Before You Go

prologue

Eliza

October 7th, 2011, Whistler, BC

The woods are dark, even in the silvery glow of the moon. Every once in a while, though, a sliver breaks through the branches of mountain hemlocks and western red cedars, providing just enough light. The damp scent of wet dirt and decaying leaves fills my lungs as I draw in a deep breath. The aromatic scents of Whistler have always been my favourite, from the pungent scent of the forest to the crispness of the alpine air. It's home.

I break into a jog, almost stumbling over a large root, doing my best to ignore the branches that are scratching at my arms while I try to regain my balance. It's been months since Leon and I visited our special spot down my Fitzsimmons Creek, but our trail is still prominent – no stubborn weeds or knotted roots have begun to break through the compacted dirt. As I continue on, the late-autumn air stings my cheeks, and I have to ignore the disgusting puddles that have formed in the soles of my runners and soaked my socks. After being born and raised in Whistler, you'd think I'd know better than to wear cheap runners after a downpour.

Fighting through a fosse of ferns, I come around the final corner and quickly descend the small incline on the bank of the creek. It's rocky and steep, but easy for a seventeen-year-old girl like me – I make it down without a scratch. After the hot summer we endured, the creek has shrunk exponentially, leaving about three metres of dry land, composed of different sized rocks, natural debris, and a few fallen trees. But none of that matters to me. The only thing I can focus on is the large rock adjacent to me, the one that's surrounded by spreading stonecrop.

"Leon!" I call, my voice shaking with desperation.

My skin prickles at the innate sounds of nature that follow: a bubbling creek, the final birds of summer saying their last goodbyes before they migrate, the breeze rustling the leaves and needles of the surrounding trees. Even the moon, that's casting silvery shadows over every object, seems to be whispering behind my back. An eerie chill causes the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I've never been a fan of the forest at night, despite living here all my life.

Spinning around, I tug at my hair in frustration. Leon is supposed to be here. He said he was going to be here. It's our last chance to say goodbye before he moves across the country with his family. I can't believe he's moving for our final year of high school – our senior year. This was supposed to be the best year of our life before we went off to college next year. But now it seems as though all of our plans are up in the air.

I turn back to the rock, taking in the abundance of spreading stonecrop. Leon and I planted it there a couple of years ago after we hiked Whistler Mountain. When we picked the yellow succulent, we didn't think it would make it next to Saint-Sangster Rock, but it did. As the years have passed, the succulent has spread, covering the ground surrounding our large, flat rock.

The memory causes my eyes to burn. After knowing Leon-Saint Laurent for seventeen years, he's being taken away from me. My best friend. The first boy I ever had a crush on. My boyfriend. I don't know if my heart will be able to handle our goodbye. When he leaves, who am I supposed to go hiking with? Who am I supposed to indulge on kettle corn with when I'm watching horror movies? But, more importantly, how am I supposed to live without him beside me?