by Sara Barnard
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Grandad says to Beasey. “I’ve been waiting for you to introduce yourself, but I’m quite curious. Peyton’s father didn’t mention anyone else.”
Beasey flushes an immediate red, his eyes blinking behind his glasses. “Oh. Sorry. Um. I’m William. William Beasey.”
“I see,” Grandad says. “Well, let’s all have some tea, shall we?”
The kitchen he leads us into is big but sparse, almost too clean, like it doesn’t get used much. “So tell me,” he says, gesturing for the two of us to sit down at the table. “Why did you come to Canada?”
“What did my dad tell you?” I ask.
“That you’d run away to Canada without warning,” he says. “Something about how you want to be an artist, how you’d had some trouble at school. Is that right? I wasn’t really very clear on his explanation, to be honest with you. I hoped you might enlighten me.”
“Well, I didn’t run away,” I say. “And yeah, I want to study art, and my parents won’t let me. I felt like I was stuck, being at home, you know?” He nods, very emphatically. “In a life I didn’t want. And I didn’t have any friends,” I add. “And I was miserable, so—”
“So you thought you’d make your own way,” Grandad says approvingly. “You knew the world was out there, so you stopped waiting for it to come to you.”
I hesitate. That’s pretty true, but it sounds different, somehow, out of Grandad’s mouth, in that tone. “I guess.”
“Smart,” Grandad says. “That’s bold. Carving a life for yourself where you don’t need friends. Relationships, friendships, they’re all ties, that’s what they are. They have their value, of course, don’t get me wrong. But some people, the free spirits, they can’t be tied. It’s unnatural.”
Beasey is frowning openly, his whole forehead bunched into itself. I’m just confused.
“Artists,” Grandad continues. “They are put on this earth to reflect it. To bring a new perspective, a different way of seeing, of thinking. How can you do that when your priorities are dictated by other people?”
“Plenty of artists have families,” Beasey says mildly, which is as close as Beasey gets to being rude. “Husbands, wives. Kids.”
“So did I,” Grandad says. “For a while. And you know what it made me? Miserable. I know that sounds terrible to you. It sounds terrible to most people. But it wasn’t them; it wasn’t their fault. That’s something your father could never understand,” he adds to me, like this is an aside. “He’s always seemed to take it very personally. But I had to go—that’s the truth. I didn’t leave because of them. I left because of me.”
This is starting to sound scarily, dangerously close to my own logic for getting on a plane, coming to Canada, hitching a ride in an RV across two provinces. I had to go, I’ve been telling myself.
“Do you regret it?” Beasey asks.
Grandad considers. He really does; he takes the time to think about it, which is how I know that he isn’t a terrible person. Maybe this whole conversation would be easier if he was, but when I look at him—really look at him—I see sadness. It’s etched in every line on his face. The deep kind of sadness, settled in to the point that he probably doesn’t even recognize it for what it is anymore. “No,” he says eventually. “Sometimes I…” His voice has gone soft. He coughs. “I wish I did, to be perfectly honest with you. I wish I had the capacity to love other people as they wanted to love me. But, as I said.” He shakes his head. “Not everyone is built for that kind of life. I needed to be solitary; to be independent. And I have been, and I’ve had my art, and it has sustained me.”
“Have you been happy?” I ask.
“That is a childish question,” Grandad says, but not unkindly. “Happy is not the point.”
I feel a hand on my knee. Beasey’s gentle fingers, reminding me that he’s here with me, that we’re together, and happy, and that is the point. The whole entire point.
Grandad asks me about my time in Canada, and I tell him about Vancouver and Vancouver Island, the RV, the Icefields Parkway. I expect Beasey to chip in with anecdotes, but he mostly stays quiet, listening to me talk, eyes on my face.
“It’s been great,” I finish. The word doesn’t seem like enough, but I’m not sure any would. “Really great.”
“So where is your next stop?” Grandad asks.
I glance involuntarily at Beasey, who’s looking down at the table. “Toronto,” I say.
“Great city,” Grandad says, pleased. “I lived there when I first came to Canada. Are you flying there from here?”
“I’m actually not sure yet,” I say. “Whatever’s cheapest, I guess.” Whatever is the decision I don’t have to make right now. Whatever keeps me with Beasey for a little longer. “I guess that means flying? Or maybe a lot of buses.”
“Not at this time of year,” Grandad says. “You don’t want to be on a bus. You should get the train.”
“The train?” I repeat.
“It’s the best way to see Canada,” he says.
“Isn’t that expensive?” I say.
“And long,” Beasey adds.
“Yes, on both counts,” Grandad says. “Three days, but they’ll be life-enriching ones. And for you, Peyton, in particular.” He beams at me, like he’s actually my grandfather in an emotional way instead of just a biological one, like he’s proud. “An artist. And as for the money, don’t worry about that. I’ll pay.”
“What?” I say, so sharply it comes out rude. But seriously. What?
“I have plenty of money,” he says, shrugging. “And, as you know, not many people to spend it on. I’ll be happy to help you out with this, if you’d let me.”
“Did you talk about this with Dad, too?” I ask, trying to get a handle on the conversation.
“No,” he says. “If I was trying to garner favor with your father, I would put you on a flight home. But I’m not going to do that, because I understand what you’re doing. Your father doesn’t; that was clear. I think this is a wonderful thing you’re doing, seeking your own freedom. I’d like to contribute.”
Why does him saying he understands make me feel like I understand it all a bit less? Like his support is the wrong support to have?
“Why would you just give me loads of money like that?” I ask.
“To be clear, I’ll pay for a ticket,” he says. “I won’t be giving you any actual money.” He hesitates. “Unless you need it? Do you need money? I have plenty of money.”
“You said that already,” Beasey says, and I pinch him under the table.
“Look, why don’t you have a think about it?” Grandad says. “Whatever you decide, you should have some kind of a plan. Toronto is a long way away. I would feel better—and I know your parents will too—if I can be sure you will be arriving there safely. I’m very aware that I’ve not been a part of your life, but nevertheless I am family, and I do feel some responsibility for you. I’d like you to leave here with a ticket booked on some form of transport and an itinerary of some kind.”
Beasey and I look at each other. His face is saying, Well? and I’m pretty sure mine is saying, Wtf?! Neither of us says anything, and it’s just fringing on awkward when Grandad coughs and looks at his watch.
“I tell you what,” he says. “I’ve got a Skype meeting with my agent in ten minutes. It shouldn’t take long. Why don’t the two of you have some tea and think about what I’ve suggested? Then we can discuss when I come back.”
We nod, and he shows us where the tea bags are before he excuses himself to go to his office. Beasey boils the kettle while I dither with a couple of mugs, waiting for him to start the conversation. But he doesn’t, so it’s up to me, when we’re sitting at the table with two mugs of tea, to ask what he thinks.
“I think you should do it,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yes. That train journey will be epic. Why not? Take his money.”
I lower my voice, even though Grandad is on the other side of the house a
nd won’t be able to hear me. “He seems like a bit of a dick, though.”
“So? Even more of a reason to take his money. Just be like, Cheers, Pops. And ride in style to Toronto.”
“But what about…” I trail off, hesitating. “What about you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his face full of the confusion that must be in his head. “I wish I could come,” he says eventually. “God, I really wish I could. I’d love to see Toronto with you. Maybe even get further across Canada. I’ve heard Nova Scotia is incredible. But…”
“But you can’t,” I finish.
“I can’t,” he says. “Khalil and me… we had a plan. I have to see it through. I want to see it through. There’s so much we haven’t seen yet. It’s not that I don’t—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I’ve been thinking, though.”
When he doesn’t continue, I prompt, “Yeah?”
“The train isn’t for three more days. Tuesday, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I could hang around here for three more days,” he says. “Khalil would be fine with that.”
I laugh to stop myself getting tearful. “Would he actually?”
“Yeah. He gets this. Remember why we even came to Canada in the first place? Heather?”
“Am I your Heather?”
I hate myself for being cheesy, but then he says, “No, you’re my Peyton,” and it’s so hideously cringey we both start laughing, almost hysterically.
When we’ve calmed down, he says, “Look, what I mean is, maybe we can just have right now.”
“Right now?”
“Right now. These three days before your train. You and me in Edmonton. We’ll have an entire relationship in three days. No questioning it, no worrying about whether it’s a bad idea. Just you and me, actually, properly together.”
“For three days.”
He looks at me. “For three days.”
We can do a lot of kissing in three days. A lot of… well, more than kissing. My whole body is tingling.
“And then…”
“You’ll go to Toronto,” he says. “On the train. And I’ll…” He hesitates, then exhales. “I’ll go and meet Khalil and we’ll get back on track. But we don’t have to think about that now; that’s what I mean. What have we got to lose, really? We have to separate either way. So we may as well make the most of the time we have. Besides, isn’t this what traveling is all about?”
“Living in the moment?”
“Exactly.”
“Is this just a line to get me to have sex with you?”
He laughs in surprise, glancing around to check the kitchen doorway as if Grandad might have appeared and he needs to be embarrassed. He even lowers his voice when he replies, “Jesus, no. If you don’t want to have sex, we obviously won’t have sex.”
“But you want to?”
He’s smiling when his eyes meet mine. “Yes, Peyton. I do want to have sex with you.”
The tingles in my body ignite. Fire spreading through me, to the tips of my fingers.
“But that’s not why I’m saying all this,” he adds. “That would just be…”
“A bonus,” I finish.
His mouth twitches. “A bonus,” he repeats, a little unsteadily.
We look at each other for a long moment. It feels physical, that stare. Like he’s touching me, though we’re sitting apart. I swallow. “Sounds good,” I say.
None of us speaks when Grandad drives us back to Edmonton. Beasey is staring out the window, contemplative, in the back seat. I’m in the passenger seat, watching the road. In my bag is the travel pack Grandad has made me: my train tickets, travel itinerary, details of the hotel he’s booked for me in Toronto. I’m feeling a little shell-shocked. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting from dropping in on my estranged Grandad, but it wasn’t this.
It seems like there’s a lot we could be talking about, but we’re all silent. After five awkward minutes, Grandad puts the radio on.
When we get to Edmonton, he clears his throat and says, “Where’s the best place to drop you both off?”
I’d thought he might suggest taking us for dinner, or at least going with us for dinner, but he doesn’t. I glance over my shoulder at Beasey in the back seat, who is clearly thinking the same. “The hostel?” I ask him.
“That’s probably best,” he says. “We can figure out where to go after that.”
Beasey says a quick goodbye, gets out of the car, and heads into the hostel ahead of us, leaving Grandad and me to say our goodbyes. The last few hours have been a bit overwhelming, and I don’t really know what to say. “Thank you” doesn’t seem like enough, but also like too much, in a weird way, if I think about my dad.
“I’m glad you came to visit,” Grandad says. “If you’re ever back this way, come by again.”
I nod. “I will.”
“Good luck with your travels,” he says. “And finding out whatever it is you feel you need to find out. Enjoy Toronto, and the train.”
“I will.”
“I can’t know what goes on between you and your parents,” he says, surprising me. “Or why you really did feel the need to make this trip. But let me say this.” He pauses, then says, “I wasn’t a good father to your father. But he is trying to be one to you.”
For a second, it’s like my throat closes up. I try to smile.
“Well, goodbye, Peyton,” he says, quite formally. He pats my shoulder, which could be sweet but is mostly awkward.
“Bye—” I mean to say, “Bye, Grandad,” but it doesn’t feel like it would be right to call him Grandad out loud. Feebly, I repeat, “Bye.”
There’s a sad, dry understanding in the way he smiles at me. “Look after your dad for me,” he says.
I tell him I will and get out of the car, throwing an awkward wave behind me that I don’t think he even sees before he drives away. I head into the hostel entrance, where Beasey is waiting.
At reception, Beasey books three more nights, this time for both of us in one room. One room with just us, no one else. Just us and one bed.
Turns out, it’s not one bed. It’s actually bunk beds again, which we realize only once we’ve walked into the room.
“Oh,” we say at the same time, then both start to laugh.
“Oh well,” Beasey says, tossing his stuff onto the floor and reaching for me, one hand on each of my hips, pulling me toward him.
“Oh well,” I echo.
He kisses me, and this time there’s no one else around, no open door that anyone could walk through at any moment. I kiss him back. My whole body is saying, Hello! Yes! And so is his. His tongue is against mine and it is—oh my God—incredible. It’s fire and fizz and fantastic. It’s everything a kiss should be. It is worth everything that came before and all the loss I’ll feel when these three days are over.
It’s me who tugs him backward, toward the bed. And then… well. Let’s just say we make up for lost time.
Conversations in the dark
aka
How to have a relationship
in three days
aka
Living in the moment
aka
OMG OMG OMG
OMG OMG OMG
aka
Let’s pretend this will never end
“We should go on a date.”
“Yeah?” I’ve got no idea what time it is, but it feels moonlighty. Somewhere in the deep a.m. We’re snuggled, all cozy.
“Yeah. Tomorrow, I’m taking you out.”
“Where?”
“To the cinema. I don’t care what we see; whatever’s on. And then dinner. Somewhere Italian, with candles.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“It will be. You’ll see; I’m going to be the world’s best three-day boyfriend.”
* * *
“Oh my God,” Beasey groans, breaking away from our kiss. “We could have been doing this the whole time.”
“Could we, though?” I say. “In an RV with five other people?”
A pause. “Okay, maybe we couldn’t have been doing this the whole time.”
“If we had kids,” Beasey says. “We could name them Alberta and Louise.”
Snuggled against him, my cheek on the firm ridge of his chest. “What about a boy?”
A pause. And then, both of us at the same time, “Edmond.”
* * *
“You know what’s weird is that at my secondary school, I was so miserable, but I knew exactly who I was. Like, I had my identity. I was the lonely artist. And then at college it was like I lost myself. I wasn’t doing any art; I wasn’t even drawing. And I wasn’t lonely, on the surface of it, but also I kind of was? And now here, I’ve been so happy, and I’m drawing all the time, and I’m not lonely…” I trail off, unsure what I’m even trying to say.
“You’ve made friends,” Beasey says, like it’s obvious.
“Have I though? Or did they just kind of happen to me?”
He laughs. “That’s what friendship is. Something that just happens between people.”
Of course I think of Flick, the two of us writing notes to each other in the college library. Is that why it didn’t work between us, why we were never really friends? Because I forced it instead of trusting that it would just happen?
“I guess I’m not sure who I am now. Who I’ll be when I get back.”
“You want me to tell you?”
I look at him. “I don’t know, do I?”
He laughs again. “You’re sharp and bold and independent. You take risks and chances. You let people be exactly themselves, and you don’t make them feel bad about it. You’re funny. You let other people be funny without making them work for a laugh. You’re an incredibly talented illustrator. You see something in people and you bring it to life on the page. I can’t tell you if you’re happy, because only you know that, but I can tell you that you make other people happy. Your friends all love you for that.” His smiling eyes meet mine. “Does that help?”
I kiss him on the cheek. “Yes.”
* * *