Leo

I used to love rainy days. It would make me feel serene, become the unconditional me.

But it wasn't only the mere raindrops that soothed me. It was the whole mesmerizing phenomenon; the very science of precipitation and the gears of the Earth. Rain used to dissolve the callow notions of wrongdoings and outrights, bringing me to peace and reminding me of the charisma Mother Nature holds.

There was also something about the coziness of hiding inside a baggy sweater and thick socks, a cup of tea resting on the coffee table and the tattered, yellowing pages of my dad's favourite book on my lap. The drowsy, dreamy way a day of playing cards with my mom and my grandpa could pass.

That was before I arrived in Whistler and dumped my belongings at Aunty Tenille's house. Before I pulled over on the side of the road to see my dad's memorial, located on the corner of the hairpin turn where he was struck by a drunk driver and killed.

With his favourite book in hand, the same crinkled piece of paper still folded between the pages, I stare at the white cross that's been nailed to the thick, mossy trunk of a cedar tree. The cross itself is beginning to yellow around the edges, the paint peeling and the wood splintering. At the base of the trunk are several years of flower petals, ranging from dead and decaying to merely a few days old.

I wipe away a drop of water that's managed to slip down my cheek. Whether it's from the heavy, alpine rain or the dreadful feeling that's taking hold of me, I'm not entirely sure.

After all these years of hearing stories from Mom and Grandpa about my dad, it's difficult for me to be here, to solidify the fact that I will never meet him.

I lift my head, tilting my face to the sky as I remove the piece of paper from the book. For years, I've kept this book, brought it everywhere with me, read it a million times. I even dropped it in the Atlantic Ocean once. But, even after all this time, I have never read what's on this piece of paper. Nor has my mom told me exactly what it is.

Back in June, on the day I graduated from high school, I vowed that I would take a year off and return to Whistler to explore where my mom and dad were raised and all the history between them. I also vowed that, when I visited this spot, rain or shine, I would finally unfold the paper and reveal its contents.

Wiping away the wetness on my cheeks, I open the book and remove the weathered paper. My hands shake as I unfold it, droplets of water and mist dampening my skin and the paper.

If Mom hadn't told me the details about the night Dad died, I would expect this letter to be addressed to me and include some type of message that would tell me to live my life to its fullest potential, to fall in love, and to never give up on my dreams. But I know Dad didn't have time to do that. He didn't even know that Mom was pregnant when he died. That being said, Mom didn't find out until later, either, but that's not my point. My point is that he simply didn't have the time.

Taking a deep breath, I look down at the piece of paper I have contemplated examining all my life. I don't know what to expect. A letter to my mom, perhaps? Maybe even a picture of my grandma and Dad together? Something like that, something with personal value and memory, would make sense. But a bucket list? That's the last thing I was expecting.

It's bittersweet to see my dad's writing, pushing me closer to the brink of breaking down, but I hold myself together and begin to read his bucket list. As I do, I notice that the writing becomes neater in certain sections. There are also red checkmarks, bled and smudged into the paper with time, beside certain numbers. With that observation, I begin to wonder just how old this bucket list really is. It's difficult to figure out, but as soon as I see the last point on the list, my thoughts fall to the wayside.

21. Marry Eliza.

I have to lean against the tree and inhale the deep, earthy scent in order to regain my composure. I have to lean against the tree and inhale the deep, earthy scent in order to regain my composure. One thing I've noticed since arriving in Whistler is that the climate here is very different than it is back in Newfoundland. Everything smells fresher here, crisper and more like a forest. But I do miss the saltiness of the Atlantic Ocean, and the damp, musky smell of driftwood and sand.

Leo, I tell myself. You're being foolish, focusing on the different climates.

I look back down at the bucket list, my heart squeezing in pain for Mom and Dad. I wish there was something I could do to bring him back, to give them the chance to live out their lives happily together. I don't understand why the world could take away someone as wholesome as Leon Saint-Laurent, but it did.

As I stare at the list, I begin to feel something new budding in my chest. Whether it was because of the pain that lives in this town whenever my mom discusses it or my lack of interest, I have never explored the boundaries of Whistler, British Columbia. Perhaps...Perhaps following the bucket list would be the best way to introduce myself to this town.

Just like my dad did, I could climb the trails of Blackcomb Peak, bike the trails around Lost Lake, eat the best ice cream in the world. I could also complete the things he never did, such as get a tattoo of...of whatever a stonecrop flower is.

I exhale deeply, deciding that this is how I'm going to spend my summer. In honour of my dad, I will redo and complete this bucket list, doing what I can. Dad's life was taken much too soon. He deserved to complete his own bucket list and marry Mom. That's the one thing I definitely will not be able to complete for Dad, but everything else seems doable.

Trailing my fingers along the cross, I whisper, "I wish I could have met you, Dad. I miss you."

I wait for a moment, looking for a sign. Something even as simple as a bird chirping through this dreary weather, but also holding the potential of a shooting star. As each second ticks by, all I hear is rain and the slight buzz of traffic. If Dad is looking down upon me or not, I'll never know. All I can do is hope that he is, hope that he thinks this is a good idea and not ridiculous. I want to be close to him somehow, and if this is what I have to do, then so be it.

Slipping the paper between the pages of the book, I put my belongings back in my backpack, save for the book and a white rose. I lay the white rose below the cross and hold the book close to my heart. It's emotional times like these where I need my dad's presence near — even if it's from a silly old book.

As I walk back to the beaten-up farm truck I'm borrowing from Aunty Tenille for the summer, my steps begin to feel lighter, the allure of adventure brewing in my blood. I've always been one for an adventure, reckless or rational, a new experience is something I continuously crave. Mom always tells me that comes from my dad's genes. Apparently, he did everything he could to feel alive, to feel free. He may have been reckless in his years, but at least he never took a day for granted.

The story of how he came back, after all those years, to win my mom over always manages to make my cry. My dad, though I've never met him and will never have the chance to, has always been my inspiration. In pictures, in videos, in the stories my grandpa tells me — I'm proud to be named after Leon Saint-Laurent . I'm proud to be the bearer of heterochromia like he was, having two blue eyes with a smudge of brown in my left one.

And now, I get to fulfill the remainder of his bucket list for him and perhaps add on some of my own ideas to it. I tilt my face to the rainy sky, a bittersweet smile on my face as the drops cool my heated skin. For the sake of my dad, I'm going to make this the best summer I've ever had before heading back east.

Focusing my attention on the road before me, I look from side-to-side to make sure no traffic is coming and then cross the road to where I pulled over. The truck Aunty Tenille has lent me is an old 1984 Ford F-150. It's blue and the paint is beginning to chip. There's also a large dent in the passenger door, but I love the thing. It's classic and holds character.

Just as I'm jogging across the line that divides the road into two, a black car comes speeding around the corner. I freeze in the headlights, wondering, for a brief moment, if I'm going to have a fate similar to my dad's. However, despite the sudden fear that has embedded its way into my bones and caused me to freeze, the driver notices me and slams on their brakes, coming to an abrupt stop and causing the air to smell like burning rubber.

I stare at the vehicle, a scream lodged in my throat. Suddenly, my surroundings seem emphasized. The rain is loud in my ears; the green cedar trees towering over me, making me feel extraordinarily small; the smell of alpine and air and burning rubber creating an intoxicating haze in my mind. I reach up, running a hand through my sopping hair. I almost got hit. By a driver that was speeding.

Speeding.

"What the hell are you doing? Standing in the middle of the damn road? Are you stupid?"

I shift my gaze to the driver, who I now know is a woman. A strikingly beautiful woman, actually, with her dark brown hair, rounded face, and big blue-green eyes. She's tall, too, and well-built beneath her compressed athletic jacket. She looks vaguely familiar, but for whatever reason that is, it's overshadowed by my sudden anger against her careless driving.

"I wasn't the one speeding," I snap. "And, trust me, I checked both ways before crossing the road. I think that's the second thing my mom taught me after teaching me good manners — something your mom clearly failed to teach you."

The girl flinches, a crease forming between her brows. "Don't talk about my mother like that! Seriously, dude, what the hell were you doing? This is the worst possible road you could have stopped on in all of Whistler."

I point to the weathered cross and the white rose. "Oh, you know," I reply, sarcasm dripping from my voice. "I was enjoying a leisurely stroll to where my father — my father I've never met, I might add — was struck by a drunk driver eighteen years ago. Excuse me for paying my respects."

I watch as her face falls, any frustration dissolving from her features, softening the tense atmosphere around her. "Oh..." she whispers. "I...I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Whatever," I reply shaking my head. "Thanks for not hitting me. I have to get going now."

I turn on my heel, stepping in a puddle as I head for the old truck. The rain has begun to let up a little, but the fog is still low and thick, covering the mountains and surrounding the tips of the trees. Internally, I sigh. I hope the weather changes by tomorrow and gives me a chance to assess what I'm going to do first.

Just as I lay my hand on the handle to the driver's door, I feel a warm hand rest on my shoulder. I turn around, coming face-to-face with the girl. Her hair is damp now, sticking to the humid skin of her forehead, and hanging past her shoulders in tangles. I flick my gaze up to her face, momentarily taken aback by the unique colour of her eyes.

"What?" I ask, feeling slightly sheepish despite the fact that I am not the one at fault here.

"I really am sorry," she says softly.

I stare at her, wondering why I let my emotions get the best of me, why I told her about my dad. It could be due to the fact that I've never told anyone about it — not even my closest friends back in Newfoundland. Or, perhaps it's because I feel like it's a story for only my family and close friends, such as Aunty Tenille, to know about. Despite the fact that I never met my dad, his blood still runs through my veins, giving me an undeniable connection to him.

Tearing my gaze away from hers, I nod. "Thanks, but I really do have to get going. I'll see you around."

Before she can say another word, before I can let anything else distract me from the very reason I'm in Whistler, I open the door to the truck and climb in. As I'm staring the engine and buckling myself in, I try not to let my gaze stray to my left, but it's difficult. At the edge of my vision, I can still see her figure there, a silhouette in the dreary weather. An entanglement of toned muscle, long, dark brown hair, and these rounded blue-green eyes that could strike any man down to his knees. Her allure is tempting, but I force my gaze on the road ahead of me.

I have a limited amount of time to complete the bucket list, and I can't give in to distractions.

Without looking at her, I merge back onto the road and begin heading back to Aunty Tenille's farmhouse.