The Road to Canada

by Kate Christie

  Would it be their last vacation ever? Emma closed her eyes and prayed to the god she didn’t actually believe in.

  “Your pint,” the server said, his voice apologetic.

  Emma opened her eyes. “Right. Thanks.”

  Time to get her shit together. Or, actually, it was time to drink this delicious pint. There would be plenty of time later to get her shit together, assuming the zombie apocalypse didn’t get her first.

  “Modern humans have been around for tens of thousands of years,” Jamie pointed out whenever Emma joked darkly about the impending apocalypse. “How unlucky would we have to be to be alive at the end of the world?”

  “Well, someone has to be alive for it,” Emma usually replied. “Why not us?”

  Why not them, indeed. At least as residents of urban areas they would probably fall in the first wave. That meant they wouldn’t survive to fight their way through a nightmarish landscape to questionable safety. Of course, it also meant they wouldn’t be together at the end, since Jamie had turned down Emma’s invitation to move in with her.

  Nope. Not going to think about that, Emma told herself. Back to the zombie apocalypse. Or maybe the inevitable alien invasion. Because with 100 billion known galaxies and more being discovered every day, it seemed impossible that there wasn’t alien life out there somewhere, waiting to descend on their beautiful blue-green planet and steal it out from under them the way Europeans had snatched North America from its indigenous population. With human-induced climate change going the way it was, though, there might not be much left soon for any erstwhile alien invaders.

  At the edge of the Mississippi River in the shadow of the Gateway Arch, Emma drank her pint and plotted the course of her fate at the end of the world—anything other than thinking about the feel of Jamie’s lips against her forehead not knowing if that was the last time Jamie Maxwell would ever kiss her.

  Chapter Ten

  Jamie sat at her gate, sipping green tea and watching the sparse pedestrian traffic pass as she waited for boarding to begin. Even the flight crew that had wheeled their baggage through the door and onto the jet bridge had looked only half-awake. Which, while understandable given the ridiculously early hour, did not inspire confidence.

  Frowning slightly, she checked her phone screen, but it remained blank. She and Britt had left the hotel at half past four that morning without seeing anyone else from the team. They were the only ones headed overseas—London by way of O’Hare—thus the early departure time. Nearby, Britt was calling her family to tell them she loved them. Jamie couldn’t count how many times she had watched Britt go through this pre-travel ritual. The St. Louis airport was one of the smaller ones they had flown through, with no club lounge even in the international terminal. The building design here was the same as in the domestic terminal, with arches and domes that reflected the city’s style. She glanced up at the nearest arch, awash with colored lights, and blinked as her conversation with Emma on the hotel terrace the previous evening came back to her.

  Emma. Jamie still couldn’t quite believe that Emma had kept something so major from her. Except that wasn’t entirely true. She’d known Emma was hiding something, had even assured her that it was fine for her to keep parts of her life private. In a way, she’d enabled Emma’s lying, which—fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice… But in her defense, she had thought Emma wanted to keep her past private, not her present.

  She checked her phone again, wondering if Emma would break the radio silence Jamie had imposed. Nothing yet. Emma’s flight didn’t leave for a little while, though, so there was still time. If this were a romantic comedy, Emma would come sprinting down the corridor just as Jamie was about to board. With visions of Love, Actually dancing through her head, Jamie couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the corridor every so often as the crew readied their plane for take-off. She couldn’t deny, either, the surge of disappointment that swept through her chest when she boarded the airplane, nor the realization that swept over her as the flight crew sealed the airplane door and the aircraft began to back away from the gate: Emma really wasn’t coming after her.

  Then again, it wasn’t really up to Emma to come after her, was it? Jamie was the one who had said they shouldn’t talk until after she got back. She was the one who had walked away. If she were being honest, she had always been the one to walk away, and not just from Emma, either. She had left every major and most of the minor relationships she’d ever had, starting with her high school girlfriends, none of whom she’d dated for long. Was that just who she was? When things got difficult, did she shut off and look for the nearest exit? Shoshana, her therapist in Berkeley, said her “strong self-protective instinct” was healthy, but to Jamie (and probably to the girls and women she’d dated), her reactions didn’t always seem that commendable.

  Not that she was the only one with issues. Emma struggled with being open and honest. She always had and maybe she always would. Jamie remembered something her sister had said shortly before marrying Todd: She didn’t need him to be perfect. He’d made numerous mistakes in their relationship, as had Meg, and she fully expected the blunders to continue. The reason she was marrying him was that she had decided she could live with his particular imperfections. She could see a viable, long-term future with him despite his flaws, and, in fact, wanted that future very much. Todd, in turn, had decided he could accept her “quirks,” as Meg called them, if it meant he got to plan a life with her.

  The question here, Jamie thought as the airplane lumbered into the air and angled itself away from St. Louis, was whether or not she could accept Emma’s propensity to keep secrets. Or if, possibly, Emma could learn to mitigate those tendencies and approach Jamie with a more open head and heart. That last part wasn’t up to Jamie, though. Only Emma could make that kind of change—assuming she wanted to.

  While Britt watched the earth fall away beyond the window, murmuring her usual quiet prayer, Jamie leaned her head back against her seat. This was not how she’d expected this trip to begin. She’d made the permanent roster, for Christ’s sake! She was going to play in the World Cup in a matter of weeks! She should be bouncing off the plane’s heavily reinforced walls. But instead, she couldn’t stop replaying the previous day’s events in slow motion: how Emma had put herself between Jamie and the man she’d only just noticed was not entirely stable; how Jenny’s delusional stalker had stepped under the rope barrier, misplaced entitlement oozing from every pore; how an uncontrollable wave of rage had surged through Jamie, catapulting her into thoughtless action that had ended with him on the ground beneath her, crying out in fear. In that moment, some part of her had delighted in his pain. A cruel voice inside her head had goaded her to press his face harder into the concrete, to twist his arm until it snapped. If the security guard hadn’t come running when he did, she honestly wasn’t sure what she might have done.

  Afterward, on the bus, she’d felt sickened by her own cruelty. He hadn’t been carrying a weapon, the police officer had told them at the meeting. He genuinely believed that he was engaged to Jenny and couldn’t understand why she had denied their relationship. He was clearly mentally ill and, as the officer had said, desperately needed help. Jamie had sat in that conference room feeling guiltier and guiltier—until the moment when the earth shifted beneath her because as it turned out, Emma had been keeping a dossier on various online stalkers for months now. Maddie was also keeping files on her harassers, a fact that Angie had chosen to keep from Jamie, too.

  And why was that? Why did everyone keep hiding important shit from her?

  This was exactly what Jamie had asked Angie the night before when she’d dropped by her room after leaving Emma at the rooftop restaurant.

  Angie had looked at her, frowning, and said, “You know why. We love you, Max. Of course we’re not going to tell you about this crap.”

  Jamie had stared at her, mind whirling. Had Emma told Maddie who in turn had told Angie about France? Or maybe Britt, one of the only people Jamie
had ever confided in about the assault, had told Angie years ago. Who else knew? Did everyone on the team know? Did they freaking talk about what had happened to her when she wasn’t around?

  But then Angie had interrupted her spiraling to add, “We’ve all been on the bubble, Jamie, and we know it’s not an easy place to be. I didn’t want to do anything to risk messing with your focus. Can you really say you wouldn’t have done the same for me?”

  And no, Jamie had realized. She couldn’t say that at all.

  As it turned out, Maddie hadn’t told Angie about the dossier right away, either. She’d hidden it until Angie intercepted a text from one of Maddie’s sisters that referenced her “online situation.”

  “I was pissed at first that she kept it from me, too,” Angie had said as they lounged on her bed, a muted baseball game playing on the nearby television. “But I get why.”

  Jamie had frowned. “You do?”

  “Yeah. We try to keep the off-the-field stuff compartmentalized, you know? Otherwise it would spill over onto the field, and neither of us wants that. Anyway, you can’t control other people. It’s a waste of time and energy to try.”

  Some of the “off-the-field stuff” she was referring to, Jamie knew, was their families’ objections to their relationship. Neither the Wangs in New Jersey nor the Novaks in Illinois were enamored of their daughters’ romantic involvement. Fortunately, as the happy couple had pointed out numerous times, their duty to club and country meant they saw each other significantly more than they saw their families.

  As the plane levelled off at cruising altitude, Britt glanced away from the window. “Oh, good. They’re starting the beverage service. You still up for a mimosa?”

  Britt had found out even before Jamie that she was being offered a roster spot for the World Cup. Trish Bailey, one of Phoebe’s back-ups, had retired suddenly a few weeks earlier. Britt had already been outpacing the older woman, but now the way forward was clear. Britt and Jamie would both be going to the World Cup—barring catastrophic injury in the next eight weeks, of course.

  Amazing what a difference a year could make.

  “I don’t know,” Jamie hedged, remembering her panic attack a year and a half earlier after imbibing too much wine at a team dinner. The last thing she needed right now was to lose control over her emotions and end up getting kicked off the plane in Chicago. That would definitely be a violation of the professionalism clause of her as-yet unsigned federation contract.

  Beside her, Britt turned in her seat and touched her arm. “Are you okay? You seem quieter than usual.”

  Jamie shrugged. “It’s just really early.” Britt was so excited about the roster news, and they would be traveling for the next eleven hours. It wasn’t like Jamie could do anything about her situation with Emma anytime soon, even if she’d wanted to.

  But her friend persisted. “Come on, little buddy. What’s up? I thought it was just your usual morning mood, but there’s something else going on, isn’t there?”

  Jamie stared at her, semi-offended. “Excuse you. I am a morning person by nature.”

  Britt snickered. “Yeah, right. Whatever you say, James.”

  “Jackass.” Jamie huffed and folded her arms across her chest. Then she unclenched her fists and forced the rest of her body to relax, too. The defensive posture was becoming way too familiar, as was its chemical influence on her brain.

  “Seriously, is this about what happened at the stadium?” Britt asked.

  “No. Well, in a way, I guess. It’s Emma, actually.”

  “Ah. I wondered why you guys didn’t talk before take-off.”

  While Britt called everyone she loved before boarding an airplane because the ritual assured the superstitious portion of her mind that nothing bad would happen, Jamie’s friends on the team knew that she and Emma talked before flying because of Emma’s fears, not hers.

  “So what’s up?” Britt prodded. “You and Emma seemed pretty tight right after everything went down.”

  “We were, at first. But now, well, I guess we’re sort of taking a break?” As Britt’s mouth dropped open, Jamie hurried to add, “Not that sort of—not like a Ross and Rachel break. Or, I guess, a Rachel break but not a Ross one? We’re just taking some space. I said I’d call her when I get back to Portland, that’s all.”

  Britt was still staring at her. “That’s more than a week away!”

  “I know,” Jamie said, and sighed as she pictured the Emma-less days stretching away in front of her. Seriously, what had she been thinking? Except she hadn’t been thinking, obviously. She’d been too busy fighting and flighting.

  “Is she pissed at you for tackling that guy yesterday?” Britt asked. “Because that seems a little hypocritical, given the whole Rocky incident.”

  “No, it isn’t anything like that.” Now that Jamie knew what Emma had been dealing with off the pitch, her reaction the day they’d scrimmaged the boys’ team actually made a lot more sense.

  “Then what is it?” Britt asked. “I thought you guys were doing really well.”

  “We were.” Jamie hesitated, and then as her best friend since college continued gazing earnestly at her, she found herself spilling the details of the meeting with the police officer and her conversation with Emma at the hotel restaurant.

  “Their fries really are awesome,” Britt said, momentarily sidetracked by the mention of food.

  “I know. I think it’s the seasoning.”

  “Totally.” Britt’s dreamy gaze gave way to a sympathetic glance. “So you cut and ran, huh?”

  “I didn’t—” Jamie started to protest. But then she stopped and glanced down at her hands, tangled together in her hoodie’s center pocket. “Seems to be a hard habit to shake.”

  “Um, the lyrics are ‘a hard habit to break,’” Britt corrected her.

  After living with Britt on and off for nearly a decade, Jamie was well-acquainted with the keeper’s outsized enthusiasm for the musical stylings of Chicago in general and Peter Cetera in particular. It was really too bad you could find almost anything on digital these days.

  “My bad,” Jamie dead-panned, and then elbowed her friend. “Goof.”

  “Butthead. Seriously, I wouldn’t worry about taking off on her. It’s not like you had a choice,” she said, gesturing around the airplane’s interior.

  Jamie rolled her eyes at the pun.

  “No, really,” Britt insisted. “I’m sure Emma understands you need some space after what happened. I mean, she did lie to you, by her own admission. But maybe don’t wait until you’re back in Portland to get in touch with her, especially if you’re worried about the whole cutting and running thing.”

  “What do I say to her, though? ‘Hey, I know I said I would call you when I got home, but surprise, I decided I wanted to talk to you sooner?’”

  Britt shrugged. “Why not? I think you’re overthinking this, Max. You guys are a couple, and that means you’re going to have problems. Everyone does.”

  “Even you and Allie?”

  “Of course we do. She makes me sleep on the couch probably once a week on average—and not because I snore.”

  Jamie tilted her head doubtfully because that didn’t seem right.

  “Okay, I’m sure she’s glad I’m down the hall because of the snoring,” Britt allowed, “but you know that a couple of thin walls don’t muffle the sound that much.”

  Yes, indeed, Jamie did know that. “When’s your apnea appointment, again?”

  “When we get back.”

  “What kind of testing will they make you do?”

  Britt eyed her. “Are we really changing the subject now?”

  “I think so. Thanks for listening, though. I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime, little buddy,” Britt said, and tugged Jamie closer to place a resounding kiss on the top of her head.

  Sometimes Jamie forgot how tall her best friend really was.

  “But screw sleep apnea,” Britt added, starting to bounce in her seat. “Can
we please drink booze and talk about the World Cup? You know, the one that we’re both going to as ACTUAL PLAYERS?”

  Jamie laughed and nodded. One mimosa wouldn’t hurt.

  #

  At half past one a.m. London time, as she and Britt peeled themselves out of the cab and hoofed their way into Allie’s cousin Lizzie’s flat, Jamie reflected that one mimosa definitely wouldn’t have hurt. But when their seatmate on the Chicago to London leg overheard them talking about their summer plans, one drink somehow became three on a stomach only partially filled with airline food. In an unfortunate mirroring of her return trip from Lyon a decade earlier, Jamie very nearly ended up vomiting in a tiny airplane lavatory halfway over the Atlantic. Fortunately, she’d managed to keep her unhappy stomach semi-appeased by taking a fitful nap the last third of the flight, but now as they dropped their things on the floor and crawled into the guest room double, the world felt like it was shaking again and she cursed the lack of a self-protective instinct where mimosas on airplanes were concerned.

  And yet, her body still felt like it was early evening. Despite the fact she’d been up at four that morning, she wasn’t sleepy. She just felt shitty, thanks to the alcohol still poisoning her bloodstream. Why did drinking always seem like a good idea at the time, even when she knew—she bloody knew—it definitely was not? She pulled out her phone, as she’d been doing ever since they’d landed, and checked her messages. Nothing from Emma. She read through their text thread, full of photos and hearts and easy declarations of love, smiling to herself here and there at Emma’s incredibly dorky adorableness.

  She scrolled back down and stared at the last message Emma had sent her, the night before the game: “I AM SO PROUD OF YOU!! And, plus, I really really love you.” The text was followed by a string of GIFs and emojis, including an animation of the 2015 Canada World Cup mascot, a great white owl, preening with a gold medal around its neck. Seriously, where had Emma even found that?