Epilogue: Our Island
The first week of September at UBC hit different. It didn’t have the lingering scent of cedar and glacier melt, but hot asphalt, fresh-cut grass from the mall, and the faint, dusty smell of a hundred thousand old books being cracked open for another year. The energy was a low, anxious hum of new beginnings, a stark contrast to the slow, sun-drenched finale of Labour Day weekend.
I stood in the UBC Bookstore, the fluorescent lights a harsh replacement for summer sun. In one hand, I held the dense, overpriced reader for UFOR 402: Urban Forestry Administration, Policy, and Law. In the other, I thumbed absently through a rack of hoodies. My eyes landed on a heather grey shirt with ‘UBC’ stitched across the chest in dark blue. A replacement for the one Drew had essentially absorbed into his own wardrobe. The act felt necessary, like getting one to match his.
“Let me guess. Contemplating a dramatic career shift from trees to torts?”
The voice was dry, familiar, and cut through the store’s ambient noise like a laser. I turned.
Siena Carr was leaning against a pyramid of discounted faculty author publications, holding a single, sleek Moleskine notebook. She looked effortlessly assembled, a stark contrast to the flood of first years in sweatpants.
“Siena.”
“That’s heavy reading,” she said, nodding toward the UFOR 402 reader in my hand. “Reads suspiciously like a pre-law text. My father would be delighted. Uncle Gerry, less so. He prefers his monopolies.”
“It’s a required course for Forestry,” I deflected, tossing the hoodie in size large over my arm. “Something about knowing which level of government to yell at when someone tries to build a townhouse development in a watershed.”
“Ah, so it’s a NIMBY rage. I respect that.” She pushed off the book display and took a step closer. “I was about to grab a coffee in the AMS. You look like you could use one that doesn’t come from a K-Cup. Come on.”
It was a surprisingly direct offer. For a second, I was tempted. But the pull was stronger elsewhere.
“I can’t,” I said, and I couldn’t stop the small, automatic smile that came with the reason. “I’m supposed to meet Drewby. His last class at Cap ends at one.”
Siena’s eyebrows lifted a millimeter, a subtle show of surprise that was, for her, the equivalent of a gasp. She recovered instantly, a knowing look replacing it.
“Right. Of course.” She studied me for a beat, then dug into her bag, pulling out a pen. She plucked the UFOR 402 reader from my hand before I could protest and scribbled something on the inside of the back cover.
“Well, here’s my number,” she said, handing it back. “For the raincheck. You might need an ally who understands the… particular weather patterns in our social circle if you and Drew still want to be a thing.”
I looked down at the ten-digit number, elegantly scrawled next to the table of contents. It wasn’t just a number; it was a lifeline, an acknowledgment of the complicated world Drew and I were still navigating.
“Thanks, Siena.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said, already turning to leave. “And Charlie? Try not to look so much like a guy holding a ticking clock. It’s bad for your posture.”
Then she was gone, weaving through the bookstore crowd, leaving me standing there with a new hoodie, a law course reader, and the phone number of an unlikely ally. The ‘eventual’ was here, it was now, and it was more complicated than I could have ever imagined. But as I walked out of the bookstore and toward my truck, toward Drew, it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like a new map, with borders I was only just beginning to understand.
The Tim Hortons at Capilano University was a bridge away from the UBC Bookstore. I found Drew at a small table by the window, two grilled chicken wraps and an Ice Cap already waiting. He looked up, and that same effortless grin from the canyon, from the yacht, from the tent, broke across his face.
We fell into easy talk about first days at school and confusing syllabi, but the text sent from Toronto was a ghost sitting at the table with us. Finally, I couldn't carry it alone anymore.
"Your dad texted you about U of T," I said, my voice casual but my finger pushing a stray piece of lettuce around the wrapper. "In Mission. When your phone was charging."
Drew's chewing slowed. He took a long sip of his Ice Cap, the straw scraping the bottom of the cup, buying a moment. He didn't ask how I saw it. He just nodded.
"Yeah. He mentioned when he got back, too. The whole 'live with Anna' and her girlfriend master plan." He set his drink down. "I'm not considering it, Charlie."
The relief was so potent it felt like a drug. But he wasn’t finished.
"I’ve… actually been looking at UVic’s program," he said, meeting my eyes directly. "It's not architecture. Not yet. It's a Bachelor of Arts in Geography, with a focus in Sustainable Community Development."
He said the words like he'd been practicing them, testing their weight. They sounded good. They sounded like him.
"It's all about how to build communities that actually work for people and the environment. It's the why before you even get to the how. It's... a different path to the same thing."
The island. The ‘eventual’ wasn't a detour; it was a different path to the same destination, one he was choosing for himself.
"Maybe I’ll be over there too," I said, the words quiet but steady. "I've been idly looking at the job market over there. For after I graduate."
His eyes widened slightly, the implication settling between us. It wasn’t a plan. It was a possibility. A shared one.
"You don’t have to decide that now," he said quietly, echoing my own chaotic thoughts.
"I know," I repeated. "I still have to get through fourth year."
A comfortable silence fell, filled not with the weight of an ending, but with the quiet hum of a future being quietly, mutually considered. We weren’t running from anything. We were just… looking at a map.
He leaned forward, his Ice Cap forgotten, and I met him halfway.
The kiss tasted like coffee and cool sweetness, but it was far from simple. It was a silent conversation. It was the thrill of a shared secret now spoken aloud, our island, our map, our next chapter. It was the solid ground of a future actively chosen, not just left to chance. A promise, not of an ending, but of a beginning we would build together.
When we finally pulled apart, the fluorescent lights of the Tim Hortons felt a little less harsh, the plastic seat a little less unforgiving. The anxious ghost of "what if" was gone, replaced by the palpable buzz of "what's next."
After Drew finished his chicken wrap, he got up, dumped his garbage, and followed me out into the parking lot. The air had that early September brightness to it: the kind that still felt like summer, until you stepped into the shade.
“Got one stop and I can give you a ride home,” I said, unlocking the truck.
Drew glanced over. “Lynn Canyon?”
I nodded. “Gotta drop off my uniform. Dean said he’d be around.”
He climbed in without a word, window already half down as we wound back toward Lonsdale and back north to Lynn Valley. By the time we pulled into the lower lot, the place felt half-empty. It was still tourist season, but the kids were all back in school.
The old Ford was parked near the dumpster, and Dean stood by the tailgate, hands in his vest pockets, talking to Maya. He looked up when he saw my truck and grinned.
“Well, well. Thought you’d finally escaped the canyon for city life,” he said, walking over.
“Almost,” I said, retrieving the folded uniform from the back seat. “One last handoff.”
Dean took it, giving it a once-over like he was appraising something worth more than the stitched patch on the sleeve. “Didn’t even stain it,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t check the jacket pockets,” I warned.
He laughed. “You know, you could’ve just dropped it at the District Hall. But I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking past him to the canyon trailhead, where a pair of tourists were already posing by the ravine. “Me too.”
He followed my gaze and smiled. “Place’ll miss you, CJ.”
“I’ll miss it back,” I said quietly.
Behind us, Drew leaned against the truck, watching the treeline. He looked at home there, in the haze, the smell of cedar, the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty but alive.
Dean nodded toward him. “This is who you were keeping from me and Conrad, but not Soraya?”
“Yeah,” I said, unable to hide the small smile. “That’s Drew.”
Dean gave a single approving nod. “Good. I guess you’re free to do as you want now.”
For a long moment, we just stood there: me, Dean, the canyon, the ghost of the summer.
Then he clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger, alright? Trails’ll still be here next year if you want the patch back. So will we.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I know.”
I turned back to Drew. He was tracing the latch on my tailgate with his finger, lost in thought. When he noticed me, he smiled that quiet, sure smile that always pulled me back in.
“Want to go for a walk around?” I asked.
“Sure,” he nodded.
Drew followed me down the trail. The steps were dusty, the air cool and sharp, filled with the scent of Douglas fir and the damp, clean smell of decaying fern. Neither of us said much; it wasn’t the kind of silence that needed to be filled.
When we reached the Twin Falls Bridge, the water below flashed white and fast through the gorge, the same endless motion that had been there when I first met Drew, unchanged and completely different all at once.
The memorial for Chase had long since disappeared. In its place stood a fresh DNV Parks sign bolted to the railing with a phase targeted toward Gen Z and Gen Alpha. Toward kids like Drew:
⚠️ SPOILER ALERT: Your viral jump ends in the hospital.
We stood there, hands brushing, watching the water that had started it all. Drew nodded toward the new, blunt sign.
"Guess they finally got tired of being subtle," he said.
"Some people need the warning spelled out," I replied, my gaze drifting from the churning water to him.
He was quiet for a beat, then leaned his shoulder against mine. "It must feel different here for you now, no uniform."
"Yeah," I agreed, my voice soft. "It does."
He took my hand and intertwined his fingers with mine. “This must feel better, though."
I looked from the canyon back to him, from the past to our future. "Yeah, Drewby. Much better."
We stood in comfortable silence for a minute, our hands linked, watching the water. The memory of the letter, of that constant, low-grade fear, surfaced one last time. It didn't have its old power, but it was a ghost that needed laying to rest.
"Drew," I said, my voice quiet but steady. "There's something I never told you."
He turned his head, his expression open and curious.
"After the party at the Highmark... Sloan sent a letter to the ranger station. A donation in my name, and a note. It wasn't threatening, not on paper. But it was a warning. To be 'appropriately quiet.' It was why I canceled on you that weekend. I was... scared."
Drew's face didn't cloud with anger, but softened with understanding. He squeezed my hand. "Charlie... you should have told me. We could have told him to fuck off together."
"I know that now," I said, the truth of it settling deep. "But back then, it felt like he held all the cards."
"He doesn't," Drew said confidently. "He never did. The only card that matters is the one I'm holding right now." He lifted our joined hands. "Sloan can keep his donations and his 'appropriate' silence. He lost the moment you decided to bring me camping with your family."
The final knot of tension in my chest unraveled. I had carried it for so long, I'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe without it.
"Come on," Drew said, nodding up the trailhead. "One last walk over the suspension bridge."
We ambled back up the far side of the canyon and back over the suspension bridge. As we passed the entrance to the Ecology Centre, something caught my eye. On a bench, the same simple, brown recycled plastic one that had always been there, overlooking the parking lot. The old, faded plaque was gone. In its place was a new one, its brass gleaming conspicuously in the afternoon sun.
It read: In recognition of the District Rangers and First Responders. For their calm and precise service. G.S. - A Friend of the Park.
The words from the letter echoed in my head. Calm. Precise.
A grim, quiet laugh escaped me. Of course. He hadn't just donated; he'd found the fastest way to stamp his narrative onto the landscape. He didn't need to build a new monument; he could just as easily overwrite an old one. His version of "closure" was a swift, surgical replacement, a veiled message bolted over someone else's forgotten dedication.
Drew read the plaque, then looked at me, his eyes widening slightly as he made the connection. He shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Unbelievable. He just can't help himself, can he?"
"It's his version of a period at the end of a sentence," I said.
But as I looked from the cold, polished plaque to the living, breathing young man beside me, I realized Sloan had failed. He'd tried to frame the story, to put it in a box with a neat little label.
But our story was bigger than his label.
The canyon hadn't changed, but we had. The memory of him, almost broken in nothing but his underwear, had been replaced by a steady presence at my side, and the future was no longer a threat, but a trail map we were ready to explore together.
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