Lions Bay
By Thursday morning, the canyon felt half asleep. Clouded over and slick with drizzle, it had shed the energy of the earlier week like wet skin. Light showers passed over the North Shore Mountains in fits and starts, softening the trail dust and driving away most of the locals, but didn’t leave enough moisture to reduce the fire ban. No cliff jumpers. No neighborhood hikers. Just international tourists with a set schedule in cheap ponchos with their sneakers slipping on the wet boardwalks as they marched stubbornly across the suspension bridge.
I clocked in at 7:00, already damp from the walk across the lot. Soraya had the dispatch radio going, curled up in her corner with a mug that read World’s Okayest Dispatcher in peeling vinyl. She gave me a nod as I was checking my radio. Her way of saying I didn’t need to apologize for blowing off our weekend plans.
By mid-morning, I was on a coffee break under the overhang by the café, watching a cluster of Brazilian tourists argue over a soggy paper map. I opened my phone to Drew’s last message and sent him a new one.
You coming up today?
His reply: Not this time. Mahon w/Samir. He thinks I’m ghosting him bc he can’t swim.
That tracked. Drew had mentioned Samir at BP vaguely. There was another side of Drew I hadn’t encountered yet, urban, skate rat, the kind of kid who hung around park benches and watched TikToks without headphones. Samir was probably the friend Drew had been messaging while waiting in my truck.
Makes sense. Water’s freezing anyway. I replied.
lol u just want another look at my shark boxers 😏. He shot back.
I almost choked on my coffee.
The rest of the day passed quietly. I walked loops through the misty trails, checked drainage culverts around the parking lots, and spent a short time at the Twin Falls Bridge where the first bouquet had gone limp from the rain. I tucked the cards deeper into the ziplock bags, swapped out one that had turned to pulp, and righted a small ceramic angel that someone had wedged between the railings.
Dean was already in the Ranger Station when I went in to clock out, bent over the logbook with a frown deep enough to drown in.
“Got a sec?” he asked, not looking up.
I shook out my damp cap and stepped in. “Sure.”
“Conrad saw something on shift handover yesterday,” Dean said, finally looking up from the logbook. “He mentioned you had a witness in your truck from the day before. Said it looked... cozy.”
I kept my tone even. “I gave him a ride. He didn’t have anyone else again.”
Dean folded his arms as Soraya covered her mouth at her desk. “Look, CJ, I’ve got no problem with you going above and beyond for someone in shock, but we’re Rangers. Not counselors. Not social workers. You can’t keep carting around unrelated minors and not expect someone to start asking questions that find their way to the District.”
“He’s eighteen,” I said. Calm. Just a fact.
Dean blinked. His posture eased by degrees, but the wheels were still turning. “Eighteen, huh?”
I nodded once. “Graduated last month. Starting Cap College in the fall.”
Dean pushed back from the counter and exhaled slowly. Then gave a half-grin and tapped his pen twice. “The bus stop is two blocks away,” Dean said, then added with a wink, “Just saying.”
By the time I got back out to my truck, my boots were soaked through, and the smell of cedar and wet stone clung to everything. Instead of heading straight home, I pulled my Arc'teryx jacket tight over my uniform; no need to look like I was trying to issue citations where I had no jurisdiction. Mahon Park sat in the City of North Vancouver, not the District. The last thing I needed was a teenager, or worse, a parent, thinking I was trying to play cop outside my jurisdiction.
The skatepark was wet in patches but active, a few teens braving the damp concrete. I spotted Drew almost immediately: hunched under the cover of the track oval bleachers, my hoodie up, board between his knees. When he saw me, he broke into that half-smile I’d started recognizing even from a distance.
“You stalking me now?” he asked.
“Could ask you the same thing,” I said, stopping a few feet away. “I figured you’d be drying off somewhere, not back on wet concrete.”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t leave Samir hanging again. He thinks I’ve been ditching him.”
I glanced around. Samir, I assumed, was the kid in the camo windbreaker grinding low on the box rail, earbuds in, oblivious to the rest of the world.
“Don’t worry,” Drew said, catching my hesitation. “He doesn’t know anything. About Twin Falls, or...” he trailed off.
“You don’t have to explain,” I said quickly. “Everyone needs someone who doesn’t ask questions.”
Drew leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out like he belonged here. “He can’t swim,” he added after a second. “Doesn’t even come near the canyon. Afraid of heights, too.”
I nodded. That made sense why Drew came up to the Canyon alone. “Showers are supposed to let up by Saturday.”
Drew perked up. “Yeah?”
“I’ve got the day off. Was thinking of cliff jumping at Lions Bay in the morning, safer, more epic views. Then MBing on Cypress in the afternoon. Let off some steam.”
He pushed his hood back a bit, curiosity glinting in his eyes. “You inviting me?”
“I’m offering to drive out there,” I said with a straight face. “If you happen to come along and bring your board, that’s on you.”
Drew laughed, low and genuine. “I’m in. My dad’s on Vancouver Island this weekend anyway. Mediation stuff.”
That last bit he said offhandedly, but it stuck with me. Divorce logistics? No wonder Drew didn’t want to be alone.
“Cool,” I said. “I’ll text you details.”
We lingered together for a few more minutes, until Samir dropped his board and rolled toward us, nodding at me before elbowing Drew. “Yo, you gonna actually skate today or just sit there making heart eyes at your phone?”
Samir had skater energy, for sure, but he was wearing a faded Seahawks tee under his jacket. NFL? That felt off-brand.
Drew shoved him back, grinning. “Shut up. I’m strategizing.”
“Oh shit, Drewby, show him your elbow.” Samir laughed.
Drew groaned. “Not this again.”
Samir grinned, turning to me. “Dude ate shit after lunch trying to boardslide the rail. Has a gnarly strawberry, like, pulp-level.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Let’s see.”
Drew yanked his sleeve down further. “No way. It’s healing, I’m fine.”
Samir fake-whispered to me: “He cried.”
“I blinked hard,” Drew snapped, shoving Samir’s shoulder, but Samir sat down next to him, looking at whatever TikTok Drew was watching.
I hung back as they both scrolled through their phones. I gave Drew a quick wave when he looked back up, and he nodded before he turned back to his friend. After leaving them sitting together, I walked back to my truck, peeled off the jacket, and tossed it in the cab. The city felt heavier now, humid and metallic, but I rolled down the windows anyway, letting the smell of wet concrete and summer rain chase me home.
Back in my apartment, I dropped my soaked boots by the door and collapsed on the couch after changing into sweatpants, the box fan buzzing low from the window. I opened Instagram and let the algorithm do its thing with a search. Clips of skaters grinding rails and sticking tricks filled my feed, and I sent Drew two that I thought matched his style.
Minutes later, he fired back with three mountain biking clips. The last one was a POV ride through thick forest, captioned: “POV: The Ranger Sends you Down the Wrong Dirt Path”
I was still watching it when he texted me:
wait lol I think I left my bag in your truck yesterday?? just noticed now 😅
Yeah. Found it after I got home today. Took it inside, cause you know, East Van.
bruh 💀 why didn’t you say anything??
Didn’t notice till I got in. I was too distracted by some injured skater punk under the bleachers.
lmao you love it. bring it sat?
Already packed. I threw your towel and briefs in the laundry bc i could smell they were damp. Will have to find something other than the shark teeth to keep predators away for now.
Lol, like u would know.
Friday was more of the same. Grey skies draped over the canyon like a soaked tarp, and the intermittent drizzle kept the trails slick and mostly empty. I walked the Baden-Powell again, checked the erosion barriers above Twin Falls, and spent a few minutes at the growing memorial. Someone had added a laminated photo of Chase smiling in his baseball uniform, tucked carefully under a pine bough where it wouldn’t get soaked.
The silence was different now, less eerie, more reverent.
By 3:10, I was off shift. The minute I stepped out of the staff lot and into my truck, I pulled my hood down and shook off the water. My boots left damp marks on the floor mat as I drove through the neighborhood to Lynn Valley Town Centre.
Instead of heading straight home, I turned down Mountain Highway and pulled into a parking stall right off Lynn Valley Road, just beside the rainbow crosswalk that marked the center of the neighborhood's small but proud queer visibility. My eyes flicked to it, always a small comfort, then to the familiar storefront with its rows of trail-ready full suspension rigs glowing behind the windows like candy.
Lynn Valley Bikes.
It was warm and well stocked, flat pedal shoes creaking on rubber floor tiles, the faint tang of lube and coffee. The shop’s center counter stood under a suspended rack of helmets and gloves. A tech with a trimmed beard and grease-smudged sleeves looked up from adjusting a derailleur behind the service bar.
He squinted for half a second, then grinned. “Ranger Charlie. Didn’t expect to see you in here on a weekday.”
I returned the grin. “Just off shift. Looking to rent something for tomorrow, Cypress. Got a friend who’s new to the trails.”
“Not like you to ride slow,” he joked, already wiping his hands on a shop rag. “You want something forgiving or something fun?”
“Something that won’t buck him off in the first five minutes. Skater build. No bike legs yet.”
He nodded, disappearing into the back. A minute later, he rolled out a lime green Kona Process 153 and gave it a quick spin by the bars.
“Good geometry, climbs smooth, short travel, but eats chatter. Should make your buddy feel like a pro.”
“Perfect,” I said, giving it a once-over. “Write me up for a 24-hour rental?”
“Already on it,” he said, grabbing a neon tag. “Name and number still the same?”
“Still me,” I said with a tired smile. “And yeah, I’m not going to ride this, so drop the seat and throw in a helmet.”
After loading the bike into the truck bed and securing it from moving under the tonneau cover, I sat for a moment, hands still cold, then pulled out my phone and texted Drew.
Got your ride for tomorrow. Kona Process 153. You still good? Elbow ok?
You bought me a whole ass bike?? 😳 The elbow is fine.
Rented. It’s gonna make you look like you know what you’re doing. Don’t ruin it.
Damn. I won’t. You really didn’t have to.
Did anyway.
Ok Ranger. I’m in. My dad’s still on the Island til Sunday for his mediation, so I’m free. Might even wear my alligator teeth Ethikas this time 🐊 Then, he added after a minute: Been looking forward to this more than I thought
Do it. They’ll match the trail warnings I retorted.
I tossed my phone into the console and started the truck, the light rain streaking across the windshield like tiny fault lines. The memorial at Twin Falls flashed in my mind, Chase’s laminated photo, the silent reverence of the space. Drew hadn’t mentioned it again, but I knew it was there, lodged between us like a splinter neither of us could dig out.
Tomorrow, we’d trade wet concrete for cliff jumps and dirt trails. No ranger uniform, no witnesses, just the two of us and the kind of trust that came from knowing the other person would be there when you surfaced.
I put the truck in gear and pulled onto the road, the bike shifting slightly in the bed behind me.
Saturday morning, I loaded my Ibis Ripley AF next to the lime green Kona, both bikes nestled under the tonneau cover, bungeed and cinched tight, each protected by an old comforter. Just before eight, I pulled in front of the glass awning of Drew’s building.
He was already waiting at the curb, hair still damp from a shower, a brown Hurley hoodie slung loosely around his shoulders. He jogged up and swung open the door.
“Morning,” he said, climbing in. “He’s gone. Took the 6:15 ferry. Client mediation over a private island, apparently.”
I shot him a sidelong look as I pulled away. “That's a thing?”
“In my dad’s world, yeah.” Drew stretched out in the seat like the truck was already his. “He says it’s all about ‘preserving access’ and not having to share a dock. I think it’s just rich people divorce code.”
I reached behind the seat at a red light and handed over his Herschel backpack, his towel and underwear folded neatly inside.
“Figured you might want this back,” I said.
Drew smirked as he grabbed it. “You didn’t have to wash my underwear, you know.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, deadpan.
He unzipped the bag, rooted around a bit, then paused. “Did you….” He pulled out a small handful of gold-bordered Junior Ranger stickers, now curled slightly at the edges.
“Snuck a few in,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “For your skateboard. Or your fridge. Or wherever you think ‘official volunteer status’ belongs.”
Drew let out a short laugh. “Man. Gonna start thinking you like me or something.”
“I plead the fifth,” I replied, even though we were very much in Canada.
The rest of the drive to Lions Bay was quiet in a comfortable way. The Sea-to-Sky Highway wound ahead, sunlight reflecting off Howe Sound and gleaning across the guardrails as we coasted north. We turned off at Kelvin Grove, the road narrowing between manicured hedges, multi-million dollar homes, and the rust of train tracks edging the hillside.
I parked in the beach parking lot, and ten minutes of hiking along the tracks later, the cliffs opened up before us, granite bluffs warmed by the sun, the water below a deep, inviting blue. A half-dozen people were already scattered along the rocks, towels draped over boulders, music drifting faintly from someone’s Bluetooth speaker.
Drew stripped down to his striped Quiksilver shorts, revealing that same wiry, just-enough muscle I’d noticed the first time I saw him. As he tossed his hoodie aside, I caught the scabbed-over scrape near his elbow, raised and rust-colored, definitely a proper concrete kiss.
"Samir wasn't kidding about the pulp," I said, nodding at it.
Drew glanced down like he'd forgotten. "Oh. That." He twisted his arm, showing off the wound with a performer's flair. "It only hurts when I do this," He bent it exaggeratedly and winced.
I snorted. "Next time, try landing on your feet."
"Next time, I'll aim for your truck hood," he shot back, then hooked his thumbs in his waistband, just enough to flash his Ethikas, the green waistband sharp against his hip bone, the white teeth peeking out from under his shorts.
I caught a glance. "Thought you were bluffing about those."
Drew grinned, wide and unrepentant. "Told you. I commit." He bounced on his toes, the injury already forgotten. "Now come on. Bet I can cannonball louder than you."
I peeled off my jacket and knelt to undo my bootlaces. “Alright then, Junior Ranger. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He padded barefoot to the edge, toes gripping the cliff’s edge like he’d done this a hundred times. But when he looked back at me, his smile was wide-eyed and real.
“You coming?” he called.
I was already moving, and we barreled off the ledge together, a shout and a splash hitting the water seconds apart, clean but loud.
The morning blurred after that.
We kept jumping, higher, faster, each dive chasing the last one’s thrill. By eleven, the adrenaline had worn off into something quieter: soaked skin, sore muscles, and half-laughed challenges echoing off the rocks. Drew stuck a backflip off the high ledge that made even the guy with the GoPro mutter a stunned “Jesus” under his breath.
Drew surfaced grinning, his hair slicked back, water streaming down the lines of his chest and shoulders. That grin found me instantly, like he knew I’d been watching.
We finally climbed out and settled on the highest part of the outcrop, above the jumpers, but still kissed by the sun. The granite was dry in patches and rough beneath our towels, but it felt earned, our corner, above it all.
I pulled off my wet shirt, trying to even out the tan lines I kept pretending weren’t as bad as they were. Drew flopped onto his side beside me, towel draped halfway across mine, bare feet nudging the edge of my thigh like it was nothing.
He was quiet for a while, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Then he shifted, patting around absently.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I wanted to send that picture of that wild wrapped Cybertruck we saw on the freeway to Samir. My phone’s in the bag.”
He looked at me, then levered himself up and leaned over, one knee sliding across my towel, then settling over my hips. He didn’t hesitate as he straddled me to reach for the backpack, like it was just easier this way.
But it wasn’t just easier.
His skin was still damp, and the weight of him, casual and close, pressed down through the thin layer of my board shorts. I tensed, then made myself breathe through it.
“Relax, Charlie,” Drew said without looking up, his voice low and amused. “I’m not gonna jump you on a rock.”
He found the bag, unzipped it, and pulled out his phone, but didn’t shift off me right away. For a second, he just sat there, looking at the screen, thumbs scrolling.
“You seriously dumped all your stickers in there? They’re all over the place now!” he groaned, showing me one that had latched onto his phone case.
“I was feeling generous,” I said, trying not to let my voice betray the heat rising to my cheeks.
He looked back at me then, over his shoulder. His smirk was soft, unreadable.
And he still didn’t move until I heard him send the picture.
The hike back was quieter than the way in, the adrenaline of the jumps replaced by a sun-drunk exhaustion that settled into our muscles. Drew walked ahead of me along the tracks, his board shorts still damp, the straps of his backpack cutting into the sharp lines of his shoulders. Every now and then, he’d glance back, as if making sure I was still there.
At the beach parking lot, we ducked into the washroom to change. Drew tossed his bag onto the counter and yanked his hoodie over his head, his back to me as he peeled off his damp shorts and stood only in the Ethikas. I kept my eyes on my own hands, fumbling with the zipper of my pack like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
“Doing ok Charlie?” Drew asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yeah.” I yanked a clean shirt over my head. “Just thinking about food.”
He smirked as he pulled a fresh pair of black Nike mesh basketball shorts over his underwear. “You’re such a liar.”
The Lions Bay General Store and Café—the only business in town—buzzed with its usual midday chaos. A line of damp-haired customers in tech tees and flip-flops stretched from the counter past shelves of Kettle Chips and coolers of Bubly. Dock shoes, sunburned shoulders, and the occasional dry bag slung over a shoulder made it clear—boaters and scuba divers refueling after a morning out. The air smelled like freshly baked goods and the soup of the day.
"Grab that table," I said, nodding to a wobbly two-seater by the window where someone had left a newspaper. "I'll order. Clubhouse Sandwich and... Monster Ultra?"
Drew flashed a grin. "Gold, if they have it. And whatever giant baked good looks least likely to give me food poisoning." He dropped into the chair, immediately peeling the label off an abandoned water bottle.
At the counter, a sunburnt teen in a faded Oilers cap took my order without looking up from the register. Behind him, the cook shouted something through the curtain that made the cashier groan.
When I returned with our number card, Drew had his phone flat on the table, thumb hovering over the screen. The photo was small but unmistakable: a white linen-clad arm, the Empress Hotel's distinctive fine china, a ringless hand holding a champagne glass.
He flipped it face down as I sat. "Dad's having a great client mediation lunch," he said, voice light in a way that didn't match the tightness around his eyes.
Our number was called. Drew sprang up before I could move. "I got it."
He returned, balancing two Clubhouse Sandwiches, a Monster can sweating in his grip, and a massive cinnamon bun on a paper plate. "They were out of cookies. This looked like it could survive nuclear war."
We ate with elbows bumping, Drew demolishing his sandwich between gulps of the energy drink. He tore the cinnamon bun in half with sticky fingers and pushed a piece toward me.
His phone buzzed twice against the table. He didn't flip it over.
"Did you tell your dad you were out here?" I finally asked.
Drew picked at the edge of his cinnamon bun, leaving fingerprint dents in the icing. "He was asking if I was going to Whistler this weekend." A bitter chuckle. "Still has me on Find My Friends like I'm twelve."
He pulled out his phone just enough to show me the iMessage screen, below “Phillip Pierce - Sloan, Pierce & Carr LLP it said Victoria, BC (his dad’s location).
Blue Bubble (Drew): just staying local [Read 12:03 PM]
[his dad's photo at the Empress]
Gray Bubble (Phillip): How did you get up there?
Gray Bubble (Phillip): Remember, Esmerelda is coming to clean at 11 on Sunday, so don’t sleep in like you did last week.
Drew quickly typed back: A friend. Ok.
"The last time we hung out alone," he said, flipping the phone face down again, "was when he borrowed a client's Formula 350 speedboat to take me on the lake in Osoyoos. Spent the whole weekend taking calls from the bow while I got heat stroke waiting for him to teach me how to dock it."
His knee bounced under the table, rattling the empty Monster can. The scrape on his elbow looked suddenly childish, like something that should have a parent carefully bandaging it.
After we abandoned our table, I ducked back into the General Store while Drew leaned on the truck, looking out to the sound. The smell carried over from the cafe, AC blowing a stale chill over a shelf of tourist-priced essentials. I grabbed a roll of gauze from a wire rack near the till, paid cash, and stepped back into the sun.
Drew was still at the tailgate, elbow resting on the edge, looking like he belonged there
“Hold still,” I said, popping open the driver’s side door and pulling my first aid kit from under the seat.
He raised a brow when he saw the red bag. “What, now?”
“You can’t say it’s gonna get wet anymore. Sit.” I ordered as I unlocked the tonneau cover and pulled down the dusty tailgate with a thud.
He didn’t argue; he just swung himself up onto the tailgate with the kind of practiced ease that told me he’d done this before. He held his arm out like it was an inconvenience, not the still-angry scrape Samir had ratted him out for.
“It’s not even bleeding,” he said, watching me dig out antiseptic wipes and tape.
“Yeah, well, I’ve seen what happens when road rash meets river grit. I’m not getting blamed for your elbow turning septic.”
“Didn’t know this day came with the Ranger Deluxe Package,” he muttered as I wiped around the scrape. He hissed when the sting kicked in.
“Consider it a perk. Normally, I charge extra for patch jobs.”
He let out a slow breath as I wound the bandage around his arm, careful but firm. “You wrap all your dates this tight?”
My hands stilled for half a second. “You’re not a date,” I said, not looking up. “You’re a liability.”
That earned a low laugh. “You’re just mad I nailed the backflip.”
I secured the end of the gauze with a strip of tape and stepped back. “There. Try not to fall on it again.” I almost added the name ‘Drewby’ to the end, but bit my tongue before I could.
Drew hopped down from the tailgate, flexing his arm. “Kinda tight.”
“Good. Builds character.”
He grinned at me, wide and easy, then ducked into the truck without another word. I slammed the tailgate shut, locked my tonneau cover, stowed the kit, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
Next stop: Cypress.
We had dirt to kick up.
