Page 5 of Lost With My Enemy

The highway opens up past Pickering, the city releasing its grip as the suburbs thin out into stretches of green. August in Ontario is lush. Everything is overgrown, thick, alive. The road cuts through it, and for a few minutes, the only sounds are the engine and the quiet tap of Elise's fingers on her laptop keyboard.

She's working. At 8 AM. On a road trip she didn't plan for, in a truck she didn't choose, next to a guy she met four minutes ago.

"So, Griffin says you're an events planner?"

"Event coordinator. There's a distinction."

"What's the distinction?"

"A planner suggests Pinterest boards and colour swatches. A coordinator manages budgets, vendor contracts, liability insurance, venue logistics, and two hundred people who all think their dietary restriction is the most important one in the room."

"Fair enough. That sounds like a lot."

"It's my job." She says it like her job is her whole identity. I recognize the tone because I use it when people ask why I travel so much.

Because it's my job. Not because standing still makes the grief louder. Not because my apartment in Calgary still has boxes of Mom's things I haven't opened in the bedroom closet. Just: it's my job. Clean. Uncomplicated. Nobody asks follow-up questions.

"What are you shooting in Toronto?"

"Finished a campaign for MEC. Outdoor gear catalogue. Kayaking, hiking, the whole deal. They wanted 'authentic Canadian wilderness' so we spent three weeks in Algonquin."

"And you're driving home instead of flying because..."

"I've got about forty grand in camera equipment in the back seat, and the last time I checked a bag, Air Canada sent it to Frankfurt."

A sound escapes her. Brief, accidental. Almost a laugh.

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny. I was shooting a wedding in Banff. All my gear ended up in Germany. Had to shoot the ceremony on my phone."

"That's a nightmare."

"The couple loved it. Said it felt more real." My shoulder lifts. "Sometimes the plan falling apart is the best part."

The noise she makes is physical. An actual, audible rejection of that philosophy from somewhere deep in her respiratory system.

"The plan falling apart is never the best part."

"Never?"

"In my experience, the plan falling apart means someone didn't do their job, the client is upset, the timeline is ruined, and I'm the one scrambling to rebuild structure out of chaos at eleven o'clock at night."

"Or it means you end up somewhere unexpected."

"Unexpected is another word for unprepared."

The highway stretches ahead, flat and familiar. We pass a sign for Kingston. Elise has her phone out now, checking something on a map app, comparing it to her printed itinerary, then checking the actual road as if she doesn't trust any single source to tell her the truth.

"Can I ask you something?" she says without looking up.

"Sure."

"When Griffin described you to Sloane, what words did he use?"

"He said I was chill."

"Chill."