley behind Callaway’s toward the bridge. I wasn’t in a rush, though my presence was needed. Time was present, past, and future. Summer needed me in the present, and my past would decide our future. Crossing the bridge brought back that feeling of remorse. I should have never left her. Samantha, Sam, Summer. She was alive. She was not a ghost, I did not kill her, but would she die without me?

She was waiting on our park bench. Her chin rested on her chest; she looked sick, ready to throw up. I could relate to that feeling. Summer was lost in her personal cloud of mystery as I approached. Sitting next to her, we stared at the sky. I felt her pain and took slow breaths to steady myself. Her grief nauseated me.

Samantha knew what he did; I recognized that look all too well. We didn’t talk. We just sat there till the day’s end. I did little to help her, and she did everything and nothing to help me, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she needed my presence, the only thing I could offer.

CHAPTER TWO

My plateau collapsed into the ocean, followed by katabatic winds forcing me towards the vortex of oblivion. But somehow, I managed to stay afloat. Connecting with Summer was my lifeline. She gave me purpose. I didn’t need to rescue her, but I needed to be there when she needed me, even if I might never see her again. In her tragedy, I was the side character, prepared to step off stage until called upon. Should I have kissed her then? No. That was not what she needed. And I don’t think it’s what I needed.

At the end of that day, we went home our separate ways. This was the last week of warm weather for autumn’s harvest.

Days later, it was cold, and I scarcely left the house. I managed to stay on top of things at work, and nobody seemed bothered by my lack of presence or purpose. At the end of a long week in November, I thought about how we had left things, Summer and me; our friendship as it was on our park bench. I poured myself a dram of Chivas Regal and settled in my armchair with a new book, Haruki Murakami's Killing Commendatore. I watched the pitter-patter of raindrops dance off the window and into the puddles on the street.

In his artful way, Murakami’s prologue describes a faceless man with a pair of eyes set in the face that wasn’t there. The man in my dreams didn’t have a face. But I knew it was Jim some of the time. His glaring eyes. Staring blankly while his Lure finished him off. I did my best not to dream. Because I didn't like what I saw and woke up feeling helpless. The nightmares were short, always leaving a glistening sheen from my cold sweats. But who was the faceless man, really? Was he me? A man designed of nothing. A man who stole the lives of women and tossed them aside when he was most needed.

I kept reading. In the first chapter, Murakami outlined his plot. After a sudden breakup with his wife, the main character, an artist moves to the mountains, only to reconcile their marriage nine months later. Nine months. — Mikaela and I grew apart slowly over five years, the years we were married. When it came time, our divorce was finalized in less than a month. There was nothing for us to reconcile. It’s hard to believe, but that’s how I remember it. We never found ourselves again. In Murakami's book, the artist's wife had an affair. But while they reconciled in the book, I let Mikaela's tryst haunt me. She haunted me still.

— A tumultuous blank. That's how I would describe the spring of 2005. My life after Mikaela. After our divorce. Yet, for all my sessions with Dr. Wong, I couldn't break through that barrier, the black oblivion. Dr. Wong helped me reconstruct my stronghold, even if it was filled with empty rooms. She helped me identify the hidden pockets in myself. Over time, with courage, I opened those doors. But the wind blew them shut unless the storm tore the rooms away completely.

Presently, the rain crashed against my small single-paned living room window. I was glad to be inside, cozy with a blanket, light pyjamas, shorts with a t-shirt, and a blended scotch to keep me warm.

My phone buzzed, so I put my present Murakami on the side table.

It was a text from Summer:

Outside

Outside? How should I process that? I looked out my window into the pouring rain. Why would I go outside? The phone buzzed again.

I'm outside. I need your help.

My heart dropped to my loins, then back to my throat. I swallowed it, then threw it back up. I measured my steps to the foyer, leaving my heart on the floor.

Tap-tap-tap. A rap at the windowpane.

I recognized her hand against the glass.

“Charlie. I need your help.” Summer’s voice muffled through the sound-permeable membrane between us. If I hovered behind the closed door — maybe she would go away. She had never crossed this threshold. I had been to her loft on her birthday all those years ago, but this was uncharted, and I was frightened of what might happen, of what I would do. I had promised myself to play the bit part in her ensemble, but this was more than I had bargained for.

— She didn’t go away.

“Are you cold?” I asked after opening the door, like a fool. Summer's hair clung to her face, wet with rain and tears. She carried a red bag over her shoulder and a small purse.

“Can I come in?”

I shook my head and then nodded. Sam tossed her sopping wet beige jacket onto a sitting chair nearby. Under her jacket, she wore a yellow summer dress with pale flowers, her hem floating just above her knees, no stockings, and ankle-high desert boots. This dress was not suited for the weather. Still, she looked magnificent. I was still wearing my pyjamas, shorts and tee. “You must be cold,” I repeated myself.

“A little,” she said with a smile.

“I'll get you a towel.”

I brought an auburn towel from the linen closet and my white robe from the bathroom. Her eyes were brighter than the week before, despite their amorphous perimeter.

“Come in, Sam, into the house.” I beckoned her to join me in the living room. “You look beautiful.” She did look beautiful, if not a little pale, and her scarlet blush warmed my heart.

“Thank you, Charlie.”

We sat across from each other in silence, and for once, time did not stand still. I was aware of each ticking second. This was real. Summer was here, and I needed to say something. But what?

She rested in my armchair, cozied in my bathrobe. Her wet hair was draped over her terry cloth-covered shoulders. “I'm leaving him, Charlie.”

I was caught off-guard. I had not known her to be so bold, at least not regarding her relationship with Jim.

It was my turn to respond. “That deserves a toast,” I replied, “to a bright future.”

Summer smiled, crossed her legs, under my bathrobe and clasped her hand below her belly.

I went to the kitchen and opened a 2015 bottle of Santa Cristina. I poured two glasses and brought them back to the living room. Samantha took her drink. “To my happiness,” she pursed her lips.

I took a seat on the couch across from where she sat. We raised our glasses. She took a single sip.

“So. Do you want to talk about it?” I asked. “About why you’re leaving, or …?”

Her warm and quiet eyes answered for her: No, I'd rather sit. So, we stayed still in silence. The rain had all but stopped. The shadowed droplets from the streetlight fell across her cheek like she was crying. I placed my hands on her cold feet and caressed her ankles; for how long, I cannot tell.

Eventually, I sat up and offered to bring a blanket, walking past the living room and kitchen to my bedroom. I collected a sheet and comforter from the linen closet. I planned to sleep on the couch and offer Summer my bed. When I returned to the living room, she was curled up and fast asleep, her naked feet tucked under my robe. I tucked the blanket around her, took her near-full glass and kissed her forehead before returning to my bedroom.

I slept well that night. When I woke the following day, Summer had gone. Maybe she went back to Jim. I don’t know. My part in her performance was over for now, and I stepped back into the shadows.

CHAPTER THREE

“Thank you, Charlie.” Her smile didn't waver. “Thank you for letting me stay here last week.”

Was it a week later? I don’t remember. The time between Summers’s visits was meaningless. What’s important is that I did what I needed to do to support her, and all other activities were irrelevant. This time, I sat on my couch; Summer sat on the armchair, and she texted before she came over. The last time she stayed with me, she said she would end her relationship with James. We toasted, and she fell asleep on the couch. I slept in my bed. We did not sleep together.

“He left me, Charlie,” she said, eyes wide as if she still didn't believe it. This Friday evening, she dressed for the weather, jeans and a grey hoodie. She also brought her coat and a suitcase. It wasn’t fear in her eyes, when she arrived. It was excitement; it was joy.

“I mean, he didn’t leave me, I kicked him out: told him to grab his things and go.”

Her voice was energizing. She projected a light that evoked my adoration, pride, and respect for her. Sure, Summer’s emotions tumbled between dark and light, like clouds passing before the sun. But the sun was brightest, nonetheless.

“I need a place to stay until he gets his shit out of my house,” she said.

Her smile was contagious. I couldn't help but feel good. I felt that champagne was in order, but a mix of San Pellegrino and Vodka was the best I could do. “You okay with Vodka?” I asked. No, thank you was her reply. Instead, we ordered a pizza, drank San Pellegrino without vodka, and shared a light conversation in the kitchen. “How long do you plan to stay?” I asked.

“A few days, maybe.” Summer waved her vodka-free drink in one hand and dangled a slice of Hawaiian pizza in front of her nose. “Who puts pineapple on pizza?”

I wasn't about to argue the merits of sweet with salty, so I replied, “I do.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” The virgin soda was clearly getting to her head.

“Charlie,” she said, “You know? You're okay in my books.”

“In other words, pineapple with pork works for you?” I said, and we both laughed, finished our pizza and cleaned up. It was getting late. Summer insisted on sleeping on the couch, so I brought a duvet and covered the pillows with a sheet. She changed into plush rose-coloured cotton pyjamas in the bathroom, brushed her teeth and bundled up in the blanket. I turned off the lights in the hall and kitchen and wished her good night.

“Sit with me,” she said before I went to the bedroom. “Until I fall asleep.”

I played my part, did what I was told, and sat in my armchair. As I sat with her, I picked up a different Murakami paperback, Norwegian Wood, and read by the moon's light. Summer didn't take long to fall asleep; she had had a long and eventful day. I put the book down after 30 minutes. Sam was snoring gently as I went to my room.

I stared at the ceiling; the stucco slowly revealed itself as my eyes adjusted to the faint light from the window to my left. I was awake. I could tell that I wouldn't sleep again before morning. Eventually, I got out of bed for a drink, mindful not to wake Samantha. I poured a cup of lukewarm water from an ewer and glanced into the living room. When I turned to go back to my room, I saw her. Summer was sitting up straight and rigid, staring at the wall. I poured another cup of water and sat down next to Summer.

“Are you okay,” I asked.

Her silence suggested not. She pulled her knees to her chest and sipped at her water.

“What have I done?” she said.

CHAPTER FOUR

… The red leaf with the dark veins. Death, decomposition, and life anew. …

… A jagged scar across Mikaela's belly. …

… Was there a baby? … Where was my child? …

My eyes blinked back to reality.

“What have I done, Charlie?”

“I don't know, Sam. But it will be okay, I promise. You should sleep.”

“I'm tired, Charlie,” she whispered. “I want to sleep.”

I placed fresh linens in my bedroom, grabbed Summer’s bag, and asked her to follow me. I told her I would sleep on the couch and left to get her blanket. Her rose-coloured PJs were on the floor when I came back. I placed the blanket over her naked body and tucked her in.

“Stay with me.”

I sat at the foot of the bed; only for a moment before crawling under the covers. We fell asleep quickly from the comfort of our warm bodies.

That night I dreamt about Summer and the faceless man, a mix of images where they were fighting and making love — the constant conflict of love versus hate. I was in the dream, staring at them. The faceless man was James. He held Samantha's breasts from behind. She was screaming at me, something that I couldn't hear. I looked down. Lauren was staring at me with her hand on my cock. I looked back to Samantha, but she was gone. Jim stood before me. Now I was the faceless man. The Lure pushed me back and climbed on top of me. She plucked my glaring eyes from my nondescript face and swallowed them. — I woke up with a start, as I came. I left the bed in silence, cleaned myself up, and then crawled back into bed, as naked as Summer, and fell back into a slumber.

The clock showed 7:00. Summer's hand rested gently on my left thigh. I got up to start a pot of coffee. I looked in the fridge; my shelves were bare. I grabbed some rye bread and made toast. The coffee was brewing, and the toast popped. The smells and noise from the kitchen drew Summer out of bed. I could hear the water running in the bathroom.

“Good morning,” Summer walked into the kitchen, wearing my robe.

“Good morning. Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

Sam pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table.

“No espresso?”

I shrugged.

“Cheese and toast?” I offered.

“Sure.”

I brought out some Emmental, buttered the toast and presented a near-empty jar of orange marmalade.

“Marmalade?” Summer winced. She sliced some cheese and dabbled the spread on top. “Mm. It's good.”

“How did you sleep?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess. Thank you again. You really shouldn't be so good to me.”

Did she even remembered waking up from the couch, that we stayed together through the early morning?

“What about you, how did you sleep?” She asked.

I didn’t tell her about my dream. I smiled and hoped she didn’t see the darkness behind my eyes.

We cleared the table after breakfast. I showered, towel-dried and decided to go out to run some errands to re-stock the fridge for my guest, buy some flowers to brighten things up and get some throw pillows and another set of bedsheets.

“I’m going out for a bit,” I said as Summer headed to the bathroom. “There are clean towels in the linen closet. You’re welcome to use anything in the house.”

I was back by noon with lunch for two (take-out Italian sandwiches). The house was empty — she was gone again. The kitchen was clean; my robe was pressed and folded in the bathroom. It was as if Summer hadn't been there at all. And maybe she hadn’t been.

A ribbon caught my eye, as I put one of the sandwiches in the fridge. It was attached to a new jar of marmalade. A note on the preserve read I can't ever repay you for your kindness, followed by a series of scribbled hearts and XOs. The warm feeling of relief flooded my body. She had been here, and now she was gone. It was the way of things — a new and slightly unpredictable pattern. Summer shows up, Summer stays, and Summer leaves. I finished my lunch, grabbed a paperback from my bookshelf — Norwegian Wood — and flopped on the couch. For a moment it felt like Sam was still there with me, asleep and out of sight, like the familiar smell of fresh, warm laundry. I put the book down after reading a few pages. Norwegian Wood is not the best book to read if you’re going through something. It’s a haunting retelling of pain and regret, death and suicide, and grief and loss. All of a sudden, the house felt empty again. That was the way of things, and I suppose I had to accept that.

CHAPTER FIVE

I hadn't slept well since Summer left. Consequently, I called in sick on Monday since I had started drinking myself to sleep, not a habit I had hoped to revisit, and I was determined to squash it quickly. Tuesday was just as groggy as Monday, if not more so. I turned off my 8:00 alarm and went back to sleep until a violent knock at the front door sobered me back to living. I looked at the clock; it was 10:30. I poured a glass of cold water from the kitchen to calm my nerves. The door knocked again, less aggressively this time. I assumed it was Samantha again, but it a tight knot suggested otherwise.

“Hold on, I’ll be right there,” I mumbled to the door.

The knocking stopped. Maybe they went away.

I turned to go back to bed until the pounding started again. It suddenly occurred to me that this could be Jim kicking at my door, his dickhead way of getting back at me for taking care of his girlfriend. Shit. I was not equipped to deal with that. I considered grabbing a baseball bat for self-defence until I remembered I didn't have one.

I tried to clear my head and arrange the words I needed to say.

James didn't strike me as an understanding guy.

Standing by the door, I pulled myself together and stood tall. It was time to face the music.

I peeked through the single-pane window in the living room like a cowardly bear cub, hoping that mama bear would come to save me. It wasn't James; it was Summer, and also, it wasn’t. There was a terrible storm driving her. I opened the door to a whirlwind of fury.

“That bastard,” Summer growled when I opened the door, “he brought her to my house.” Summer's swollen eyes and her coarse voice told the story. She had been screaming at Jim, fighting back her tears. Her kicking at my door took all her strength, and now she was as empty as a deflated football after the Superbowl.

“When did that happen?”

“Yesterday. When I was at work, he moved the last of his stuff from the house and brought her there. I could smell her when I came home, her feral sex all over my house, my couch, my countertops, our bed.”

I stepped back from the entrance to invite her in. She made no move to follow. My stomach knotted again, then flipped. I swallowed my emotions. She needed a brick wall to punch; I turned my heart to stone and waited for her release.

“He proposed to me,” she whispered, “did I tell you that?” Her pitch rose. “Fucker wants us to get married. Start a family.”

What a little shit. I kept that to myself. I took a breath and offered my hand.

“Please. Come in,” I said. “I'll make you a cup of tea.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t. I shouldn’t.”

Okay. This was her story, not mine. It’s not up to me to control the narrative. We could do this on my doorstep. I stepped out in my worn pyjamas, and we sat in the cold air. Samantha wrapped her arms around me. Her brown wool coat helped to keep me warm.

“Is she — is James still at the house?”

“You must be freezing,” she said.

“I’m not, it’s okay. Let’s talk.”

“No. I can’t. I’m so stupid.” Tears formed, threatening to fall and freeze her face into a permanent grimace.

I stood up. “You’re coming inside before you catch a cold.”

“You’re the one who’s going to catch a cold, dummy,” she almost laughed. I had disarmed her enough to get her inside. Her features grew soft, and she collapsed on my couch. I went to the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove, and poured a glass of water. I brought the water and a box of tissues to the living room. Silenced sobs muffled through her fingers. Her pain was back, but at least we were indoors.

“I hate him,” she said. “I hate him, and I hate her even more.” Summer accepted her glass of water but tossed aside the Kleenex. “I — hate — everyone.”

My throat tightened. I needed to stay stolid. As before, I sat in the armchair across from her and said nothing. There was nothing I could do but exist. My entire being focused on Summer — I am a brick wall until she needs a cushion.

“Sam,” I said eventually, relaxing my grit. “I'm here.”

Her silence continued. I let Summer’s pain flow through me She was beautiful in her sorrow, damp skin, and an inviting pout. I balled up her anger and let it sink into my soul and disappear in the maelstrom.

“I hate him,” she hissed. There was bloodshot violence in her eyes, but slowly they grew clearer. I continued to breathe in her rage, burying it with my emptiness. If she needed to hate someone, let it be me. I was nothing and had nothing to lose. It was time to take action.

“Samantha,” I started. My voice was firm, “I need you to stay away from him. I forbid you to see him.” My attempt at being belligerent failed. Samantha barred her teeth like a rabid dog, then quickly laughed. I felt foolish. But happy. For a moment, she had forgotten about Jim.

“Summer, I’m serious. You must stay with me.” I was losing steam. This was not a battle I could win. “Samantha —”

“Okay, but I hate her.” The firestorm had left her voice, and her eyes, swimming in a dam of tears, shifted as a wicked green circled her shrinking pupils. A look I’d seen before in Mikaela’s eyes. Fear grew inside me. My mother, sister, ex-wife, and lovers. They all flashed before me. I reached out, and she pulled away, like a stray in a trap, ready to strike.

“Summer, I’m sorry.”

Then she lunged, like a feral cat, tearing at my pyjamas. “Take me, Charlie. Here on the couch.”

My penis grew erect from perversion. I didn't dare move.

“I want to feel like her. And I want Jim to hate me.” Sam stood and pressed herself against me. Her warmth against my hardness. Her lips, her teeth against my throat. Her hands searched my pants, grabbing at my cock. “If you love me, Charlie, do this for me, then forget me.”

I knew what I had to do.

I put my arms around her; held her close until her chin dropped to my shoulder and her tears broke. Her breasts, her hips, her thighs melted into me. We were one. The universe circled around us, if only for a moment, until she ran to the bathroom and threw up.

* * *

I told Summer to stay as long as she wanted and asked her not to go home until she felt ready. I wasn’t heavy-handed like before. I was open and forgiving. Like before, Summer offered to sleep on the couch. I told her no. We drank chamomile tea by candlelight in the kitchen. After a long shower, she reclaimed my white robe for the third time. I lent her some grey cotton pyjamas before she crawled into my bed.

CHAPTER SIX

Wednesday morning. I hadn’t slept. My thoughts were on Samantha, on Lauren — the scent of a cheating lover. I imagined how it happened in my hours of unrest, envisioning Summer’s house: empty. Samantha coming home from work, placing her purse on a side table, sidling through her home, down the hall, drawn to the dining room table, the smell of sex, that careless lust. I imagined her pause at the stairs — to go up or down. I presumed she’d go down towards the most potent source of the scent, a rec room couch. Summer would picture Jim on top of Lauren, The Lure facing away from him — the way, I believed, Jim liked it — the way Samantha would often do it with him. Next, Samantha visualized Lauren doing things with him that she wouldn't do herself with Jim. That rage drove her back upstairs to the kitchen. Perhaps the kitchen counter was where Samantha and Jim had christened their home, the countertops now defiled by Lauren's stink. Finally, Summer would run upstairs to the bedroom, pillows displaced, the bed poorly made to mask the act.

I was up at 6:00 that Wednesday morning. The day I went to face him. I wasn't sure what I would say to James, but I hoped he would listen to reason and leave Samantha alone. I left the coffee pot on for Summer and pulled on some beige chinos, a grey shirt, and a navy-blue pullover. I tied my sneakers and started for the door.

“Charlie,” Summer called from the bedroom. “Charlie, are you heading out?” Her voice was groggy.

“I'll be back before lunchtime,” I said. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

“Okay.” Summer was half asleep. “I'm calling in sick.”

“Take the day you deserve it.”

* * *

I grabbed my ball cap and locked up the house. A light breeze followed me to the station. While I didn’t have a solid plan, I did know where James worked, in a shared co-op space on Spadina. Loosely, I considered talking to Jim to explain how hurting Samantha wasn’t helping anyone. For some reason, I thought that he would understand. Then, afterwards, I would head back home with lunch. Problem solved. Summer and I would live happily ever after. This wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only option I could think of.

On the train, I reflected on all the terrible events leading up to this point, starting with my discovery of Lauren and Jim at Summer's party. I wished it had never happened or I hadn't seen it; if I didn’t exist, the clock would reset, and everything would be all right. I knew that wasn’t true and couldn't forget what I saw. I was part of this and had to do what I could.

… The dark spot in my soul. The gaping wound is still open. Black tar and rot. It will not heal. …

My train arrived at Union Station at 8:05. Jim's office was 30 minutes away on foot. Despite cold winds from the lake, the early morning sun warmed the city streets as I walked to the harbour front.

I ordered a decent breakfast at a café: a double espresso and an English muffin with shaved Black Forest ham, eggs, and spinach greens. The sun shimmered on the water, and the breeze kept me calm. I considered the women in my life: My mother and stepmother Bernice, Mikaela, April, Grace, Samantha, and Aisha. — Ash. I hadn't talked to her for a long time. I wonder what she'd say about this, what I was doing. I'm sure that she'd disapprove — stupid Chuck.

I left the lake behind me and headed North at 9:15, pacing myself; I didn't want to be too early to face Jim, but I promised Summer I'd be back before lunch. I still didn't know what I was going to say. All I knew was that Jim didn't deserve Samantha, and Sam needed him out of her life permanently so she could heal. The closer I got to my destination, the more my confidence wavered. I found myself hoping that Jim wouldn't be there. I wasn't ready, so I sat on a bench by a parkette on Spadina Avenue. The time was 9:45. My lungs compressed under the weight of my task.

Remember to breathe.

This moment would pass, like all the others.

Remember to breathe.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jim's workplace, The Catch, was part of a communal co-working compound on the outskirts of Chinatown, south of Sullivan Street — the exterior facade combined soft-brown brick and grey concrete, with vaulted arches topping each entrance. The interior of the old building had refurbished wooden floors, high ceilings and lots of exposed brick, but modernized elevators broke the illusion of the commune vibe. The electronic elevator’s voice-activated touchscreen asked me where I wanted to go. The Catch, I said. The elevator brought me to the fourth floor.

A tall and well-dressed office clerk with tanned skin sat to attention when I arrived.

“Does James Palliser work here?”

“Yes, James works here. Are you scheduled to meet him?” the clerk replied.

“I'm just a colleague — a friend, actually.” It was a difficult lie to swallow, but I feel I was convincing.

“I'm sorry,” The tall, tanned clerk continued. “Mr. Palliser stepped out for a moment.” Then, after a pause, “Shall I leave him a note?”

I shook my head, took a calming breath, stepped back into the elevator, and left the building. Relief and a fresh cool breeze flooded my adrenal cortex. I felt sated and cheated all at once. With all my energy drained, I needed to sit down, but I decided to keep moving. I focused on what to buy for lunch. Maybe focaccia, arugula, and prosciutto. I still had plenty of cheese at home. I'd make some delicatessen sandwiches.

“Hey. Charlie.” James Palliser, Jim, walked out of an alley next to the office compound, toked a joint and stared at me, and I stared back in disbelief.

“So. What? Are you here to tell me where to keep my dick? I know Sam went to see you,” he said. His eyes pinched, and my stomach squashed.

“C'mon, fuck, why are you here?”

“You need to go. Leave Sam alone,” I started. “She doesn't need you. She needs to heal, to stay away from you.”

I'm still trying to figure out what I expected him to say. Jim was a man of few words. He took his time, but his words came out eventually, “Charlie. What does a washed-up loser like you know about the intimacies between a man and a woman?” Once he started, he did not stop. “You're a broken man, Chuck: no family, friends, or life. Even Samantha doesn't like you. She's just using you to back at me.” The tightness in his jaw warped into a smile. “Did she ask you to fuck her, Charlie?” He let the question linger. “That's what she does, you know. It's the only way she can make herself feel wanted. I fucked her the other night when she came home. I fucked her and Lauren. Because that’s what I do.”

The muscles in my forearms pinched as I stood my ground.

“So, did you? Did you fuck her, Charlie? Did you fuck my fiancée?”

I shook my head.

“That's too bad. That might have made us even. She could have come back to me to get what's coming.”

Was there some truth in his words? Was Summer using me to get back at Jim? I didn't want to believe it, but his shots fired and hit their mark. “You're a nobody, Chuck. Face it. Now go back to Sam and tell that whore to come home.”

Of course, he was right. I’m sure James knew nothing about me beyond what Summer had told him. If he called me wasted, empty, adrift, he'd learned it from her. She knew I'd confront him. She knew what he'd say. I imagined Sam at my house, texting him and laughing at me. Jim is an asshole, but maybe they're meant for each other, taking advantage of my pathetic sympathy and loathsome self-esteem. I backed away from the alley, the defeated fool, as Jim finished his joint. I had nowhere to go. I would have to face Samantha if I went home, and I wasn't ready for that. Instead, I resorted to the worst of my habits like a true coward. I couldn't handle myself when Mikaela left me, so I abandoned her and turned to the bottle. The inevitable outcome would be that Samantha would return to Jim, and I would lose her. The whiskey bottle called me back.

… Tar and rot. Blood on fire. Darkness in my heart. …

... Help ...

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Charlie. You stupid, Chuck.”

Ash smacked me up the side of the head.

“Who the hell do you think you are, doing this to me?”

When she found me, I was halfway through the cheapest bottle of Whiskey I could buy. I lay slumped behind a concrete barrier within stumbling distance of the liquor store. I am curious to know how Ash found me, but willing to forgive any illegal device tracking she might have on me. I must have texted her something awful for her to leave work in the middle of the day. I checked my phone later — what I’d confessed was horrible — nothing about Samantha, but I texted terrible things about myself.

“Tell me who the fuck raised you to be such a fool, Charlie Parker?” Ash's words bit down hard.

She was right. I was a fool. But what a question, who raised me? My dead mother? My ex-wife?

All the women in my life, including my sister, had abandoned me.

Visions of childhood slam-danced through my skull. I was thrown from person to person and place to place. My mother left me, my sister let me, and then my father. Where was he? Was he dead, too? Ash’s face loomed over my nightmare, the only constant, always there, dragging me out of trouble. Who the fuck raised me to be such a fool? It was Aisha Sayed, my lifelong friend; she had only herself to blame for my shortcomings.

“Let's get you home, you stupid drunk chucklehead.” Ash’s voice was forgiving.

* * *

Ash pulled up to my driveway. “Oh, my god. How stupid are you?” Ash noticed Summer’s silhouette from the living room window. “I'm not walking into that mess. You're on your own.” Ash gave me a crushing hug with more strength than I could return. “I hope you know what you're doing, Harley.”

Ash’s car drove away as I fumbled with my key at the door. Summer opened the door before I could unlock it.

“Was that Aisha?” she asked. There was a chirp in her voice.

I stared past her through bleary eyes. She didn’t sleep with Jim — that was his ruse. No, Summer was true to herself and honest with me. If she could forgive my failures, I would have her.

“Charlie, you look awful.”

A myriad of odours wafted through the house, butter, rosemary, eggs. I felt sick and stumbled to the couch. Sam brought a blanket and touched my forehead with her palm.

“What happened?”

I shook my head. I didn't have an answer.

“I'll be right back, Charlie,” she said and ran to the bathroom to run the tap in the tub. A few minutes later, she came to get me, walked me to the bathroom, helped me undress, and carried me into warm water. Summer didn't say anything or flinch at my naked, broken spirit. She bathed me like a child. The warm water soothed my tension but did little to slow the onset of a migraine. I couldn’t think. It took all my strength to keep me from drowning. Summer ran a damp cloth over my body and towelled me off as the tub water down the drain. The spinning water made me dizzy — the oblivion of my dark spirit.

My robe smelled like her, warm honey and lemon.

“I made us lunch,” she offered, “scrambled eggs.” I suffered a gag and didn’t throw up. The scent of ketchup made my stomach turn. I picked at my eggs in silence. I couldn’t eat.

“Thank you,” Summer said with the softness of a gentle storm. “I know what you tried to do.”

Tried to do? Failed to do. Still, she thanked me. Sam took away my plate. I tried to get up to help but couldn't find my feet.

“Sit down, dummy,” Summer's tone was gentle but nonetheless left me at an expectant cliff. She did the dishes while I waited at the kitchen table, trembling like a defeated child, waiting for retribution. It never came.

With the dishes dried, Summer helped me to my bed.

“You have a guitar,” she said.

I nodded from under my covers, with nothing else to say.

Summer picked up the guitar and started to play beautifully.

I don't remember much after my head hit the pillow, the song she was playing — something by the Beatles; Norwegian Wood, perhaps.

When I woke, it was 3:30 in the afternoon, and Summer was asleep beside me; her arm lay across my waist.

I summoned my strength and left Samantha napping in our bed. Our bed. She was still here; she hadn’t left.

Still, I was determined to make her proud and fix things so she could live a happy life with or without me. My head ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what to do. And I had to be quick.

I dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt. It was 4:00 when I left the house; the late afternoon was warm with a mist of rain. Dark clouds to the east matched my mood. I knew the flaw in my logic. It wasn't my responsibility to fix anything, but this was a romantic notion that I couldn't shake. To that end, I bought a baseball bat at the local sports outlet, a Louisville Slugger, to slay the dragon.

Blackened clouds released their downpour.

CHAPTER NINE

The storm came and went. I left the Louisiana Slugger with the dragon. I did what I was meant to do. The damsel would not suffer the dragon any longer. There was nothing left for me; my negligible purpose erased from the storybooks. And Summer was free to live the life she deserved.

I was home by 9:00 pm that night. Cold, Cold Heart, by Hank Williams, lulled in the background. Summer was reading one of my books on the couch, In a Grove, by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa.

“How was your day, hon?” She sounded quaint. Like we'd lived like this for years.

“Had to go to work,” I said, “to wrap up some loose ends.”

“Oh yeah? Is your headache better?” she asked, then went back to reading.

“I'll need to go in tomorrow afternoon to finish the job, but I'll be home in the morning.”

I watched her bare knees straighten becoming long legs. She wore a loose, patterned skirt and a white blouse. “You go shopping today?” I asked.

“I did. Do you like the outfit?”

I smiled, yes. Summer hadn’t returned to the office since she came over on Tuesday night. Today was Friday. She would likely go back to work on Monday. Whether she would stay at my house or not, I couldn’t guess.

“The weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow,” Summer perked. “Did you want to go for a morning walk?”

“I'd like that,” I said and sat beside her for a time. At least we could walk together before the end. Then I would need to clean up after myself and decide how to manage my future. Perhaps my relationship with Summer was over. I had done what I needed to do, and she was free to choose for herself. Our options would be limited, once I surrendered myself for what I’d done. The vortex was calling. And my reckoning was upon me.

The Hank Williams record stopped spinning, so I swapped the Dear John single for Alexandra Stréliski's Pianoscope. Stréliski's Prélude captured my mood, joyful (I was glad to be with Summer) and sad for the pendulum’s swing. As the record played, I went to the kitchen to prepare chamomile tea. I felt relaxed despite everything that had happened earlier that day with James. … Black tar and blood. … A cup of tea would maintain the calm for the evening so that I could be present for Summer. Sous l'eau played on as I brought cups of tea for Summer and myself. Staccato notes struck against dancing arpeggios C, E minor, and A minor. Summer’s hand fell to my knee as I sat beside her, and I rested mine over hers.

That night we shared our bed with comforting intimacy. We didn't cross any lines but weren't shy about our bodies. Morning came. We ate breakfast, another attempt at Summer's scramble. The eggs were delightful. After a refill of coffee, we took turns in the shower and dressed. I put on a pair of faded blue jeans and a long-sleeve tee. Summer put on an auburn dress with a built-in romper. The sunshine outside was bright, and we didn't need jackets despite the light November breeze.

Hand in hand, we walked to a park near my house and followed a short forest trail — this was the same trail I took after losing Mikaela, a path that led to our destruction. I remembered the frost that covered the fallen leaves when I abandoned my life all those years ago. Autumn had frozen, and I kept walking. Through the winter, I walked at night and slept away the days. I became the ice. And I didn't thaw in the spring — maybe I never did, not before meeting Summer. I lost myself for a long time and still feel cold blood running through me.

I've come to terms with this. In my absence and self-desolation, Mikaela killed herself. She was dead to me and to the world. Mikaela's suicide was my fault, and I will carry that with me to my end. She sliced herself open from her pubis to her navel after drowning in pills and absinthe. I was told she didn't feel any pain as she bled out in her apartment. Mikaela didn't leave anything behind, didn’t have a family beyond me, and had long since abandoned her friends. The landlord and police cared for her body, which I could not identify as Mikaela, not in my mental state. Ash knew about Mikaela's death, but she shielded me from that pain and brought me back to some semblance of life.

* * *

Tree branches trembled in the breeze while the sun offered to keep us warm. The wind picked up, and we had tears in our eyes. Summer turned to face me. Her hands touched my forearms; I clenched her arms in mine. If I leaned in, I could kiss the dew from her brow; smell the salt from her fresh tears. My hands climbed to her biceps; her arms reached around my waist, fingers tiptoeing down the small of my back. Her breasts pressed against my chest. Her breath tickled my ear.

“I love you,” she said, “you know that don't you?”

I did. But I knew that Summer’s love was different from mine. I kissed her ear — she looked up. I kissed her again, this time on her cheek.

“I love you,” I said, and she smiled. The words that had tiptoed and teased finally found their home.

My hands fell to her waist, and she pushed against me. I wrapped my arms around her and held on. She started to cry. She knew how fragile we were and that everything could end. Her tears landed on my shoulder, warm and sweet. We danced like this, forever standing, sharing our pain, missing our losses, and wanting the love we never had.

“Kiss me once before you go,” she said.

I lifted her chin. The strength of our sorrow brought us together for one moment. Lips pressed and open. I took a breath, and she entered me, warm, soft, and perfect. Our tongues danced with sorrow as our spirits crossed. We lasted forever, and the moment was over.

Hands between us, touching fingers. I turned away and walked down the path to face my judgement, leaving loneliness behind me. Summer stood there alone in the sunshine. She knew she might never see me again.

WINTER, SPRING, AND SUMMER

THE END

“Did you kill him?”

“The dragon? Yes. The dragon is dead.”

“What will you do?”

“Stay vigilant.”

“Vigilant?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” I pause. Trying to find the words. “Is your husband home?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Is there a baby?”

“I don’t know. Yes. There is a baby. Samantha is pregnant.”

“And James Palliser?”

“Yes.”

“You will stay vigilant.”

I nod. I went to see James Palliser. I had every intention of beating him to death to save Samantha.

It would have been the end of my life with Summer.

Dr. Chün (Alice) Wong sits opposite me in a plush walnut brown chair; the matching table between us shines with a gloss I’ve never seen at my house. She met me at the front door, and we are in her living room. This isn’t a professional call, and we aren’t sleeping together. The lights are dimmed. It’s late in the day.

“And Grace was pregnant.” Dr. Wong makes the statement (four words) She doesn’t ask, and I nod in affirmation.

— Did we talk about Grace?

“Are you the father?”

“I don’t know.”

— I could be.

Grace tried to tell me about the baby the same morning that Samantha invited me to her birthday party. Grace had intentionally stopped taking her birth control and wanted me to be the father. Or maybe her fiancé was sterile. I don’t know. Grace even sabotaged our condoms. She told me she was pregnant, and I yelled and nearly attacked her. I didn’t know what had come over me. It was a familiar hatred. One that I’d filed away, deeper than my broken love for Mikaela.

“And Mikaela, she was pregnant.” Another statement (five words).

Mikaela was pregnant. I had as much a chance of being the father as Frank or Richard. No, that’s not true. She hadn’t been with either of them for a long time. Mikaela was pregnant with my child.

“Yes, that’s why she committed suicide. She wasn’t ready to bring a child into the world.” This was a lie, and it was time for honesty. I took my time with the words. “I didn’t want to bring a child into this world.” The words lifted, drifting away like smoke from a smouldered flame.

“I left Mikaela, and she committed suicide. I created the lie — a nightmare; that she stole my child in the divorce like my mother stole my sister. But we didn’t divorce because she was dead. Our daughter was dead.”

Dr. Wong turns her head with a tilt. This is not news to her.

I visit oblivion and seek solace in Alice Wong’s grey depths.

… The scar and blood. The tar burns my lungs as I gasp for air. …

“Samantha, she is pregnant, and you’re not the father.”

Again, I nod. Samantha and I never had intercourse. We were united by pain and love but never crossed that line.

“Charlie, you should go back to her.” Dr. Wong chooses her words. “She needs you to be the father to her child.”

I know this. “But it’s not my child,” I whisper, hiding it from myself.

“I don’t think you need it to be. You love her, even though she is broken.”

Yes, that is true. Sam is broken, and so am I. So are we all.

Dr. Wong takes off her glasses. Her amber almond eyes are open and honest with me. Her eyes tell me she is broken.

“You understand why I slept with you, don’t you, Charlie?”

It hadn’t occurred to me, but yes. Dr. Alice Wong, my former therapist, needed to show me that an affair does not always lead to destruction. Although they are broken, Dr. Wong and her husband are still together. I have learned so much, released my demons, and reconciled my past. We are nearing the end, but I can feel the question between us, like a roast boar at the dinner table, where nobody wants to take the first bite. The pig is both grotesque and beautiful.

“Your mother? Can you tell me what happened?” Dr. Alice Wong needs me to tell her, to tell myself the truth that she already knows.

I could tell her. The fragmented memories and hidden cabinets found a new place of understanding in my heart. But what did Dr. Wong need from me if she had put together the puzzle? She knew about Mikaela, and Grace, and Samantha.

“In your own words, Charlie.” She read my mind.

I take a moment to collect my thoughts. and do my best to release the cobwebs from dusty tombs.

My mother left my father, and she left me. My sister did not die. I know this now. My mother took my sister with her when she left. She left us because my father cheated on my mother with Bernice, my stepmother.

My father, Mr. Parker, was not a serial adulterer. He only cheated on my mother after discovering my sister Sarah was not his daughter. My mother had had a one-night stand, and Sarah’s father abandoned my mother. When my mother left, she took Sarah. And my father married Bernice because of his guilt about having an affair.

Sarah was not my father’s daughter but my sister for six years.

“Thank you, Charlie.”

I nod. Like Mikaela’s suicide, I had buried this painful truth. It’s hard to think — life and death and rebirth. Is it my turn to live again? Am I forgiven or forbidden to move forward?

I have only myself to blame.

Closure,” Alice, Dr. Wong, says one word with many meanings.

“Closure,” I roll the word over my tongue.

“You can carry it with you through the winter and the springtime.”

“Samantha will have her baby in the summer,” I say, “and I will be there for them.”

* * *

I am forgiven.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing is described as a lonely process. Countless hours in front of a blank page or a page unvetted. Endless hours inside your head, as ideas trade places from one story to another. Summer’s Breath started as an idea based on an event evolving into a novella, until an unrelated short story suggested that the novella could be a novel.

I’ve talked through my ideas with many people and shared drafts and passages. I want to thank Melanie, Vishakha, Barbro, and Alex for your invaluable feedback and encouragement.

I’d also like to thank Bret Newton from Friesen Press. The editorial feedback from Friesen Press helped me to make the right decisions on what to keep and what to improve in the final drafts.

Thank you, Rosey, for creating a cover that captures the spirit of this novel better than I could have hoped for.

So, perhaps writing is a lonely process, but the end result is something that can be shared by everyone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Oskar is a musical, fun-loving, casual writer of poetry, flash fiction, and short stories.

Oskar was born in Sweden and grew up in Canada. He has two adult children, dogs and cats and lives in Toronto with his wife, life partner, and best friend Michelle.

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ALSO BY OSKAR WESTIN

THE BROADVIEW (A NOVELLA)

A campy thriller set in Toronto’s

Riverdale neighbourhood.

Amateur detective John McNapp is on the case when a friend ‘wakes up dead’ in The Broadview Hotel. John packs his trusty lock pick kit and heads to The Broadview in the dark of night to gather clues about the mysterious murder. During his investigation, John is thwarted by Joseph, the hotel concierge. When John's alter ego, Jack, makes poor decisions, everything falls apart. Faced with an unexpected twist, this amateur sleuth must rediscover his identity to save his friend's life and his own.