In six months, Gwen Johnston turns thirty, and when she does, she vows she'll have her life together. She'll no longer be jumping from one job to another, from one relationship to the next. A new, more mature, Gwen will have emerged. She's giving he...
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Last night, I had trouble falling asleep. In a practical sense, traveling with Blake is a no-brainer. Ever since I arrived in Vancouver on my own, I've been secretly craving someone to share this adventure with. When I clicked with Esther and Colin on the bus trip, that was a bonus. After dropping them off at the airport, I felt a bit lost and disoriented.
Having Blake rescue me from the side of the road, having him refuse to leave me at the murder hotel, even just staring at him across the common area last night as we worked out whether traveling together was a good idea have all contributed to this low-level anxiety in me that I'll end up falling in love with him and ruining everything.
Maybe the falling in love wouldn't ruin everything, but the inevitable falling out of love would. I wasn't kidding when I said five and a half months would rival most of my romantic relationships. My attention span is intense and fleeting.
The next morning, the smell of coffee seeps under my door while I'm still trying to gather my thoughts. Blake has been up for a while. I've heard him come in and out of the hotel suite, and now he seems to be puttering around the kitchenette. Meanwhile, I'm in here stalling while I slowly repack my things.
Go out. Say yes. Set firm ground rules.
When I open my bedroom door, there's a map laid out on the coffee table, and Blake is leaning against the counter, a bowl of fruit beside him and a cup of coffee in his hand. He's in shorts and a light green T-shirt, and his dark, shaggy hair is still damp from a shower.
"I picked up a few groceries," he says. "Oatmeal for breakfast, if you want it." He lifts the bowl beside him. "Some berries."
That's exactly what I've eaten for breakfast every morning if the motel we were at had it. "What kind of oatmeal?" I ask, stomach grumbling. Even though I ate every last bite of the Bannock and elk stew, I never really recovered from missing lunch yesterday.
"Only the best," he says. "Maple and brown sugar." From the small fridge beside him, he plucks out a tiny jug of maple syrup. "Extra maple."
My heart melts. This is literally my dream breakfast. "This is amazing," I say, and I get a little choked up at his kindness. "Is this—do you normally eat this?"
"I'm not a picky eater," he says. "Not much I won't eat or try." He sets down his coffee and picks up his bowl of oatmeal from behind him, spooning a large bite into his mouth.
Gorgeous and thoughtful. I'm in really big trouble. My ground rules are going to have to be epic. Legendary. Unbreakably firm. Haul out some big ass "no trespassing" signs and hang them all over him. Because I have ideas, and those ideas are bad, bad, bad.
"You okay?" Blake asks, bending slightly to catch my gaze.
"Yeah. Yeah. I'm good. So good." I mix the oatmeal and put it in the microwave. "There's just, like, one thing I should mention before we decide whether we should travel together."
