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Auden’s eyes narrow. “You’re going to keep up with the American jokes, huh?”
“Looks to be headed that way.”
“You mean you’re walking that way.”
I grin. Widely. I’m not sure how I got through life without Auden’s retorts until now, but I know it was far less amusing. “Ladies first.”
She eyes me skeptically but eventually steps forward and into the canoe. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as she white-knuckles the edges and inches her way to the farther seat. “You’re not going to capsize it.”
“Shut up. I’m trying to focus!”
Canoeing—or climbing into a canoe—doesn’t require that much concentration in my experience, but I keep my mouth shut until she’s settled in the opposite end. I pull the rope off the post then climb in and push away.
“Showoff,” Auden mutters.
I grin as we move deeper onto the lake. Lake Louise is twice the size of Canmore Lake. We could paddle for a few hours and not reach the opposite end. Auden asks me a question here and there, but we mostly sit in silence. It’s nice. Most people—especially girls—seem to think endless babble is the way to keep my attention. The quiet fits the peaceful scenery and calm water. There are plenty of other canoes floating out here, but none are close enough to disturb the sensation of being alone.
“That was nice. Thanks,” she says when we return to the dock. Her tone is begrudging, making me think she likes to be in control of the plan. Sure, I’m the local, but she’s let me take control twice now. For some reason, it means a lot.
“You’re welcome.”
“You come here often?” she asks as I tie the canoe up.
“Hardly ever,” I reply truthfully. “Especially in the summer.”
“How come?”
“Eh…it’s a hassle. Crowded. Out of town.”
“You sound like a cranky old man.” I accept the comparison with a small shoulder shrug. “If I lived around here, I’d come every day.”
“Do you go to the beach much?”
“I don’t really have a choice.” Noticing my questioning look, she adds, “My family’s place is on the beach.”
“Oh.” Wow. I know she said her family is wealthy, but I have an idea of what real estate costs in California. A place on the Pacific? That’s got to be pretty damn pricey.
We reach the top of the path in the parking lot. “You hungry?” I ask, nodding to the hot dog stand. “Should make you feel right at home.”
“I’m a vegetarian, actually.” I smirk. “It’s not a California thing, I swear. My best friend Lana made me watch this slaughterhouse documentary with her, and I haven’t been able to eat meat since. She watched the helpless chickens getting shuffled to their death with me, but she was back to eating In ’N Out a week later. I still can’t stomach—you’re laughing at me.”
“No, I’m not! It’s just…Ireallywanted a hot dog.”
“Get one. It’s fine. I’ll eat later.”
“Nah, it’s fine. We’ll get something else.”
“Elliot, I’m serious. It’s fine. People eat meat around me all the time. No big deal.” I start walking toward the car, and she hurries behind me. “Did you hear me?”
“Yep,” I call over one shoulder.
“God, you’re stubborn.”
“I prefer persistent,” I say as we reach my car.
She huffs. “I’m serious. Get one.”
“I’m serious, too.” I smile, and she holds her serious expression for about two seconds before she cracks. “Come on, let’s find some wheatgrass to chew on.”
