“Congratulations, guys,” he says. “That was a wild ride.”

We bought a house up on the side of the mountain next to the woods. The house is neglected, and the yard is a disaster with overgrown bamboo and a patchwork of weeds and moss. The gutters are falling off, and the furnace hasn’t been serviced since god knows when. But it’s a house on real land, and I know that I am beyond privileged to own land in this city.

The house is steps from the forest, a real forest that goes on forever into the wilderness. A creek runs nearby with pools deep enough for swimming, feet not touching the gravel bottom. Salmon fry darting in the dark green potholes.

I’m scared of the change. Of course I am. Is change never not scary?

I still see Shawn. I see him a lot. We ride together in sunshine and in rain. One Friday night, we rode across the harbour and up the powerlines in the dark, our headlamps illuminating mushrooms on the forest floor. We rode through a layer of fog that wrapped thickly through the trees. Intermittently, I would glance behind me to make sure that Shawn was there, the fog muffling the sound of his drivetrain. Eventually, we gained enough elevation to emerge above the fog. We took a break at the highest point, and mice scampered around us, detecting the peanuts in my trail mix. I laid four peanuts on a log, and we sat there in silence watching the mice carefully approach and eventually scurry off into the dark with their prize.

At the end of the night, we always hug. I feel his warmth seep into me, and I am so happy to have his friendship, and, I guess, his love.

I think about the future and wonder if I will have a child, if I will get to paint one of the rooms in the house a sunshine yellow. I already think about names. Noah. Sophia. Rue.

And then there is a wedding to plan. I’m imagining a rainy day on the west coast. Waking up in a cottage with a wood fire, of rain falling on my face as we get married in a grove of swordferns and salal. A bouquet of lush purple peonies.