There will be truth, and there will be lies. With university approaching, 18-year-olds Breton Levesque and Mirabel Johansen are ready to embrace this new chapter together.
But when a sudden accident throws a wrench in their plans, Brett and Mira fi...
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Mirabel
Preoccupation with my achievements prevents me from seeing Hartley Clarke wipe out in the middle of a mud puddle. I'm too busy staring at the view of Kelowna and West Kelowna, and the bridge connecting them, while the wind ruffles my hair. For kilometres, I can see the lake, mountains, blue sky, and city infrastructure. The sun beats down upon me, making me sweat through my dirt-bike gear.
Jocelyn, the camp host, told us this morning that Trail 24 is clear of any debris. It's my favourite black diamond trail, with sheer rock faces and washed out inclines. The terrain makes for good conversation once you reach the lookout. There is an ever-present challenge that evolves every year based on factors like rain, snow, and the treading intensity of tires.
It takes courage, skill, and strength to climb the trail.
All of which I have, considering I made it to the top of Blue Grouse Mountain without wiping out.
Cracking my tequila smash, I take a quick sip, and then turn to face the trail behind me. Hartley is standing in the middle of the puddle, trying to kickstart his dirt-bike. Every time his leg comes down, the engine revs and sputters, bringing the whirring of the cell tower's turbines back to the forefront. On cue, my phone that's tucked in my backpack dings with notifications.
Ellesmere Levesque, one of my best friends, nudges me. "He won't take credit for screwing up. You saw the rock, too, right?"
I tap my drink against hers as if to say You know it.
We each take a long sip, and then I set my drink down on the seat of my dirt-bike. After fishing through my backpack for several seconds, I grab my phone and open the camera app. The rev of his engine fills my ears, but I snap a few photos before he coasts down here.
His kickstand embeds itself in the dirt before he kills the engine and swings his leg over the bike. Elle and I watch, sipping our drinks, as Hartley remove his gloves and helmet. He stuffs the gloves in the helmet, and then hangs it off of the handlebars.
Before turning to us, he runs a hand through his damp hair, squeezing out any excess liquid. His coppery-brown hair shines in the sunlight.
Hartley saunters over to Elle and I, his dirt-bike gear covered in mud. Old specks of oil stain his jersey and his hair drips with water.
He glares at Elle and I, taking the can from her extended hand. Cracking the can, he takes two long gulps. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice is a low growl when he says, "There was a fucking rock."
I cock an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Elle. "One that we avoided?"
He draws his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting a smile. "It's the rock's fault. Not mine."
Elle laughs and loops her arms around Hartley's neck. She presses a kiss to his cheek. Some of her drink sloshes over the edge, dampening the back of his jersey. Not that he can feel it. The fabric looks like it's been run through the washer—a very broken washer. "My poor baby. Defeated by a rock."
