Before You Go

chapter one

Seven Years Later...

Leon

A cream-coloured wedding invitation sits atop the scuffed surface of the kitchen table, the envelope torn sporadically. The corner of the thick paper is bent and the gold font glitters beneath the dim lighting of the kitchen. It sits next to a half-empty bottle of Canadian whisky.

I lean against the countertop, staring at the inanimate object as I tug my hair. Overwhelmed by sadness and guilt, I begin to count all the times I bailed on her, despite promising that I would return to Whistler. I failed, both as a boyfriend and as a friend, to attend her graduation ceremony. During university, I was so immersed in golf and my studies that I barely texted her, let alone liked one of her posts on Facebook. Then there was the funeral I never told her about, even though we began to talk to each other a little more. Even now, when I'm living only four hours away from her, I still haven't reached out. After all these years of missed opportunities, Eliza Sangster is getting married to someone that isn't me.

I stand there, hearing nothing but a displaced buzz in my ears, in my head. Closing my eyes, I attempt to summon images of the past – the past the Eliza and I share and all the plans we made together. The moments we created memories out of. But the images fail to paint a picture in my mind because all I can focus on is how stupid I am. I never put in the effort and made time for her; I always let my schedule get in the way of my promised plans. And after I lied to her about why I missed out on meeting up with her, my conscience began to get the best of me. It was the third or fourth time I'd cancelled on her, and I had begun to worry she would be too disappointed in me to want to spend time together, let alone go out on another date. But, mainly, it was my own guilt I fell victim to. My guilt and sadness are the reasons we've grown apart within the past two years. Why we went from speaking daily to not speaking at all. We simply exist.

I open my eyes and stare at the wedding invitation. The cream-coloured paper still sits in front of me, its elegant cursive writing standing out like neon lights at a dusky bar. It off-sets me even more, and I take another long, burning sip of my drink. She's getting married. And I've been invited to the wedding. I'm surprised, to be honest, but maybe it's her way of getting back at me.

It takes a few seconds for my brain to confirm that this is real. My heart thumps wildly against my chest, writhing in pure agony. I have an impulse to call her up and immediately tell her she's making a mistake, that she should be marrying me, but two reasons stop me from doing so. The first being the fact that I'm a little drunk and the second being that I no longer have an active phone number that belongs to her. The last time I saw Eliza in person was when we hooked up beside the creek on our rock. It was gutsy – anyone could have seen us had they decided to walk the trails, but we were young and in love. The rules didn't apply to us.

And although we did keep in touch after that night, although we managed to talk over FaceTime and social media sites, these past two years have held very little contact between us. There's the odd time she'll like a photo of mine on Instagram or I'll comment on hers, but it feels fake, almost militant. It's as if we have the obligation to interact but not speak. Yet, even with all the time that's created a chasm between us, not a single day has gone by where I haven't thought of her. And although I fucked up and bailed on the most important night, I still intend to uphold the promise I made her.

I promised I would return to Whistler to be with her.

I will admit, I'm several years late, the last two really adding a cherry on top of this disaster. I could have reunited with her the summer after we graduated. Instead, I decided to travel the world for a year before I attended university in Halifax. After my four years of university were done, I moved back to the West Coast, buying a small cabin-style house in Saanich. I lived there for about two months, trying to work up the courage to call her and tell her I would be coming back to Whistler. And, when I did find my inner courage, when I told her to meet me at Saint-Sangster Rock one summer evening, I was called back to aid my parents. I caught a flight back to St. John's that night and watched my whole life fall off of its tracks while my mom battled cancer and eventually passed away. Eliza called and called and called. And, when I finally answered her, I lied about the funeral. I made myself seem like an ignorant prick because I remembered how much she loved my mom when we were growing up and I didn't want her to experience the pain of losing her as I did. I was holed up on the East Coast of Canada for a whole year before I was stable enough to return to Saanich. Since then, I've been dealing with some internal issues; I've spent all this time collecting myself and setting things straight in my own mind while seeing a therapist.

Losing my mom was difficult, but if there's one thing I know, it's that life is too short to wallow and think about what could have been. This morning, I woke up feeling anew; I got up, threw a shirt and some shorts on, and decided to stock up on items for the perfect picnic. I also packed a duffel bag of clothes and other necessities and composed the perfect playlist for Eliza and me to listen to. I was set on heading out to Whistler tonight and finding her.

Until I grabbed the mail and found the wedding invitation. Up until that moment, I really thought my therapist was helping me.

How am I supposed to reunite with the love of my life when I find out she's getting married to some guy named James Adams? To some guy that isn't me?

I chug the rest of my drink and set the empty glass down, staring at a scuff mark in the worn wood of the table. If I'm being entirely honest, I should have expected something like this to happen. I can't blame Eliza for moving on with her life after I so rudely lied to her, bailed on her, and left her behind because I couldn't handle my own life. On top of that, you can only wait for someone for so long before you realize you need to move on. Before you ask yourself why you're waiting for someone that's never going to come.

It's for that very reason I probably shouldn't be holding so tightly to Eliza Sangster – she has every right to move on and fall in love again. After drifting away from each other within the past two years, after me bailing on her more than once, she probably came to the conclusion that I forgot about her. That I don't care about her.

I should let her go.

But I can't. What Liz and I had was magical. I loved her in ways I could never explain. I'm fairly certain that I still do love her, despite the time we've spent apart from each other. And I think, for the sake of our history, she deserves to know. She deserves to know why I bailed on her that night, why I didn't immediately come to Whistler when I moved to the Island. She deserves to know that I am desperately, unbearably still in love with her.

Reaching for the invitation, I grab a nearby pen and use it to check the "Will Attend" box. I then slip the paper into a new envelope and seal it shut, writing Tenille's familiar address on the face of it, as well as my own. Writing Tenille's address on it brings a sad smile to my face. I'm glad to know that the two of them are still best friends and that Eliza is having her wedding on the ranch. She's always dreamt of having her wedding at the ranch. And I had always hoped it would be our wedding.

With a drunken amount of effort, I sit down on the chair in my small dining room and close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. I don't know if I'll be able to repair the deep, ragged chasm I've created between the two of us, but all I can do is hope that Liz will listen to me when I show up. I hope she'll give me a chance to explain the real reason behind why I didn't make it to Whistler that night. I should have told her what really happened and how that long, terrible flight back to St. John's felt when my dad broke the news to me.

But what I really hope is that she will realize that I've finally fulfilled my promise.

That although I'm nothing but seven years of missed opportunities, I'm back.

And I don't plan on leaving any time soon.