I'M STANDING IN THE front hall, between the mystery flowers and the front door, holding a tuning fork and asking it quiet, existential questions under my breath. To reveal its answer, I hit it with a loonie.

Are Mum and Dad going to be okay? I ask the tuning fork.

Tiiiiiing, it replies.

The tuning fork was Jeffry's present to me. I'd gone straight into the shedroom after he left. When I walked in, I was confronted with the empty desk where Jeffry had kept his pencils, the space heater with its cord curled up neatly, his camp bed rolled away and placed in the corner under his favourite Duran Duran poster. The realization that my best friend was gone again sent a shudder of loneliness through me.

There was, as promised, a small wrapped present winking at me from on top of the rolled-up cot. I smiled sadly and went over to it, unsure if I should open it right away or wait until Christmas. In the end, I opted for instant gratification and pulled at the long leg of curling ribbon that he'd tied around the rectangular-shaped box.

I peeled the paper away and lifted the box top, thinking at first it might be a wristwatch based on the size and shape of the box. Inside, I found a gleaming piece of U-shaped metal with a handle. I lifted it out of the box, unsure what to make of it until I discovered the handwritten note tucked underneath it.

Maeve,
In case you need help finding your pitch.
Jeffry

Since then, I've been carrying the tuning fork around, consulting it obsessively like some kind of new-age Magic 8 Ball.

Should I have finished my degree before blowing my whole life up on a whim?

Tiing.

Is my connection with Jules deeper than friendship?

Tiing.

I am trying to decipher the cosmic messages in the tuning fork's reverberations when my Dad comes rumbling down the stairs and into the hallway on a mission.

He stops short, surprised to see me standing there. His glance slides between me, my tuning fork and the flowers.

"It's 3:30," he says in an ominous voice.

"Yep," I say.

We both know why he's standing here in the front hall at 3:30 on Friday afternoon.

"She's meeting Joss Carvil," he says, nostrils flaring.

"No, Dad, I really don't think she is."

But he's already shoving his arms into his winter coat and determinedly searching for matching gloves in the glove basket, a jumble of famously mismatched wool.

"I guess I'm going to find out." He swears under his breath when he loses the car keys momentarily, then finds them again in his pocket.

"Dad, you seem... like you need to chill. Whatever you're planning to do, don't."

"I'm just going to see for myself." He's already stomping through the snow toward the car, which will need to be cleared off and warmed up. I've got a minute to think this through. I can hear him outside, muttering and chipping ice off the windscreen.

Showing up at Union Bar with my ragey Dad wasn't my plan, but I can see he's not going to be dissuaded. Obviously, he needs to prove himself wrong. I just wish he'd have a tiny bit more faith in Mum.

"Okay, then I'm coming with you," I shout out the front door, setting the tuning fork down and grabbing a coat.

I guess we're doing this together.

PARKING ANYWHERE DOWNTOWN ON the last working day before Christmas would be a fairly improbable proposition on its own, but trying to find a spot within walking distance of Toronto's Union Station, the intersection of three separate transit systems used by more than a quarter-million people every day — that was never going to happen. As a result, we end up having to stash the car in a $20/hr lot that's a 15-minute walk away.

As we rush along Lakeshore, pushing through crowds of tired office workers, wind whipping off the lake and scouring our faces with tiny icy particles, I don't mention that we could have taken the subway (my plan all along) for $3 each and have been on time. His nostrils are still huge though and I shouldn't risk making them any bigger, so I keep quiet.

By the time we shove our way upstream and through the station's doors, it's almost 4:30; a half hour past the meeting time on the card.

"Where's the bar?" I ask my Dad, who looks just about as lost as I feel. People are zooming around us, parkas and big hats obscuring the concourse and any signs that might show us the way.

"There!" He shouts, grabbing my hand so we don't lose each other in the commuter traffic. He puts his head down and shoulders his way across the concourse like a hockey player trying to push the puck straight up the centre. I skate behind him, thinking ahead to whatever scene is about to unfold.

I need him to be clear-headed and calm.

We find ourselves just outside the bar at last and I sense his determination waver.

"You could still just go home, Dad," I suggest hopefully. "You really don't need to be here."

A fresh idea strikes. "Or," I say, "You can wait out here. I'll go in and see who's there."

He shakes his head but looks uncertain.

"I need to know."

"Why?" I say over the din of train arrival announcements. "Why don't you just trust her?"

He huffs and jingles the keys in his coat pocket, eyes darting around like there's something he doesn't want to admit. I think I might have him. I think he's about to shrug and give up, go home, and with any luck, leave me here... because I have a feeling about who's waiting in that bar, and I don't really want him here when I go in to find out.

But I don't have him. He slips out of my grasp like a silvery fish, and he darts inside the dark glass doors.

Argh.

I guess we're doing this together.

I slip in right after him and scan the tables, hoping to find her. Jules. Because, in my heart of hearts, I suspect those flowers were for me. I was glad that Mum thought they were for her and hoped she and dad would just wear themselves out and choose to ignore them. The alternative was to admit that, just possibly, the romantic gesture (because what else would you call sending someone a bouquet and suggesting a secret meeting at a train station on the day before Christmas Eve?) was aimed, for a change, at boring, straight-laced, wouldn't-know-romance-if-it-smacked-her-in-the-behind me?

It was all just too embarrassing. And, if it's true, I can't quite decide how I feel about it.

Honestly, I'd half hoped to come here today and find out that it was Joss, making some sketchy play for my Mum (who always seems to be attracting the wrong kind of attention despite being totally old). I really would have preferred, either way, not to have my bullish father by my side when I arrived to find out.

Fortunately (and also disappointingly), it appears I needn't have worried. I check every table and every bar stool. No sign of Jules.

"No sign of Joss or your Mum," my Dad says, in tandem with my thoughts. "Maybe we missed them."

"Maybe this was a mistake," I say, a little bit glum now that I've realized the very moment I'd been dreading wasn't actually going to happen.

My Dad nods. He looks a little bit sore but also relieved, like an angry boil that's been lanced.

"I guess we should go home? Unless," he checks his watch, "You just want to pop across the street to the King Edward to—"

"Dad, no. Do not go charging into her business dinner with Justine."

"Okay, okay. You're right. Let's just get out of here. I saw a poutine place across the way. I could use some trans fats right now.

I don't really have the heart for greasy chips, but he's been so health-conscious lately that I read this as a serious SOS.  I'm just about to suggest we go to Booster Juice instead when some sixth sense prickles at the back of my neck.

I feel a sort of reverberating energy tickle across the knobs of my spine. Cautiously, I turn to look back into the bar, and I see her; emerging from the women's washroom with a huge backpack and a forlorn expression.

I'm rooted to the spot.

She looks toward the door and sees me.

That's when I feel it. The tiiiiiing. Like she's one tine of the tuning fork, and I'm the other. The air between us vibrates and sings.

"Maeve!" she shouts, relief written in big, bold letters across her face. "I thought... for a minute, I thought you weren't—"

I move steadily toward her, closing the gap between us. She has her arms outstretched and is reaching across the space toward me.

"Sorry, I'm late," I say, letting her put her arms around me, trying to ignore my sheepishness and the fact that my Dad is obviously watching the whole scene with confusion.

"Better late than never," she laughs giddy against my cheek. "You always do take things at your own pace. I'm okay with that. I'm just happy you came."