Leon

In the early predawn light, when the sun hasn't quite peaked over the mountains and the sky still has hints of pink and indigo, I exit the carrier house and head for my truck. It's parked in the dirt driveway behind the house. While I walk, all I can hear is the crunching of gravel beneath my shoes and the echo of chirping birds. A soft breeze picks up and I take a deep breath of the crisp smell of alpine air and pine forest. It's different from the salty ocean air in Saanich, but it tugs at my heartstrings. A long time ago, Whistler was my home; a place I had always wanted to come back to. But things changed. For the longest time, I didn't think I would be able to come back here. After I lost Mom, it was too painful for me to think about Whistler and all the memories we had here. But after all the counselling I went through to fight my grief, guilt, and depression, I finally realized that I needed to come back here for several reasons.

Today, I'm dressed in a pair of fitted black wicking shorts and a matching long-sleeve compression shirt. It's one of the many outfits I have for training – one that came with my sponsor. Aside from being close to claiming a spot in the PGA tour next year, I have a strong passion for mountain biking. I find it helps with my stamina and just keeps me in shape. When Mom was alive, she used to tell me it was because I have Whistler blood; that being born and raised here made me more susceptible to being addicted to nature. Honestly, that's probably why I have such a passion for golf.

In the back of my truck is the most expensive thing I've ever bought: my mountain bike. The thing is a beauty. My GT Men's Avalanche twenty-nine-inch Mountain Bike is one of the best things I've ever invested in. With its durable aluminium triple triangle frame, hydraulic disk brake, and twenty-seven speeds, it offers stability and improved efficiency. With this mountain bike, I can conquer any type of terrain in any part of the world.

In a single heave, I remove it from the back of my truck and lean it against a nearby tree so I can gather up the rest of my gear from the back seat. Once I have my helmet buckled and my elbow pads adjusted to suit my body, I retrieve my mountain bike and swing my leg over. It's been years since I did some mountain biking in Whistler, but I'm looking forward to it. Pushing away from the tree, I take off down the dirt road.

Although Tenille's house is ten minutes away from the Village, the southern side of the property has one trail in particular that connects to the spiderweb of trails around Lost Lake. That's exactly where I'm heading. Saint-Sangster rock is along Fitzsimmons Creek, which is just below Lost Lake.

When I come to the edge of the property and enter the forest, I'm greeted by the familiar dank smell of moss, fern, and mulchy, wet soil. It brings a smile to my face. While Saanich is similar, it lacks the alpine touch, the elevation Whistler has. Most of the forests here are hundreds of years old, with thick, moss-covered trunks and a multitude of small plants and wildflowers.

By the time I make it down to Lost Lake, the sun has broken the horizon and streaks of sunlight break through the canopy, dotting the trail. My forehead is slick with sweat and the back of my shirt is soaked. I want to stop and take a break so I can enjoy the scenic view of Lost Lake, but I know I'll have plenty of time to do that later. In the meantime, the burning muscles in my legs drive me further along the trail, towards my destination.

It's been years since I last visited Saint-Sangster Rock, and I'm not particularly sure why I want to visit that particular area when Liz and I are already within such close proximity. What I do know is that something is pulling me in that direction, making me feel obligated to go. When I was a teenager, I used to come here when my mind was feeling overwhelmed. There was something about the soothing sound of the running creek and privacy that could calm me in ways nothing else could.

At record speed, I swing around the final corner, spitting up a tail of dirt in my wake. I don't know if it's the high of seeing Liz again or the forest calling me home, but within minutes I've conquered the small incline and found our spot.

Leaning my weight on one foot, I stop at the edge of the trail, where the loose dirt meets the rocky creek bed. Sweat trickles down my back as I stare at the view before me. After seven years of being away from Whistler, I'm surprised by how similar everything looks when compared to the last time I was here. While the effects of erosion are visible along the edges of the creek, exposing knotted roots and large rocks, nothing much has really changed here. The water is still the same colour – a stunning blue-green with streaks of white. The creek bed is still rocky. And our rock, Saint-Sangster Rock, still sits adjacent to the bend in the creek.

Hesitantly, I climb off of my bike and lean it up against the tree. As I head over to the rock, I remove my helmet and elbow pads. When I'm within three feet of it, I stop and stare at it in wonder. I can't believe it's still in one piece. Just like the bank of the creek, it's been worn down by the persistent flow of water. I step closer and set my gear down, running my fingers over the uneven surface. A small smile spreads across my lips. I'm honestly struck by how tiny it really is. In every memory of mine, Saint-Sangster rock was huge, as big as a hot tub. In reality, it's about half the size of a double bed. If Liz and I were to sit down on the surface, we would just fit. We haven't grown too much since we were seventeen, so I'm a little dumbfounded by how we managed to have sex on it. I mean, how the hell did we do it without tumbling over the edge?

Sitting down on the rock, I stare out at the view in front of me, remembering the day we found this particular spot. The discovery had been an accident. We'd been walking back from the Village, snacking on our favourite saltwater taffy from the local candy store. I can't quite remember what we were discussing, but it was enough to distract us from the path; we took a wrong turn and ended up coming here, to our rock. After we claimed this spot, hours were spent here. Sometimes, we would stay out so late that our parents would begin to wonder if we'd been abducted. More than once, we were given strict talkings-to about being out past curfew.

Almost every season, we spent our free days here, sitting on this rock and enjoying the quiet, enjoying each other's company. It was our personal escape from reality. Nobody knew about it but us. Mind you, someone could have easily taken the wrong trail and found it as we did. I think the main thing is that nobody we knew really knew about it. Meaning, whatever we did here, whatever we said here, was just between Liz and me.

I run my palm over the bumpy surface again and sigh, a saddened smile on my face. Why is it so easy to remember the past yet so difficult to discuss it? Why does the pain echo in our bones for so many years? I never meant to hurt Liz the way I did. I had a good reason to miss out on meeting up with her, but my reason for lying to her wasn't good enough – and I see that now. I should have told her about Mom. I should have let Liz in and paid for her ticket to St. John's. Having here there would have made things much easier. But instead of letting her in, I made an executive decision and shut her out. My actions are the reason why I'm not the one sharing a bed with her at night or kissing her in the morning. Why I'm not the one marrying her.

Liz must think I'm the biggest asshole on the planet. I don't blame her for treating me the way she did last night. Hell, she was probably restraining herself in the kitchen. I bet she wants to do a lot more than throw me to the ground and spit on me. Metaphorically, of course. Although she's changed, she's still got that inner flame – I could see it in her eyes.

I suppress a shudder, trying not to think about what she could possibly do to me. Liz would probably try to kill me if she could, perhaps with an axe or a shotgun – whichever could induce more pain. That being said, I know she has a heart made of gold. She's rough around the edges, but I know she has the most tender touch possible and that she cares deeply about the people she loves. She may not be my biggest fan at the moment, but there has to be a part of her that misses the way things were between us.

The longer I stand here, the more I begin to reminiscence about the past. Out of all the days we spent together, I think the day we picked the stonecrop from Whistler Mountain stands out the most in my head. It was the first time we'd been able to go up without parental supervision. That hike wasn't anything new to us, but we were excited to finally have the independence. Liz had always loved picking wildflowers and making beautiful bouquets with them. When I suggested we plant them around Saint-Sangster Rock, she wanted to turn around and head back down the mountain so we could do exactly that. I made sure we finished the hike first, though. Out of all the flowers we planted, the stonecrop was the only one that made it.

Speaking of the stonecrop...I don't see it.

"That's weird," I mutter.

I begin to walk around the base of the rock, searching for the yellow flowers that should be out at this time of year. But instead of seeing flowers and green leaves, I see more inanimate objects: rocks sizing from gravel to pebbles, broken sticks, and even a bit of sand. What I don't see is any stonecrop. My mood begins to deplete – did Whistler have a rough winter and the plants couldn't handle it?

After I've done a couple of laps around the rock, I feel my shoulders sag. The stonecrop is gone and it's taken meaning away from the memory Liz and I share. However, just as I'm turning around to retrieve my helmet and elbow pads, I catch sight of a yellow flower. Hope stirs inside of me – maybe there's still proof of our past rooted into the ground. I walk over to the flower, a smile on my face. Until I see roots with clumps of dirt still sticking to them. The stonecrop has been yanked up from the ground and when I look around, I see that more pieces scatter the dry edges of the creek bed. Dirt is scattered everywhere, as are more roots and broken petals. The view before me looks like the plant edition of a murder scene. Somebody definitely ripped the plants up and tossed them around in an angry, rampant fashion.

I straighten my posture and sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

It's no mystery as to who did this.

Talking to Liz might be harder than I originally thought.