Mission
The Friday before Labour Day, cedar smoke and half-melted marshmallows filled my nostrils.
DNV Recreation Director Allan’s house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac and backed onto a ravine. Not exactly the Highmark, but you could always count on him to host the end-of-season BBQ: Red Truck Beer, too much meat, someone’s dog chasing a frisbee with more energy than the entire ranger team combined.
Everyone was there.
Dean was manning the grill in a white Cloverdale Rodeo Pancake Breakfast apron. Soraya and Maya were camped on the edge of the deck with matching cans of Fuse iced tea, and Thomaz was perched on the cooler in a folding chair that had clearly lost a leg sometime in June. Even James made it out, despite exaggerating about having to take 4 buses to get here.
Everyone, that is, except Conrad and Nick, who were back at the Canyon covering the evening shift. Conrad had told Dean they’d be by after work, as Conrad had always stopped by every year.
I nursed a can of Hard Day Northwest IPA, pretending the tightness in my chest was just from standing too close to Dean and the grill's radiating heat. The kind of heat that makes your shirt stick between your shoulder blades and your beer sweat as fast as you can drink it.
I wasn’t on shift after today. I’d already cleared my locker, returned my parking pass, and would drop my uniform back at the station sometime after school started.
For the first time all summer, I didn’t feel like running from the end. Just… waiting for it to begin.
Dean put down his thongs, glanced over, and gave a subtle chin-nod to Allan, like he’d been waiting for the moment all night.
“Alright,” Dean called. “Let’s give CJ his moment. Conrad is going to do this with Nick when they get here, too.”
Thomaz whooped. Soraya groaned. Maya rolled her eyes but didn’t stop smiling.
Dean tapped his beer can once against the aluminum railing, then pointed it at me like a microphone.
“Three summers in the canyon,” he said. “Never showed up late, never called in sick, never let a trail runner yell at him without making them regret it by the third sentence.”
That got a few scattered laughs.
“CJ started as one of the quiet ones. Now? I’ll never forget how you practically leaped out of the passenger seat as we were driving in the Ford when you answered the call from Sarah to tell me I was going to be a father.”
More laughter, and a few sniffles. Dean smiled, eyes wet.
Allan jumped in: “Your dedication didn’t go unnoticed, Charlie. Not just by us. I’ll just say… a high-profile community member donated to the District Parks Fund last week in your name.”
Dean waited, then raised his can.
“To CJ. You’ll be impossible to replace. Just know wherever you end up next spring: Victoria, Prince George, or still in the city, there’ll always be a place for you on this team.”
A pause.
“And in my heart.”
Cans clinked. Cheers followed. Soraya wiped something from her eye and immediately blamed the wildfire smoke.
I just nodded, throat tight, and muttered, “Thanks. Really.”
Dean handed me something behind his back. "One last piece of official ranger gear," he said with a grin.
I took it.
A travel-size Febreze bottle, the label neatly replaced by something straight out of an Obvious Plant prank:
TOURIST REPELLENT
Citrus Blast – Now With Added Attitude
“It only works if you make prolonged eye contact while spraying,” Dean added. “You’re legally required to sigh first.”
Even I laughed, shaking my head, turning it over like it was evidence in a case only we would ever understand.
The conversations turned, plates got passed, and someone started queuing up a Tragically Hip playlist. I slipped down the deck stairs, past the side gate, and leaned against the railing where the yard met the dark treeline of the ravine. Cooler air settled out there, pine and damp soil cutting the smoke. I pulled out my phone and texted Drew:
You already packed?
It would only be a few more hours and I’d be picking him up down the hill, but it still felt like a long wait. The kind that made me second-guess whether this weekend was smart. Whether any of this was.
I didn’t get an answer right away. But before I could start rereading my message, I heard someone else coming down the steps.
“Don’t pretend I don’t get a hug.”
I turned. Soraya was already halfway down, drink in hand, mascara a little smudged in the corner from earlier.
I smiled, arms open. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She hugged me tightly, then stepped back and wagged her finger. “I’m telling you now so you don’t find out in the group chat like a little bird. I’m going on a date tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah?”
She beamed. “Amrit. Crescent Beach and White Rock. Day trip.”
I blinked. “You’re joking. I thought things cooled off?”
“Nope. Told him he’s got one shot before I ghost him forever.”
“That’s generous.” I replied.
"I know. Growth." She took a slow sip, eyes gleaming. "He swore he’s ‘evolved’ since last time. Translation: downloaded a meditation app and bought driving gloves. We’ll see how long that lasts when some lifted RAM with Alberta plates cuts him off trying to catch the ferry."
“Let me know if you make it past Ladner.” I laughed.
“I’ll text you if you need to bring that yacht around to evacuate.” Soraya joked.
We stood there a moment longer. Just long enough to hear Dean shout something about “whoever brought the yam salad owes everyone an apology,” and Maya cackling in response.
“I’ll miss this,” she said.
“Same.”
And just like that, the moment passed. The night drifted back into beer clinks, half-told stories, and a slow goodbye Charlie Deyton wasn’t quite ready to name out loud.
Saturday morning had me up at the crack of dawn.
Not because I set an alarm, but because my mental clock was already getting me up.
By 7:15, I was outside, loading up the truck while the rest of the neighborhood was still in bed, brushing their teeth or burning toast. The air had that soft, pre-heat stillness to it. Clouds hadn’t made up their mind yet. Neither had I.
I double-checked the gear list I’d made on my Notes app: toiletries, air mattress, tarp, pack of water, fold-out chairs, solar lanterns. All of it packed with the precision of someone trying to control the one part of the weekend he actually could.
I’d rented a 4-person tent from a place on Marine Drive. Bigger than both of us needed, but I didn’t want to risk our first camping weekend together in a cramped two-man cocoon that smelled like last summer’s bug spray.
The rental place offered a discount on a three-season bag, fresh liner still in the plastic, so I grabbed one. Tossed it in next to mine, the green MEC down bag I’d had since high school, worn in and too warm for August, but reliable. I wasn’t going to assume Drew would crawl into mine. And I wasn’t about to let my family wonder why there was only one sleeping bag between the two of us. I told them I was bringing someone, sure. But I didn’t want to explain how we met. Or the age gap. Or anything else I wasn’t ready to have to come up with an excuse for.
Part of me was hoping he wouldn’t sleep the rental, it was just the way things unfold when your phone battery’s dead, the night cooler than expected, the ground harder than you remember, and voices closer than they should be when everything else has gone quiet.
I slammed the tailgate shut and took one last look at the checklist. Everything was in.
Almost everything.
I glanced at the time, then looked up toward the Lions, waiting for a reply before heading off to collect Drew in Lonsdale.
Drew was already on the curb when I pulled up, North Face duffel over one shoulder, sleeping mat under the other, wearing a Quicksilver t-shirt and the black Nike Elite shorts he wore biking. He tossed his bag and pad into the back of the cab and climbed in, blinking like the sun had caught him off guard.
“Okay,” he said, settling in, “so I guess I can’t call you Ranger Charlie anymore.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You still remember when you called me that?”
He smirked. “You kinda had a camp counselor vibe going. You know, with less Jesus.”
I snorted. “Thanks, I think.
”What about your dad?” I asked. “How are you gonna explain you’re not going to be at home?”
Sloan and Phillip had slipped my mind after the PNE. I didn’t hear anything else from the firm during the week as Drew and I planned the long weekend, so I assumed I was still safe.
Drew shrugged as I started the truck back up. “Told him I was going out camping with Maddy’s family. Said there might be limited reception, so he shouldn’t worry if I go offline.”
“He believed that?”
“Why not? The camping part was real. He was more worried about whether to wear the Piguet or the Patek in Toronto.”
I nodded and pulled onto the freeway. We cracked the windows after we got onto the Mary Hill Bypass. The air smelled like the tail end of summer, dry grass, hot pavement, and something sweet wafting from a garbage truck ahead of us.
It wasn’t a long drive to Maple Ridge, just far enough that silence felt comfortable again. I didn’t fill it. Didn’t try.
I hadn’t seen my parents since Canada Day. Not for any particular reason. Just my full-time work schedule and the kind of quiet distance that becomes a habit if you don’t interrupt it. My mom messaged sometimes, mostly pictures of the tomato garden and the new deck. My dad still forwarded me Jordan B. Peterson clips like he thought they were clever or relevant, usually followed by: “Food for thought, Charlie.”
I hadn’t responded to the last one. Or the one before that.
Drew tapped the dashboard lightly with two fingers after we crossed the bridge into Pitt Meadows. “So is it my turn to get grilled, or are your parents chill?”
“They’re fine. My mom’ll ask if you’re staying the whole weekend, probably while squinting at you like she’s doing mental math. Dad’ll just ask about that time you drove the Jaguar.”
“That’s comfortingly vague,” he said. “Cool. Love a low-stakes intro.”
“You’ll be fine.” I glanced over at him, and maybe my voice came out a little softer than I meant it to. “I don’t have a rich Uncle Gerry looking over my shoulder.”
Drew didn’t push. Just leaned back and watched the fields open up along the highway signs, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.
We pulled into the cul-de-sac just after nine. The sun was already climbing, warming up the pavement and making the dew on the lawns vanish fast.
My parents’ place hadn’t changed since I moved out. Same faded shutters. Same bent basketball hoop over the garage that I never used. The dark green Grand Caravan sat in the driveway, hatch open, my dad bent over loading in a cooler with that familiar quiet focus like he was playing Tetris in real life.
“Guess we’re not ready to leave yet,” I said, shifting into park.
Drew gave a small grin. “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t a minivan.”
“Stow ‘n Go seating,” I said. “My dad only uses the back row once a year.”
We got out, and my Dad looked up as we came up the walk, gave me a nod, then extended a hand toward Drew.
“You must be the infamous plus-one,” he said. “Jason Deyton.”
“Drew,” Drew said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for letting me come.”
“Glad to,” my dad said, ”Just don’t hog all the BBQ chicken tonight, CJ said you have quite the appetite.
I rolled my eyes. “Drew can eat, but he has manners.”
Drew laughed, an actual, real one, and that was enough for my mom to appear in the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.
“You guys made it,” she said, pulling me into a quick hug before turning to Drew with a smile that had just a little too much energy behind it. “You must be Drew.”
“I am,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Deyton.”
“Oh, you’re polite,” she said, eyes lingering a beat too long on his face before flicking to mine. “I like him.”
I didn’t say anything, just followed them inside, grateful the house still smelled like banana bread, lemon soap and everything that hadn’t changed since high school.
“You can hit the bathroom down the hall if you want.” I offered Drew.
He nodded and disappeared, and sure enough, fifteen seconds later I heard:
“Charlie.”
I leaned down the hall. “Yeah?”
“Is this you?”
He was pointing to the high school photo on the wall. Braces. Flared collar. Eyes like I knew everything and absolutely didn’t.
I nodded. “Grade 8. Peak trauma.”
He traced the edge of the frame with one finger, smirk fading. “You looked like you’d never been kissed.”
“I hadn’t,” I said.
Back in the kitchen, my dad was double-checking the locked patio door. My mom already had her sun hat slung over her shoulder.
It hit me for a second how much time had passed. How little I’d been back here all summer. And how strange it was to see Drew standing in the middle of my immediate family, it was like he wasn’t a question anymore.
Drew came back from the bathroom, looking faintly amused. “You have a towel in there with your name embroidered on it. CJ in Comic Sans.”
“My aunt hand made those when I was ten,” I said. “Use it and die.”
He grinned, and my mom handed him a bottle of water like he already belonged.
“We’re packed,” my dad called. “If you two want to follow us out, we’re taking Lougheed; there’s an accident on Dewedney Trunk.”
“Got it,” I said, fishing my keys back out of my pocket. Drew was already beside me again, slipping on his sneakers.
After the 15-minute stop, we were headed toward Mission. Toward the end of summer, and whatever came after, the first real test of whether we were just a seasonal fling or something that could survive academic calendars and Sloan’s gaze.
We turned off the main road about 5 minutes out of downtown Mission, onto a gravel drive lined with alder trees and yellowing blackberry vines. The dust kicked up behind us like smoke, curling in the rearview.
Uncle Wayne’s place sat on a couple of acres, flat and wide, the kind of land that started as a hobby and turned into a lifestyle. The house itself was small, single-story, wood-sided, with a tin roof that buzzed with summer heat. A screened porch ran the length of it, and a half-finished pergola leaned off the back. A wind chime clinked lazily in the shade.
Out in the yard, a fifth-wheel trailer was already parked near the firepit circle, its awning out, lawn chairs sprawled like someone had just hit pause on a backyard episode of Survivor. Kids tore around barefoot in the grass. The far side of the property stretched into trees and scrub, real space, not manicured.
We pulled in behind my parents, and I caught sight of my cousin Julie propped against a folding table under the trailer awning, drink in hand, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She spotted us before I cut the engine.
“CJ!” she called, waving like I was showing up fashionably late to a high school reunion.
I stepped out of the truck, Drew right behind me, slinging his duffel over one shoulder and shielding his eyes from the sun with the other.
Julie’s gaze flicked to him instantly. Her smile widened. “Well, hello.”
“This is Drew,” I said, keeping my voice relaxed. “Drew, my cousin Julie. She works for FortisBC.”
“Hey,” Drew said, polite, easy.
Julie nodded slowly, then raised an eyebrow at me. “Didn’t know you were going into tutoring, CJ?”
“Don’t,” I warned under my breath.
She just grinned wider. “I’m not judging, CJ. Just saying, looks like you bagged a freshman before classes at UBC even started.”
Drew laughed. “Wow. Not even unloaded yet, and I’m getting roasted.”
“That’s how we say hello,” I said. “You should hear what happens when you beat someone at Dutch Blitz.”
Julie had barely finished her jab when the screen door creaked open and someone stepped out like he owned the place, baby bottle in one hand, half-crushed bag of Doritos in the other.
“Ignore her,” he said, strolling over. “She peaked in her Grade 11 Provincial Gymnastics Competition and we’ve all just been too polite to say it.”
“Eat rocks, Jeff,” Julie called, already cracking another drink.
I turned. “Hey, man.”
My brother Jeff hadn’t changed since Easter. Still built like someone who bench-presses plywood for fun. Still with that firefighter tan that made it look like his day job involved standing in the sun looking capable. He wore his IAFF Local 1271 tee like a uniform, cargo shorts with at least seven active pockets, and socks that had clearly lost a war with the gravel driveway.
He clapped me on the shoulder with the easy weight of someone who’d been doing it since I was eight, then sized up Drew in a single sweep. Not hostile. Not even skeptical. Just that older brother calibration : Who are you, and what are your intentions with my sibling?
“This him?” Jeff asked.
“This is Drew.” I grinned.
Jeff offered a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jeff, Charlie’s older, stronger, and significantly more emotionally well-adjusted brother. I also brought the trailer, which means if you want to sit in the AC, it’s gonna cost you. Usually chips or beer. Depends how charming you are.”
Drew grinned, already reaching for the cooler. “You a Kokanee guy?”
Jeff cracked a smile. “Smart. He can stay.”
Drew and I excused ourselves and unloaded our gear into a patch of shade near the fence line, not far from the trailer. The tent, sleeping bags, the folding chairs, all of it landed in a neat pile on the dry grass.
“We setting up now?” Drew asked, shielding his eyes as he looked toward the firepit ring.
“Nah,” I said. “Let’s let the ground cool a bit. It’s gonna be a scorcher later. I’ll show you around.”
He followed me past the woodpile and the clothesline strung between two old posts. We cut through the yard toward the treeline, where the edge of the property opened into a tangle of second-growth firs and wild salmonberry bushes. The creek was dry this time of year, but you could still see the stony channel weaving through the scrub like an old scar.
“That’s where we used to play Mantracker,” I said, pointing toward a small bluff that gave just enough cover to feel like a real hiding spot. “I sprained my ankle jumping off that thing when I was ten. Cried like a baby.”
“I can picture it,” Drew said, smirking. “Little Charlie. Emergency contact clipboard clutched to your chest.”
“Careful,” I said. “I know who your ex is now too.”
He laughed and fell into step beside me, his hand brushing mine once as we ducked under a low branch. Neither of us said anything about it, but the contact stayed. Light. Easy. Real.
By the time we looped back toward the house, I could smell burgers on the grill and someone had cracked open a second speaker, music rolling across the yard, something classic rock and just loud enough to drown out the kids screaming near the slip ’n slide someone had rigged with a garden hose.
My mom called from the porch. “Food’s up!”
Drew gave a low whistle. “Perfect timing.”
We jogged up the slope together, and I tried not to think too hard about how easy this all felt. Like we hadn’t snuck anything past anyone. Like maybe, for a weekend, we weren’t hiding at all.
Lunch was already in full swing, burgers piled on paper plates, someone passing around a mismatched bowl of Caesar salad like it was a family heirloom, kids darting through folding chairs with ketchup on their shirts and water balloons clutched in sticky fists. My dad manned the grill like it was a control panel, flipping sausages with one hand and sipping a Lonetree Cider with the other. Jeff hovered nearby with a baby monitor app clipped to his pocket, tossing sliced buns onto a tray with more precision than I’d seen him use in high school chemistry.
Drew grabbed a burger and a can of Bubly and dropped into a seat beside me on the grass, cross-legged like it was a picnic and not a test. Julie sat across from us, sunglasses back on and a deviled egg in each hand, looking like the exact middle point between amused and nosy.
“You’re blending in,” she said to Drew between bites. “Give it an hour and someone’s going to hand you a kid to babysit.”
“Too late,” Drew said, nodding to the little girl now braiding a dandelion crown dangerously close to his leg. “I think I’ve been claimed.”
Julie smirked. “Hope you’ve had your tetanus shot.”
By the time seconds turned into dessert, someone had dragged out the cornhole boards and staked them into the flattest patch of lawn they could find. The beanbags were sun-bleached and half-dead, but a crowd was already forming. One of Wayne’s grandkids was heckling the throwers. Julie was on commentary. One of my younger cousins was keeping score in a half-used Sharpie notebook.
“You play cornhole?” I asked, elbowing Drew.
He wiped his hands on his mesh shorts. “Do I look like someone who knows what cornhole is?”
“It’s easy to pick up, almost like Bocce I shrugged.”
Julie caught the exchange and waved him over. “Drew! We need a ringer. You’re tall, you must be good at this.”
“That logic makes zero sense,” he muttered, but he got up anyway.
He stepped into the sun and picked up a blue beanbag, weighing it in one hand like he was debating whether to throw it or eat it. I watched from the porch steps as he lined up his first shot and, without overthinking it, sank it clean into the hole.
The crowd cheered. Julie groaned theatrically.
“Oh, you’re one of those,” she said. “You play dumb and then casually crush people.”
Drew just shrugged. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Liar,” I called.
He glanced back at me, grinning wide enough to kill.
For the next half hour, I let it happen. Let him sink shots and high-five kids and let the summer afternoon stretch out like it had nowhere else to be. The sky was cloudless. Someone cracked open a Costco-size bag of Salt and Vinegar Miss Vickie’s and passed it around like currency.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, I didn’t feel like I was looking over my shoulder for a message from Sloan. Just watching a boy I may have loved already become part of my family, one toss at a time.
By late afternoon, the sun had shifted low enough to cast long shadows across the grass. As some of the small kids lay down for a nap, you could hear the cicadas buzzing like live wires in the trees. The game wrapped up when one of my little cousins tripped and skinned their knee, and Julie claimed that was a “mercy ending.” Everyone drifted toward the porch or the cooler.
I nudged Drew. “We should set up the tent before dinner.”
He nodded and followed me back toward the edge of the yard where we’d dropped our gear earlier. The trees rustled lightly overhead, and even with the breeze, the heat hadn’t let up.
We worked mostly in silence, rolling out the base, driving the stakes, threading poles through mesh sleeves that caught just enough to be annoying. I could feel sweat sliding down my back under my shirt, but I didn’t complain. Neither did he.
Drew held the last corner steady while I pulled the final guy line taut. His hand brushed mine once, quick, barely there, but I felt all the hairs on my arm rise up. I met his eyes, and for a moment, we just… paused. Him kneeling in the dirt, me holding the line, both of us breathing a little too carefully.
“You think this is far enough from everyone?” he asked, voice quieter now.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ll have space.”
“Privacy?”
I hesitated, surprised he already knew what was on my mind, then nodded. “As much as we’re gonna get.”
The tent stood now, sturdy, green with neutral-colours, taller than it looked in the photos. The rental bag promised four-person capacity, but the real question lingered in the air between us, unspoken: one sleeping bag or two?
I unzipped the flap and tossed both bags inside, mine and the one I got for him, with the liner still in its plastic wrap.
Drew watched me, then stepped in and unrolled his mat with a thud. “Guess we’ll see how cold it gets tonight,” he said.
I crouched beside him, fixing his silk liner, avoiding eye contact. My hands moved with practiced calm, but my chest was buzzing.
When I was done, he leaned back on his elbows on his sleeping bag as I unfurled my bag. Close enough to touch but not touching. “You ever brought anyone else here before?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Family ever ask why?”
“Nope. When we came out here, I shared a tent with Jeff till I was 15, then after that, I didn’t have anyone I’d want to bring… until now.
Drew didn’t reply initially. Just ran a hand through his hair and glanced toward the treeline like he was thinking something through.
After a beat, he said, “So… am I the first?”
“To come out here with me?” I asked, even though I knew what he meant.
He gave a small shrug. “To meet your family. Like this.”
I sat back on my heels, wiped my palms on my shorts. “Yeah.”
Drew nodded, not smiling exactly, but something in his face softened again. Like he wasn’t just hearing it, he was holding it.
“I didn’t want to just bring someone,” I added, quieter. “I wanted it to mean something when I did.”
He leaned over and nudged my socked foot with his. “That’s either very flattering or a lot of pressure.”
“Could be both.”
He grinned then, finally, and let himself fall back onto his sleeping bag, arms folded behind his head, the plastic of the tent crackling faintly beneath him.
I stayed on my sleeping bag, just watching him for a second. Letting myself have it, this stillness, this quiet little pocket between the rest of the world and what we were trying to build.
“Okay,” I said, standing up and brushing the dirt off my knees. “Want to see what’s for dinner?”
“Only if I don’t have to explain cornhole strategy to your aunt Becca again.” Drew chuckled.
“No promises.”
We unzipped the flap and stepped out into the cooling air, just close enough to feel it, and I wondered how many more hours we’d have before the tent stopped being a question and became the answer.
Dinner was fast and loud, paper plates stacked with grilled chicken skewers, foil trays of baked beans, and a potato salad that was more mayo than vegetable. Drew made a valiant effort to try everything, even when Julie loudly warned him that anything with raisins probably came from a church cookbook.
We ate perched on the porch sets of the house again, watching Jeff try to light a citronella torch with a barbecue lighter that clearly needed a recharge. Down by the trailer, someone had started assembling a collapsible table, and Wayne called out to no one in particular:
“Movie starts in twenty! Bring your chairs, bring your bug spray.”
By the time the sun dipped behind the treeline, the makeshift outdoor theatre was in full swing. Uncle Wayne had set up a cheap LED projector on a ladder and angled it at the side of the fifth wheel. A white tarp was clipped tightly against the siding. The movie? Back to the Future. An eternal crowd-pleaser, apparently.
Kids gathered on a worn-out camping mat front and center, already sticky with melted freezies. Adults circled behind them in camping chairs and foldout recliners, red Solo cups and ciders in hand.
Drew and I dragged our folding chairs just far enough back to see without being seen. Close enough to hear the dialogue from the Bluetooth speaker, far enough for our knees to bump without anyone noticing.
He leaned over partway through the opening credits. “I haven’t seen this since I was a kid.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Family Classic.”
He nodded, then whispered, “You think they’d let us screen Minions tomorrow night?”
“My dad would riot.”
“Even better.”
Halfway through the movie, someone passed down a bag of marshmallows and chocolate-covered pretzels. I handed Drew a few, and he let his hand linger against mine as he took them. Not a move. Just a moment. Like the heat between us wasn’t urgent yet, but waiting. Ready.
He shifted in his chair, slouched a little closer. His shoulder brushed mine again, but he didn’t move away.
Onscreen, Marty was yelling something about 1.21 gigawatts.
I didn’t care.
I just sat there, barely breathing, watching the glow from the screen spill across Drew’s face, and thought:
Maybe he was ready too.
The movie ended just before ten, the last fight scene flickering dimly across the side of the camper until Uncle Wayne shut off the projector and started putting away his laptop.
Most of the kids had already been collected or carried off, and the rest of the yard faded into soft lantern light. But the adults rallied. Someone lit the propane heater and broke out the start of the sangria, which meant the over-40 crowd was just settling in.
“Here we go,” I muttered, watching Aunt Becca pull up a camp chair with the kind of commitment that meant she wasn’t moving for at least an hour.
Drew leaned in. “You wanna bail?”
“Yeah,” I said, standing. “Let’s give them the illusion of privacy while they discuss tariff drama and recipes for Costco rotisserie chicken.”
He snorted, grabbed his hoodie, and followed me back across the yard toward the tent. The air had cooled off just enough to need sleeves, and the crickets were loud enough now that we didn’t have to whisper, but we still did.
Inside, it was darker than I remembered, the tent lit only by the thin glow of the solar stake I’d planted by the flap. Drew tossed his hoodie down and flopped onto his sleeping bag, hands behind his head.
“Too early,” he said. “Your uncle’s still telling a story about nearly crashing the snowmobile in ’98.”
I dropped down beside him. “We wait. Or risk trauma.”
“Trauma it is,” he said, but didn’t move.
We lay there for another 45 minutes, the mesh ceiling above us showing slivers of stars through the trees. Somewhere near the firepit, someone cracked a can, and the group burst into laughter.
Eventually, Drew sat up. “Gonna brush my teeth,” he said, grabbing his toiletry bag and stepping into his slides. He frowned at his phone. “Damn, this thing’s on 1%. It’s gonna die.”
“You going to the trailer or walking to the house?”
“Trailer. Jeff said I could plug something in if needed to. Can you grab my charger from my bag?”
“Sure,” I said. I unzipped the main compartment of his duffel, found the charger block, and pulled it out. As I handed it to him, he was already shuffling out of the tent.
“Meet you over there,” he said, his voice fading as he crunched across the gravel.
I took a second, my own toothbrush in hand, then followed. The night air was cool, the laughter from the adults around the propane heater a distant, separate world.
Inside the trailer, it was warm, and my infant nephew was fast asleep. Drew was already in the tiny bathroom, the door open a crack. I saw him plug his phone into an outlet beside the mirror. The screen, hungry for power, lit up brightly.
He set it down after thumbing through his notifications on the narrow counter and picked up his toothbrush. My eyes, drawn to the light, flicked to the screen at the message he had up.
Phillip Pierce: Anna and I were talking over dinner. She thinks you should transfer after Cap to U of T if you're not planning on going to UBC. They have an excellent architecture program. You could live with her and May; they have an extra bedroom and their condo is walking distance to campus.
The words didn’t land like a sledgehammer. They seeped in, cold and slow. Transfer. U of T. Toronto.
It wasn't an immediate threat. Drew was just starting at Capilano. A transfer wouldn't be for a year, or more likely two. But that was the point. It wasn't a crisis; it was a plan. His future in another province was being drafted over a dinner, a future that logically made sense, a future that didn't include me. It was a seed, planted by his family, that would now sit there and grow.
"Charcoal paste's on the counter," my sister-in-law called from the couch, jolting me.
"Thanks," I mumbled, my voice tight.
Drew glanced at me in the mirror, toothpaste foaming at his mouth. "You ok Charlie?"
"Yeah," I lied, grabbing my own brush. "Just tired."
We brushed in silence, shoulders bumping in the cramped space. The reflection showed a perfect picture: a couple in their honeymoon phase getting ready for bed. But all I could see was the ghost of that text, a future where this easy intimacy was a memory, a three-thousand-kilometer flight away.
Drew ducked through the flap after we were done in the trailer, the faint scent of mint trailing in with him. He crawled onto his sleeping mat and sleeping bag, not bothering to retrieve his now-charging phone from the trailer. The zipper whispered shut, sealing us in our own private world, a world that suddenly felt temporary.
“You weren’t kidding,” he whispered, glancing toward the fading firepit glow. “They’re finally winding down.”
“Good,” I said, the word heavy.
We lay there in the quiet, the space between us charged with everything I couldn't say. His hand found mine, his fingers lacing through mine.
“I’m glad you brought me,” he said, his voice subtle but sure in the dark.
“Me too.” And I was. That was the worst part. The more perfect this felt, the more the thought of that text felt like a countdown.
He turned his head on the pillow. “I love you Charlie, you know.”
The words were a balm and a blade. He meant them for now. I heard them echoing in an empty room in Toronto.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, my thumb stroking the back of his hand. “I love you too Drew.”
And maybe it was that collision: the profound truth of my love crashing into the terrifying prospect of its expiration date, that made me lean over and kiss him. It was desperate and deep, not just an expression of desire, but a silent, frantic argument against the future. An attempt to be so present, so indelible, that the idea of leaving could never truly take root.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing heavily, the sound loud in the quiet tent. The distant chatter of my relatives was a world away. There was only the faint rustle of nylon and the pounding of my own heart, a drumbeat against the dread.
Drew's eyes were dark, his lips slightly swollen. He looked dazed, but a slow, understanding smile touched his mouth. He knew this night was different.
"Charlie..." he breathed, a question and an answer in one word.
I shifted, leaning over him, one knee settling between his legs on the sleeping bag. I braced myself on an elbow, my other hand still cupping his jaw, my thumb stroking his cheek.
"I want you," I said, the words gravelly and direct. I needed him to hear the certainty, to feel the "now" in it, even if my mind was screaming about the “eventual”.
"I know," he whispered, his own hands coming to rest on my hips, his grip firm.
I took a slow breath, the air feeling thin. My next question was a precipice. We'd done everything but this. This was the final wall, and crossing it felt like both a beginning and an ending.
"Drew," I started, my voice low and steady despite the storm inside. "Are you ready to do.. What we haven’t done yet?"
I didn't elaborate. It wasn’t necessary. The weight of the question hung in the air between us, more significant than any specific act. Are you ready for me? For all of me? For what it means to let me this far in, if the world might pull us apart?
He didn't look away. His gaze was clear and unwavering, all the playful bravado burned away, leaving something pure and fiercely determined.
"Yes, Charlie, I want you in me," he said. No hesitation. No smirk. Just a single, solid truth.
That one word shattered the last of my restraint.
I kissed him again, deep and searching, as my hands began to work. I tugged his shirt up, and he lifted his shoulders off the mat to help me pull it over his head. My own flannel followed, discarded into the dimness. The cool night air was a shock against our heated skin.
We took our time with the rest, a slow, silent undressing until we were both bare. I loomed over him, the lines of my larger body covering him, and just looked. The moonlight carved the pale, lean lines of his torso, the sharp cut of his hips. He was beautiful, and for this moment, entirely mine.
I reached for my duffel and retrieved the small bottle. I showed it to him. He gave a single, firm nod.
"Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me to stop," I warned.
"I will," he promised.
I was painstakingly slow. I warmed the lube between my fingers, my eyes never leaving his as I began to prepare him. He gasped at the first touch, his body tensing.
"Okay?" I whispered, pausing.
He let out a shaky breath. "Yeah... just... new."
I continued, my touch gentle and patient, coaxing his body to open for me as I straddled over one leg. "You're doing so good... just breathe, Drewby... I'll be gentle"
When I was sure he was ready, I moved. I positioned myself at his entrance, the head of my cock pressing against him. The tent felt impossibly small.
"This might... I’ll just go slow," I said, my voice shaky.
He nodded, his hands gripping my biceps. "I'm ready."
I pushed forward, a slow, inexorable pressure. He flinched, a sharp hiss escaping his lips.
"Stop," he gasped.
I froze immediately. "Okay. We stop." I began to pull back.
His grip tightened. "No. Don't... don't go. Just... give me a second."
We stayed like that, locked in that first, burning inch. I watched his face, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathed through the discomfort. Slowly, I felt the tension in his body begin to ease.
"Okay," he breathed out. "Okay. More."
I pushed forward again, another slow, careful inch. This time, the sound he made was a low groan. I kept going, a fraction at a time, my body shaking with the effort of restraint, until I was fully inserted inside him. We both went completely still, panting, our foreheads pressed together. The feeling was overwhelming, a consuming, perfect fullness.
"God, Charlie," he choked out.
I dropped my head to his shoulder, just breathing him in. After a brief moment, I began to move. It was a slow, deep rock at first.
It was then that his legs, which had been resting beside my hips, lifted. He hooked his calves behind my thighs, pulling me in even deeper, locking me to him. The act was so intimate, so trusting, it stole my breath.
A soft, broken moan escaped him. "That's it," I muttered against his skin, my pace gradually building. "You feel so good."
His legs held me tight, giving me leverage, allowing me to sink into him with every thrust. We found a rhythm, a deep, rolling cadence that was entirely ours. The tent dissolved into the feeling of being inside him, of his body wrapped around mine, of his hot breath against my neck.
I shifted minutely, angling my hips, and found the spot that made him cry out, his back arching off his sleeping bag. His legs tightened around me, his heels digging into the sleeping bag beneath us.
"Charlie, I wanted you to be the first, just like this," he begged, his body beginning to tremble.
"I’ve wanted you like this forever,” I admitted.
His brown eyes, hazy with pleasure, found mine. In that gaze, I saw everything. It was my undoing.
"I love you," I gasped, my thrusts losing their rhythm as my climax ripped through me. I drove into him one last, deep time, my vision whiting out as I spilled myself inside him, my entire being convulsing with the release.
The force of my orgasm seemed to trigger his. With a choked, sobbing cry, his own release spilled hot between our stomachs, his body clenching around me in rhythmic pulses that milked the very last drops from me.
I collapsed against him, spent and trembling, my face buried in his neck. His legs slowly unlocked and slid away, boneless, to rest once more on the sleeping bag. We lay tangled together, slick with sweat, our hearts beating a frenzied, slowing rhythm against each other's chests.
In the profound, vulnerable quiet that followed, the real world and its threats came rushing back. I held him tighter, as if I could physically stop the future, and prayed he couldn't feel the single, hot, desperate tear that escaped and traced a path through the sweat on my temple, disappearing into his hair.
He shifted beneath me, breathing evening out, his fingers tracing slow, absent circles along my spine until the rhythm steadied both of us. Outside, the last ember of the firepit cracked and went dark.
I reached for the edge of my sleeping bag and pulled it over us, sealing in the warmth, the smell of cedar smoke and earth. Drew muttered something half-coherent, his words melting into the soft hush of crickets and distant laughter that was already fading as fast as we were drifting off to sleep.
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