by Sara Barnard
Sleeping feels like a waste of time.
* * *
“Beasey?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing.”
Quiet.
“Peyton?”
“Yeah?”
“Me too.”
* * *
“Listen,” Beasey says. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Come with us.”
I look at him. I know what he means, but still I say, “What?”
“Me and Khalil. Come with us. We can all go traveling together. You’ve loved all of this, haven’t you? Well, it doesn’t have to end, and it can get even better. Why stop at Canada?” He smiles at me, so hopeful, the corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses.
“I… Beasey, I’d love that, but I can’t. I couldn’t. You know that.”
“Why not?”
“It would cause you way too much trouble. I’m seventeen, remember? That’s been hard enough to navigate just here. I don’t have any kind of a visa to go to the States—I don’t even know what kind of visa I’d need—let alone wherever you’re going after that. It’s just not possible.”
“We could make it work,” Beasey says, more insistent this time. “We’ll figure all that stuff out. There’ll be solutions for everything you just said. And you’ll be eighteen soon. Imagine your birthday in South America. We’ll do the Inca Trail. Spend your birthday at Machu Picchu.” He’s taken my hand, squeezing it for emphasis. “And before that, we’ll go to Vegas. You can draw the Sunset Strip. The Golden Gate Bridge. We’ll have Christmas in Mexico.”
As he talks, I can see everything he’s describing in my head. Not in full Technicolor but in graphite gray, pencil sketches of our adventures. In all of them, I’m smiling, beyond happy. Beasey and I are hand in hand.
“What about Khalil?”
“What about him?”
“Beasey, come on.”
“I was talking about all three of us,” he says. “Traveling together.”
“People don’t travel in threes,” I say. “For a reason.”
“We could,” Beasey says stubbornly. “I told you, we could make it work.”
“That wouldn’t be fair on Khalil,” I say. “You know that. Don’t do this—it’s not fair.”
“Do what?”
“Put it on me to say no. Point out obvious problems like the fact that your traveling companion might be a bit pissed off if you decide to couple off with some random girl.”
“You’re not a random girl.”
“And stop that, too. Stop picking up on one tiny thing I say and ignore all the actual points.” Is he always this frustrating?
“I just want us to be together for a bit longer,” he says. “I thought that’s what you wanted, too. And it’s not like you want to go back home, is it? Here’s a way you can travel for longer. It’s not like you have anything to go back to.”
The words stab. I frown. “That’s not true.”
“You said that yourself.”
It’s different when I say it. Hearing the words from Beasey makes them harsher, almost cruel. I think about Dad’s emails and that first morning in Vancouver, Mum sending me the phone numbers of everyone she could think of. Dillon asking if I’d learned French yet.
“My family is at home,” I say.
He’s frowning at me, genuinely confused. Have I really not talked about my family at all except to complain about them? Have I made it sound like I don’t love them?
“I thought…” he begins, then stops. I wait until he tries again, his voice uncertain. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
It is what I want. Of course it is. Traveling with Beasey, the two of us seeing the world together. (Plus Khalil.) This is a way to continue this life, to make it not a detour but my actual life.
But I can’t do that, can I? For one thing, this can’t be my life. I know I have to go back home. Maybe not immediately, but soon. My parents have struggled to understand my choice to come to Canada enough as it is; I don’t know how they’d even react if I told them I was going to start traveling properly, one country to another, with little more than a vague plan and two Scots they’d never met, one of whom I was sleeping with. (I wouldn’t tell them that part, obviously, but they’re not stupid, especially Mum.) Leaving Canada with Beasey would be putting off the inevitable. The longer I stay away, the harder it will be to go back, the wider the gulf between me and my parents.
And here’s the other thing: if I go with him, I know what that means. It means committing to him in a way we’ve both actively tried to avoid. We’ve been able to be easy with each other because this is all temporary. Setting off with him to travel the world is different. It will mean sharing bedrooms, being the couple. It means an actual relationship, and that’s something we can’t have. Not now, anyway, because it could never be an equal one. Beasey is lovely—that’s the best word for him; he’s just lovely—and he’s kind and funny and intelligent and good. But he’s also older than me, emotionally secure compared to my constant confusion, a traveling backpacker. He is in a better place than me, and I can’t use him as a shortcut to finding my own. I am grateful for him and what he’s done for me, but you can’t have a relationship where one is grateful for the other. I read enough books in my lonely years. I know what a healthy foundation is and isn’t.
“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t come with you.”
He’s quiet, sad, but not surprised. I see all of that on his face, especially when he manages a smile for me, nods, pulls me in close and kisses my forehead. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “If we’d met at a different time,” he says, “I would love you so goddamn hard.”
My smile is uncontrollable, spreading across my face. Who knew an “I would love you” could mean even more than an “I love you.”
“One day, you’ll be back in the UK,” I say. “We both will be.”
He rests his chin on the top of my head. I feel him nod. “Pick a Scottish uni,” he says. “For your art.”
I smile against his neck. “One in the Highlands, right?”
A soft chuckle. “Right.”
* * *
It’s Beasey who leaves first. He has to get a bus to Calgary to catch a flight to San Francisco, which is where he’s meeting back up with Khalil.
“You’ll be okay getting the train?” he asks me for the third time, when we’re waiting for his bus.
“Still yes,” I say. “Remember how I made it from Surrey to Vancouver all by myself? I can manage a bus to the train station from here.” He’s still looking nervous, so I say, “I’ll get there really early, and I’ll message you to tell you that I’m there.”
“Okay,” he says softly, sliding an arm around me. “If you want me to miss my bus to make sure you get there, I will.”
I snuggle in close. “Don’t tempt me.”
Big goodbyes are always an anticlimax. There’s just too much pressure on them. I’d expected we’d share a Moment, the two of us, in the last minutes before separation. Bold declarations, kisses with our lips wet with tears. But the bus approaches ten minutes after we arrive and we’ve mostly been standing in silence, waiting.
He puts his arms around me again and hugs me tight. Our last hug. Tears spring to my eyes, my head suddenly swimming with conversations we could have, questions I haven’t asked him, things we haven’t done.
His eyes are wet, but he smiles at me as he pulls back, adjusting the straps of his backpack. “Have fun in Toronto,” he says.
People are getting on the bus.
“Have fun seeing the world,” I say. He begins to turn, and my heart jolts with panic. I blurt, “When do you think we’ll see each other again?”
Beasey stops and turns back to me, touching the side of my face with the knuckle of his index finger. “Okay if I say something cheesy?” he asks.
I nod.
“I don’t know when,” he says. “All I kno
w is that we will.”
He’s the last one on the bus, and it’s already pulling away when he throws himself into the window seat to wave. I wave back with one hand, the bus joining the traffic so unceremoniously, disappearing around a corner.
I’m alone again.
I really feel it, too, maybe even more than I did when I first arrived in Vancouver. Edmonton feels suddenly huge and I am so small and sad and British. For a second I imagine going home. Toronto seems so far away, both from here and from the house I grew up in. What’s the point? What was the point of any of this?
The point was to be independent. It’s not like I came all this way for a boy. I can certainly carry on without one. I pick my rucksack up from where it’s been resting at my feet and hoist it onto my back, sliding my arms through the straps, wiping my eyes and cheeks dry. I’ll head toward the train station now, I decide, even though it’s hours until my train is due. I’ll get supplies for the journey, maybe even a book. I’ll sit in a coffee shop and I’ll sketch the people I see. Me and my sketch pad in Canada. That was the point of all of this.
NOW
EDMONTON—TORONTO
What surprises me is how much I like traveling solo on the train to Toronto. I’d thought I’d be lonely, but I’m not. I like the time that I have to sketch and think and read. I miss Beasey, and I miss my friends, but I’m actually okay by myself. It’s nice to know I really can do both.
There are delays along the way, so it takes almost a full three days instead of the scheduled two and a half, which isn’t a hardship. Here, I know where I am and what I’m doing, watching Western Canada give way to the east, the sprawling, icy landscapes unrolling before me. The train has an observation car with huge windows and a domed glass roof for panoramic views and maximum gawping potential, as well as a bar and lounge to hang out in. I spend most of my time during the day and evening in there, because I like the bustle of other people nearby, even if I’m not talking to them, and my single cabin is just too quiet to bear.
The train doesn’t look anything like a British train. The carriages—train cars—remind me of corrugated metal roofs with the word Canada and a flag for good measure emblazoned across every one. My cabin has a bed that pulls out at night, space for my rucksack, and a small, private washroom. Three meals a day are included with my package—Thank you, Grandad—and the food is actually good, which is a bonus. I don’t exactly make friends with my fellow passengers, who are mostly considerably older than me, but I’m at least on friendly terms with them, chatting over meals and sharing greetings by name in the mornings. The clickety-clack of the wheels against the track is surprisingly loud at first, but I get used to it pretty quickly, though when I look back at my sketch pad for my first drawings from the train, I find a small doodle of pencil-me with her hands over her ears, scowling.
When I’m not sketching or reading, I’m researching. I start by looking up the visual arts program at the university on Vancouver Island, then move closer to home and research the Illustration BAs on offer in the UK, spending the longest on the University of Edinburgh website, daydreaming. I look up concept art degrees, creative art degrees, fine art degrees, all over the world. The world is so big and there’s so much I can do—that’s what I realize, there in the lounge car of a train in Canada. It’s so obvious, and maybe I always knew it, but now I actually might believe it, too. I flip back through the sketch pad I’ve carried across three provinces, chronicling my journey. A portfolio of an unexpected adventure. It’s not an A Level, but maybe it can be the start of something else.
I think about my friends, scattered over the pages, and the friends I’d had before, trying to imagine them all meeting. Would they get along? Would the Peyton my traveling friends know match the Peyton my college friends knew? Probably not. In my head, I imagine each group squinting at the other, and then me, in confusion, shaking their heads, like, Why? I imagine Flick shrugging and losing interest, turning back to kiss Eric.
I sigh to myself. Even in my own head, I can’t keep ahold of Flick’s attention. And look, I’m doing it again, distracting myself by focusing on Flick when the whole point is everyone else.
If this had all happened the other way around, if Beasey and the RV crew had been my friends first, would I ever have chosen Flick and the others after? No. My head says, Obviously not. Because I never really chose any of them, did I? I threw myself at them and all but begged for their friendship. It was barely even a choice for them, either.
In Canada, I’d made the choice. I’d gone back to my friends after I’d panicked and tried to run, and been myself with them, and they’d chosen me right back. Our friendship has been active and evolving, growing as we got to know each other. Even the disagreements and the bickering when the RV walls felt too close, that all counts, too. They’d been so kind and patient with me, they’d got so much right, but even when they were wrong, like when Khalil had pulled the we’re-leaving-you-lol-not-really joke, they apologized and tried to make it right.
As I think, I sketch. Seva in the Sun-Ho-Van hostel, shuffling cards. Maja in her hiking boots, beaming at a lake. Stefan sitting on the bed in Tofino, chattering away. Friendship is a choice both sides make. It isn’t a favor or a chore. It’s not even a gift. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad, but when you’re in, you’re in for it all. It doesn’t have to be about being the same age or from the same place, you don’t need to have an economics class together or let someone’s boyfriend copy your notes or take whatever drugs they’re taking just to make it all bearable. It can happen between two boyish Scots, a kind-hearted Russian who is not a bot or a spy, a German hiker still nursing a broken heart, two gay Swedes traveling so they can be together, and me, the runaway English teenager who’d already got so much wrong but is finally, finally starting to get it right.
NOW
TORONTO
When I finally get to Toronto, I’m so surprised by the grandness of the train station I end up spending an hour there, just wandering around, getting used to solid ground. The city itself feels dauntingly huge after the relatively small resort towns and villages we’d passed through before, even after experiencing Edmonton, and I find myself second-guessing my navigation skills and heading back into the train station to ask at the information desk for help.
“Are you sure that’s where you’re staying?” the friendly-but-dubious-sounding man asks me, and I think it’s a weird question until I actually get to the hotel Grandad booked for me and find it’s a grand, gigantic five-star majesty of a place. I stand in the foyer with my tattered rucksack and hiking boots, feeling my shoulders hunch.
“Good afternoon!” the woman behind one of the reception desks calls. “Can I help you?”
“Hi,” I say, walking over, remembering Amelia at Sun-Ho-Van and her Kiwi grin, Teapot the cat in her arms. “Can I… um. Check in?”
She smiles at me. “Of course. What’s the name on the booking?”
I give her my details and show her the letter Grandad wrote for me, confirming that I have his permission to stay there on his account. Who knew he was so fancy? He didn’t seem fancy. I’ve never stayed in a five-star hotel before, let alone a five-star hotel in the middle of a city like Toronto.
“You’re on the eighth floor,” the woman says, passing me my key. “Do you need any help with your bags?”
I laugh, assuming she’s joking, then realize she isn’t. “Oh. No, it’s fine. It’s just my rucksack, so… thanks.”
My room isn’t as overwhelming as the foyer, thankfully, but it’s still nicer than any hotel room I think I’ve ever been in. I drop my rucksack on the floor and flop down onto the bed, closing my eyes against the sheets. I’m so tired. Maybe I should just sleep for a bit.
Two minutes later, I’m up again, restless, opening the curtains to look out at the city. I’d expected it to be practically iced over, but it’s not at all. It just looks huge. I plug my phone in to charge, pull the armchair so it’s facing the window, and perch myself on i
t with my sketch pad. I know I should probably head out and explore the city, but I’m not quite up to it yet. A whole new massive city and me back on my own. No friends, no Beasey.
The room is so quiet. Empty and quiet. Yes, it’s unbelievably nice, but I miss the chaotic warmth of hostel life. The color and the noise, all the people milling around each other, excitable and adventurous, wanting friends and conversation. I bet this hotel doesn’t have a hotel cat.
I sigh. Way to be grateful, Peyton. Maybe I should just check out of here and go find the Toronto Sun-Ho if I’m not going to appreciate it here. I wonder if Grandad would get his money back if I didn’t stay all the days he’s booked for me.
I finally manage to get myself out of my hotel room and into the elevator, scrolling through my phone for the best food options. Somewhere I can eat alone without feeling too conspicuous; I’ll have to get used to that now I’m on my own again. Maybe a Dairy Queen. The elevator doors slide open and I walk out into the foyer, glancing up to get my bearings, looking for the right exit. There’s a bar to my left—actually, maybe I should just get food there? Will it be expensive?
That woman looks a bit like Mum. Weird.
Of course it’ll be expensive. I can’t splash out on expensive hotel food on my first night in Toronto—
Wait. Holy shit. It is Mum. It’s Mum, sitting on a chair in the bar of the hotel. Mum, in Toronto, staring right at me. Smiling.
What the actual.
I’m frozen in place, gaping at her. She waves.
“What?” I say out loud. A businessman walking past starts in surprise, frowning at me when he realizes I’m just a teenager.
I have no other option than to walk slowly over to her, trying to figure out what to do with my face. I’m shocked, obviously, but there’s the surprise of happiness, too. An old instinct is still there, buried deep inside me—the desire to run toward my mother.
“Hello, my love,” Mum says when I’m close enough, standing. “Oh, hello.” She reaches out and takes hold of both my hands, squeezing. She’s a bit tearful.