Page 20 of Home to Christmas Island
And what are you doing out here? I know immediately where this is going based on the shift in his tone, which is edging into teasing territory. Are you looking for more tall buildings you can climb? Not much along the shoreline that fits that description, I’m afraid.
If you must know, my voice drips with disdain. I’m enjoying a walk along the beach, thanks. Or I was, anyway. I wanted to see how much the houses along here have changed.
Oh, so you’re casing the joint, as they say? He laughs to himself, and I feel the anger shoot through me like a line of fire.
See, this is what I’m talking about, you don’t know anything about me, I snap. I stop walking to really look at him. He’s struck a nerve this time. I have always resented the way people sometimes gossiped about me. It’s the reality of living in a small place like this one. But coming from this guy, who isn’t even from here, is too much.
I continue, my tone acidic, If you did, you would know I would never, ever steal anything. Not from the people who live here.
He raises an eyebrow and I want to scream. I want to throw a snowball at his stupid, undeniably handsome face.
Didn’t you once steal a computer from the library?
I open my mouth, then close it again. I think of that viral TikTok: The woman was too stunned to speak. How could he have possibly heard about that?
Well, yes, technically I did, I let my words out slowly, trying to stall for time. But that was about proving a point, and I wasn’t stealing from anyone who lives here. It was different. I can hear my voice getting higher and higher. I feel flustered, and suddenly the whole story comes out in a rush.
I was thirteen, okay? And trying to message my friends on MSN messenger, which was a new way to talk to people online, and frankly life-changing for anyone growing up in rural Cape Breton. And the librarian was giving me such a hard time about using the computer because she knew I wasn’t using it for homework, but where’s the rule that you have to use a library computer for homework? There is none! I throw my hands out, exasperated. Even after all this time, the thought of that librarian fills me with rage.
But every day she was making these comments and trying to kick me off the computer and I don’t know, I thought, lady, this is a public space and a public resource and if you’re not going to let me use it the way I want to use it, well, I’ll bring it somewhere where people can use it however they want.
Trust me, Alistair says, laughing, With the shite I’ve seen people doing on public library computers you do not want people using it however they want. Where were you even going to take it?
That’s not the point, I say immediately, and he looks at me patiently, like he’s waiting for the point. There’s almost a smile dancing on his mouth and it’s distracting me. What is the point? The point is, you’ve heard some things about me, and so you feel like you know me, or you have some big idea of who I am. And you don’t.
It’s not my best retort, but at least I’m getting some words out with him this time.
I think I’m basing my opinion of you on my own interactions more than what I’ve heard, he says. His tone isn’t defensive, more matter of fact, with a touch of mirth. He lists out my sins, ticking each one off on a new finger as he goes. Remember, I’ve seen you being reckless: driving dangerously, fighting with your cousin in the snow. He raises both of his eyebrows at me and tilts his head down, that ghost of a smile trailing his lips.
Everything he said is, unfortunately, true. Can I help it that this guy is everywhere all the time, and seeing me in what are certainly not my best moments? A thought occurs to me, and it comes out of my mouth before I can think it through.
Aren’t you supposed to have, like, a partner or something?
The look he gives me is borderline mischievous. A partner? He asks slowly, that smile finally blooming in full. He gestures down to himself, to his very broad chest and says, Why, because I’m so ruggedly handsome?
Outwardly, I scoff. Inwardly I’m trying hard not to acknowledge that his face lighting up like that is making me feel butterflies in my stomach. I shove it down.
No, asshole, not a romantic partner, I mean a policing partner. They always have a buddy cop in those TV shows, I gesture towards him with my hands, And yet, you’re always skulking around here by yourself.
You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV. And I don’t skulk, he chirps back. He takes a moment, running his hand through his thick, dark hair and looking out towards the water. His tone is more thoughtful when he speaks again.
Well, we do sometimes have to go in pairs to certain things we know might have a high risk factor. And occasionally new recruits get paired off for training. But mostly I’m by myself. And to be honest, I prefer it that way. I’ve been paired up before with some really hostile people who pick fights on purpose. That doesn’t work for me. I prefer to approach situations with curiosity. I find it’s the best way to de-escalate.
I think about all our interactions up until now. He always seems so curious about everything. Again, the question comes out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think about why I’m asking it. Don’t most cops want to be in the city? What I don’t ask is, Why are you here, in Cape Breton, living in my house?
He shrugs. I like it out here. It’s quiet, I get to spend time in nature, biking through the back trails, swimming in the summer, going out in my canoe.
He has a canoe? At the lake house? I always wanted a canoe growing up. But my mom was worried Alba and I would have either used it to get into trouble (we absolutely would have) or that we would have fought over who got to steer (we absolutely would have.)
Alistair goes on, pulling me from my racing thoughts about the canoe and the house, And I get to make connections in my community, get to know people, be helpful. You’d never get that in the city, not really.
I feel like he’s telling me the truth. God forbid he ever lied, he’d think he was breaking the law or some shit. It bothers me that he genuinely seems like a good person. I wonder if the tiredness in his voice is because he really is going above and beyond, trying to help everyone. I get a flashback of Alba yelling at me in the snow: Admit it—that Alistair is perfectly nice, and you’re just being an asshole.
For some reason this only makes me want to fight with him more.
But before I can pick something to argue with him about, Alistair asks, Why don’t you like me?
There’s no harshness to his tone, but my chest constricts with anxiety at the question. His head is tilted to the side and there’s that curiosity again, shining in his green eyes, which do a quick scan of my face. It’s like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying before I even open my mouth.
