Kinsley

After I've finished unpacking, I search up nearby places to eat. Ones that are within walking distance. With going out, I prefer to avoid anything that puts me on a road.

Like most residential students, I've signed up for the meal program. The university provides it, giving us access to three meals and various snacks daily. That, however, doesn't come into effect until Monday morning, leaving me on a mission to find a place. One that has a great burger and strawberry milkshake.

It's a tradition Jessa and I used to partake in. When she was still alive, that is. Every Saturday night before the school year began, we'd go out for burgers and milkshakes. Our favourite diner back home in Winnipeg had an eighties theme going on, making the experience feel vintage. Our outings were always fun. We would dip our fries in the milkshakes. Add too much ketchup to our burgers. We'd joke and laugh.

As I sling my purse over my shoulder, I try not to let the pain overrule me. Ordering a burger and strawberry milkshake without Jessa feels wrong.

I try to shake that feeling away.

I tell myself there's nothing wrong with continuing a tradition. Jessa would want me to enjoy a processed strawberry milkshake and a greasy burger. She'd want me to dip the fries in the milkshake. To let the looming excitement of a new school year blossom in my chest.

I just... I miss her bright smile and deep brown eyes. I miss my spunky fifteen-year-old sister. Living without Jessa has caused my heart to rupture. There's a tear that won't stop bleeding.

Now that she's gone, I'm unable to watch her grow up. To watch her become the strong, independent woman she was supposed to be.

Jessa deserved to live.

Flicking the light off, I step into the hallway and close my door. There's supposed to be an excellent pub on campus. No doubt it will be busy on a Saturday night, but that's okay. The busier the place is, the easier I can hide in the shadows. No one pays attention to the shadows.

I would prefer a location off-campus, but I'd be required to call a taxi. After today's drive to campus, my anxiety can't handle another vehicle experience. I'd rather limp across campus than risk my life in a vehicle.

Besides, I can handle a ten-minute walk. If Google Maps is correct, that is.

As I'm walking down the hallway, I start feeling conscious about my outfit. I know it's my anxiety belittling me. It makes me feel as though I'm doing something wrong.

Tightening the strap of my purse, I keep walking. My outfit makes me look like I'm heading to a yoga class, but it's comfortable. I like it. Black leggings and a feathery-pink long sleeve, tied together with white runners. My hair is tied up in a messy bun.

I take a deep breath. There's nothing wrong with my outfit. I'm projecting my problems onto another notion. What makes me feel like an outsider are the scars hidden beneath my clothes. The ones in my mind and heart. When I glance at other students strolling around campus, I see normal people. Ones that have families and good lives.

My logic knows this isn't true. Their lives could be like mine. They're strangers. Logically, I know this. My emotions and the trauma wedded to them? It has no boundaries. I'm a jumbled mess of post-traumatic stress disorder, mild depression, and anxiety. Together, they fill my mind with their side-effects. Disassociation. Lack of trust. Social isolation. Chronic feelings of fear, anxiety, and worry.

They make me feel claustrophobic. Fighting used to be easier. Every day, it gets harder and harder to suppress these emotions. The effects of PTSD.

Truthfully, I've used too much strength.

Strength I can't summon anymore.

I dip my head down, hiding it from the students in the foyer of the residential building. Outside, the air is cool and crisp. Wirth one last glance at my phone, I begin my trek across campus.

True to Google Maps' location services, I find myself at a quaint pub within ten minutes. It's on the northern side of campus. Stepping inside, I realize it's what I would've expected. Calgary has roots in the country. It's no surprise this pub screams country. The lighting adds a dusky feel, smelling of cheap liquor and grease. There's even a worn stage.

A worn stage that is occupied.

Cocking my head to the side, I stare at the man. There's something alluring about him. He's dressed in a black cowboy hat, Wranglers, and cowboy boots. The tight-fitting black T-shirt leaves nothing to the imagination. Dirty blond hair peeks out from beneath the hat, tickling the bases of his ears.

Right now, he's adjusting the strings of his guitar, testing each one. The strumming echoes through the pub, barely overpowering the loud conversations occurring. When he straightens his posture and turns to the crowd, surveying the area, I note how tall he is. How shadowed his face is by the cowboy hat.

He glances up into the spotlight, squinting his brown eyes. His jaw is patterned with a five o'clock shadow.

Even I can't say I'm not impressed. If my life hadn't of plummeted into a rut of despair and hell, I'd snap a picture and text it to Mads. Something tells me she'd approve of this man.

The thought of Mads causes the ache in my heart to return. If things had gone differently, she'd be in Vancouver, attending the University of British Columbia. This would've been her last year in post-secondary school before becoming a cartographer. She always wanted someone to share her life with. Mads and I always agreed we didn't need men to be successful. Having boyfriends meant having someone to share our lives with. Our successes and downfalls. A partner in crime.

My heart aches as I stare.

Just as the hostess is walking up to me, the man turns around. Our eyes connect for a moment. Recognition stirs in my stomach. At least, I think that's what it is. There's something about him. Something I can't find. It's like a word that's on the tip of my tongue.

His eyes are a deep brown, almost black. Alluring. Seductive with his thick lashes.

His lips part as a small crease forms between his brows.

Something about the look on his face rattles me. Anxiety finds its way to the back of my throat, choking me.

Is... Is that recognition on his face, too? Or am I imagining? Projecting?

Turning away, I meet the hostess with a fake smile. She tells me I'm welcome to sit anywhere.

Beige faux leather purse slung over my shoulder, I head to an empty booth at the back of the pub. The lighting is darker. The noise quieter. I can hear myself think again.

The wooden tabletop is sticky and smells of stale lager. Words and meaningless symbols are engraved into the wood.

After I've sat down, I remove my bag and set it down beside me. Then I reach for a menu. Just like the tabletop, it's sticky. My eyes scan the menu. It's laminated and covered in smudged fingertips. I flip through the first few pages until I find what I need: a burger, fries, and a strawberry milkshake.

"Are we meeting anyone else tonight?"

A cork coaster appears in front of me. Another one is set down next to it.

I glance up. A server dressed in black attire and a gingham-patterned apron stands next to my booth, pen and paper in hand. Her hair black with neon-blue tips. A studded bracelet rests on her left wrist.

"No," I reply. "I'm here alone."

The server removes the extra coaster she placed upon the table. She slips the coaster into the front pocket of her apron. She sends me a sympathetic smile.

I look away, suppressing a snort of disapproval. Unless the look is present on my face, the pain and sadness, it's unfair of her to assume. Perhaps I enjoy eating out on my own. Eating out alone needs to be normalized.

But I know that's not the truth. Truthfully, I am in pain. I am sad.

The seat across from me is empty. Because of an accident.

Because my loved ones are dead.

"Can I please get a burger with fries and a strawberry milkshake?" My voice shakes as I speak. Images of previous outings with Jessa are fresh in my mind. Memories of the accident collide with the happy ones, causing chaos within my thoughts.

She writes my order, telling me she'll return soon with my milkshake.

While I'm waiting, I distract myself from any memories. I do this by inspecting the area surrounding me. Minus the thin coat of grime your typical pub has, it's a decent space. Two pool tables sit on the far side, next to an old jukebox machine. The pool tables are occupied by groups of university students.

Above the bar are several TVs. All of them are showing the latest hockey game. It's the Calgary Flames against the Edmonton Oilers. The infamous Battle of Alberta. Beneath the TVs are shelves full of alcohol. The bottles are of different shapes and colours.

Overall, the building feels rustic. There's almost a smokiness to the building. A hazy effect. Whether it's from people smoking indoors or the heat of the kitchen, I'm not sure. The touch of country music also adds to the rustic feel.

Just then, I hear the strumming of a guitar. It's louder this time, causing heads to turn. Mine included. The guy I noticed earlier is now sitting on the stool. All that surrounds him are his guitar and the microphone.

"How's everyone doing tonight?" he asks the crowd.

Multiple cheers echo through the dim lighting. People clap.

His voice is smooth. Smoother than whisky.

He smiles, dimples and all.

"Glad to hear it," he says, strumming the guitar again. "We're gonna start with some Thomas Rhett covers. How does that sound?"

The volume heightens, drowning out the rest of the pub.

The noise overwhelms me.

My palms turn clammy. Panic grips my spine. A cold sweat breaks out across my brow. The noise is too much. It only adds to the chaos in my mind.

I cover my ears, pressing my palms hard against my ears as I squeeze my eyes shut.

Although I want to give in to the panic attack, I force myself to take deep breaths. Just like Grandma always tells me to.

It's just music and cheering. Brakes aren't screeching. You're not on a snowy highway. Breathe, Kinsley. Calm down.

My inner pep-talk helps. After several deep breaths, I'm able to return my hands to my lap. I wipe the sweat from them on my leggings.

With one more deep breath, I'm able to look up from the table. Back at the stage.

He strums the guitar again. "This one's for anyone who needs a light."

How me makes eye contact with me, I'll never know. I'm just a girl sitting at the back of a pub, wallowing in emotions caused by trauma.

Why he smiles at me, I'll be forever clueless.

My heart stutters in my chest. Not because he's good-looking. Not because I find his dimples cute. My heart stutters because it's been years since someone looked at me without pity or sympathy.

His smile is genuine. It makes me feel strange. Almost... happy.

But my happiness is clouded by sadness.

By guilt.

Whenever things look decent, I always feel guilty for being the only one to survive. My survival makes no sense. I lived, despite the vehicle being ripped apart and causing the deaths of five other people.

Suddenly, I want to leave. The guilt has returned, demanding my attention.

Turning back to my table, I see the server with my strawberry milkshake.

A bittersweet feeling saturates me.

I wish my sister was here. Our tradition doesn't hold as much meaning without her. All it holds is pain and suffering.

That being said, I have to give myself some credit. As weak as I am, I'm still here.

Beginning the school year with her in spirit. With her in my memories.

I sigh, taking a sip of my milkshake.

At least I have the memories to fall back on. For when things feel like they're impossible to handle.