Focused on You Read online

  Focused on You

  Driven by Fire, Volume 3

  Eden Rayna

  Published by Eden Rayna, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 by Eden Rayna

  First Edition — 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents

  are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, electronic or

  mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information browsing, storage, or

  retrieval system, without permission in writing from Eden Rayna.

  ISBN: 978-1-9990874-6-3 (E-book)

  ISBN: 978-1-9990874-5-6 (Paperback)

  Cover design: Rena Violet

  Also by Eden Rayna

  Driven by Fire

  Just a Fling

  Driven by Fire

  Out of Bounds

  Focused on You

  Watch for more at Eden Rayna’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Eden Rayna

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 Badger

  Chapter 2 Jules

  Chapter 3 Badger

  Chapter 4 Jules

  Chapter 5 Badger

  Chapter 6 Badger

  Chapter 7 Jules

  Chapter 8 Badger

  Chapter 9 Jules

  Chapter 10 Jules

  Chapter 11 Badger

  Chapter 12 Jules

  Chapter 13 Badger

  Chapter 14 Jules

  Chapter 15 Badger

  Chapter 16 Jules

  Chapter 17 Badger

  Chapter 18 Badger

  Chapter 19 Badger

  Chapter 20 Jules

  Chapter 21 Badger

  Chapter 22 Jules

  Chapter 23 Badger

  Chapter 24 Jules

  Chapter 25 Jules

  Chapter 26 Jules

  Chapter 27 Badger

  Chapter 28 Badger

  Chapter 29 Jules

  Chapter 30 Jules

  Chapter 31 Badger

  Chapter 32 Jules

  Chapter 33 Badger

  Chapter 34 Jules

  Chapter 35 Jules

  Chapter 36 Badger

  Chapter 37 Jules

  Chapter 38 Jules

  Chapter 39 Badger

  Chapter 40 Jules

  Chapter 41 Badger

  Epilogue

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  Also By Eden Rayna

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to Carolyn O. and Misty, two superfans who helped name this book.

  Chapter 1

  Badger

  I wonder if this was the right thing to do. It felt like the right thing when I made the decision; but now that I’m in it, standing here surrounded by my choices, it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel as fulfilling as I thought it would. Not as satisfying. Not liberating.

  Although she hasn’t been a part of this for a long time, I still feel her presence. I sense her hovering and watching, commenting on my choices with a look and a sigh.

  Will I ever feel comfortable knowing this is my place and not ours?

  I run my fingers through my hair then through my beard. I need a haircut. A beard trim. The reflection in the window to my gallery stares back at me. Grooming isn’t all I need. There are bags under my eyes, evidence of the quantity and quality of sleep I’ve experienced in the last several weeks. I press my index fingers to the puffy, purplish sacks of loose skin as if that will somehow get them to firm up and return to a normal shape and colour.

  My pupils dilate and I look through my reflection to the scene outside. It’s dark, the street is quiet. Tourists have all bunked down for the night in the hotels up and down Banff Ave. It’s a Wednesday in a tourist town’s shoulder season, it should be quiet.

  My heart stutters on the renewed thought that this was a bad idea. I’m starting a business at the slowest time of year. I’ve done my research. I know half of new businesses fail within the first six months of opening their doors. I don’t want to become a statistic. More importantly, I need this to be a success.

  Facing financial hardship is nothing new. I’m a photographer for fuck’s sake. The cliché of starving artist isn’t a cliché. I’ve gotten down to my last package of instant ramen noodles more than once. Living lean isn’t what worries me; it’s the possibility of failure that keeps me up at night. Time and again, it’s been pointed out that my life has been one long string of failures. I don’t know that I can weather another one.

  I shut off the last light in the building before locking up for the night. Tomorrow is my first official day on the job, I should get some rest. At least pretend to get some rest.

  “Wish me luck,” I say to no one because there’s no one to say it to. I’m alone in my gallery and I walk by myself up the back stairs to my empty flat one floor above, where I crack a beer and congratulate myself on taking this step. It is, after all, my dream come true.

  As I’m dropping into the worn couch that came with the apartment, the screen on my phone lights up and plays Land Down Under by Men at Work.

  “Am I on time for the pity party, mate?”

  “I’m not pitiful.” There’s an unwritten rule that I have to argue with Dale. Even if he’s right.

  “Says you,” he laughs in his easy way.

  Nothing upsets this guy. He believes that growing up in the isolated Australian Outback will make you see the world in one of two ways: As an amazing place where people are given everything they need to survive the harshest situations, or as a shit place where we’re all meant to suffer. He chooses the former and spends his days spreading that philosophy. I used to believe that. We built our friendship on that. This year has seen me touting the views from the other camp more days than not. Still, Dale won’t let me out of our decade-long friendship.

  “I bet you just cracked a beer and pathetically said cheers to yourself.” I don’t answer him. After all the backcountry photography trips we’ve taken together, many of which included sharing a tent for weeks on end, I can’t hide it from him. Dale knows me too well.

  “Well, mate, I’m sitting down with a pint now, too, so you’re not alone even if we are in different provinces. Cheers to you.” I hear him swallow followed by an exaggerated lip smack. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “I think so,” I question more than state. I lean back on the couch, resting my head over the back to stare at the ceiling. I spent the day organising the Wild Side Art Gallery the way I want it, changing out the large prints hanging on the walls to showcase my own work and arranging the stacks by photographer rather than the size of print like the old owner had it.

  “You should be more fired up than that, Badger,” he chides, reminding me that I used to be as enthusiastic about life as he was. And definitely more excited at the prospect of owning a gallery.

  “What happens if—”

  “Don’t.” He stops me in my tracks with his forceful bark. I almost feel the air whoosh towards my face with the stern finger he points my way. “The gallery will be beauty and you’re in the perfect locale to do the kind of photography you love.”

  He’s good at playing my inner voice even if the accent’s off.

  “You’re right.” I made the choice to be out here for a reason, even if the execution didn’t go as planned.

  “I know,” he boasts then continues to beat a dead horse. “This is your time.
Her time has passed.”

  That may be so, but saying it is much easier than cutting the memories out of my life.

  “Have you met anyone yet?” He’s said all he needs to say on the topic of success.

  Although I’ve been in and out of town a lot over the past several weeks, I only officially moved here a few days ago. By noon on day one, he would’ve made plans for the rest of the week and expects the same from me. They aren’t unfounded expectations. The old me would have done exactly that. The old me who trusted his own judgement and took people at face value would have unlocked the front door and let the curious townsfolk come in to see who the new guy is before I officially opened for business.

  The new me is more cautious.

  I’m not up for a lecture on integrity, so I evade the direct question.

  “I introduced myself to the people working in the stores nearby and told them to stop by and check the gallery out.”

  “Time to get your life back on track,” he issues the demand.

  Getting back on track is exactly what I’m doing. Business first, social life later. Like he reminded me, I have a purpose. Dale clears his throat like he can read my thoughts. He’s not concerned about how I spend my time between the hours of nine and five.

  “How would you know about staying on track? Your path forks every day.” I try to insert some humour into the conversation and take the heat off myself. He doesn’t bite.

  “Dead set. But at least I’m moving forward.”

  “One thing at a time. Let’s make sure I don’t end up homeless, then I’ll consider finding a buddy.” He’s referring to more than a buddy, but he lets it slide.

  “Get yourself sorted by December and I’ll come visit after my trip in the area.”

  Dale hires himself out on private heli-skiing trips to record the breathtaking experiences uber-wealthy families have in the most remote areas of the Columbia and Rocky Mountains. Then he sells his videos and images for a small fortune so he can take his own trips.

  December. A quarter of a year from now. I’m working on one week at a time. Planning that far out seems more wishful than practical. A lot can happen in that time. I could be halfway to failure.

  Then again, I could be setting new records.

  Maybe that’s what I need. Something to look forward to. A tangible goal.

  “Deal,” I reply, hedging my optimism and keeping the underlying worry to myself.

  “That’s the spirit! Tomorrow will be bloody brilliant, mate! Hooroo!” He doesn’t wait for me to say goodbye in return before ending the call.

  He’s right. The pity party has lasted long enough. It’s time to focus on my future.

  Chapter 2

  Jules

  The beginning of the school year is always a shock to the system. We all get used to lazy summer days when sleeping in is practically mandatory and having a schedule is a serious faux pas. Then the Labour Day long weekend hits and whabam! we’re thrown back into systematic chaos with alarm clocks and timetables. It’s not just the students who suffer these first few weeks. Ask my Nespresso machine how it feels working overtime—I’m sure it’s about to go on strike.

  A soft knock at my door interrupts the sip of dark roast I’m about to enjoy.

  “Come in,” I reply, looking across my small office towards the entrance.

  Susanne, the school secretary, pops her head in. “Sorry to bother you, Jules.” The look on her face tells me that whatever she wants to say will be a bother. “They need you in the grade ten English class for something about appropriate social media use.”

  “Seriously? Dick pics at nine in the morning?” Susanne and I laugh at what’s actually a very serious topic. How kids still don’t know that sending nudes, or anything that you don’t want your grandmother seeing in hi-def, is one of the world’s greatest mysteries. “Any illegal activity I should know about before I give the talk?”

  “My understanding is there was a party this weekend and pictures of drunk students are being shared without permission.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with this and it won’t be the last. I feel bad for teenagers that they can’t do the crazy shit I did as a kid and not have everyone know about it. It was fun doing the wrong thing as a rite of passage. Where’s the limit now when kids can’t even go to a house party without the fear of their parents—and future bosses—knowing everything that happened that night?

  “I’m on it,” I tell her and roll my chair away from my desk.

  Welcome to another year as the guidance counsellor of the Banff Community High School.

  AFTER THE DAY I HAD, this is exactly what I need. A chill night out with a friend whom I haven’t seen all summer, going through pictures of a holiday that won’t land anyone in jail or perpetually underemployed.

  “I don’t want to bore you with hundreds of pictures,” Felicity expresses even though she’s poised to swipe through the entire photo gallery on her phone.

  Having never travelled anywhere, I live vicariously through other’s international exploits and I’ll sit through more photos than most. Plus, she went with Jans, the man I introduced her to, so I feel I had a hand in getting them on this trip and I should get to experience some of it.

  “Hundreds might be extreme but I’m game for the highlight reel.” I don’t want to sound too desperate.

  She begins flipping and recounting tales from her trip to Argentina. Felicity amazes me. She left summer here to experience winter in the Southern Hemisphere. Who does that? Every time we go out, I learn something new about her—and that’s saying a lot because we’ve known each other for years. Today I learned she picks up foreign languages like most people pick up Montezuma’s revenge. I’m already impressed by how brazen she is about eating from street food stalls without a care that she’ll get sick, and how she feels that travelling on overcrowded buses with chickens and goats is normal. I didn’t think I could look up to her more; she’s proving me wrong once again.

  “Would you recommend it?” Aside from the health and safety concerns I have, it looks like an amazing place to visit. Maybe I’ll go there one day.

  She gushes, “Unconditionally! I would go back in a minute. Add it to your list, Jules.” She winks at me and puts her phone down on the table, declaring the slide show over. I have a bucket list that my friends keep adding to on my behalf.

  “So, Jules, what did you do this summer?” That’s not fair! I can’t possibly follow her act.

  “You know, the usual. I hung around here and did some amazing hikes.” I wait all year for summer to come back. Felicity and I usually spend quite a bit of time together in these warmer months as I have the time off from work and her schedule is flexible. This year she and Jans were gone for most of it. “I went home and visited my parents for a couple of weeks.” I shrug, implying how exciting that was. “That’s it.” It was a typical summer for me aside from not having her to hang out with.

  “One of these days, Jules, you will use your two consecutive months off from work and go somewhere.” She nudges my shoulder.

  “It’s pricey to travel for that long.” I give my standard excuse as to why I don’t travel. “I’m getting a little old to sleep in dorms, so I’m saving my pennies to do an epic trip.”

  “It’s been nearly a decade of saving those pennies,” she reminds me as if I don’t have access to my own bank balance.

  It doesn’t make sense to her. It doesn’t make sense to a lot of people. Felicity doesn’t mind sleeping in shared accommodation with eighteen-year-olds if it means getting to see a new part of the world. I run the risk of bunking down with one of my former students that way. No thank you.

  I take a big gulp of beer and sigh at the reminder of my students. What a shit day.

  Felicity laughs at my outward expression of my inner thoughts.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  I tell her about the latest shenanigans I had to deal with at school.

 
“Two weeks ago, it was taking secret pictures of people making out a party. This week, they’re challenging each other to eat a spoonful of ground cinnamon.” The thought makes my skin break out in goosebumps. Felicity mimics my sentiments and rubs her arms. At the same time, she shakes her head and scrunches her brows, indicating her unfamiliarity with the harm that can come from doing that.

  “Don’t worry, I had to google it also. The cinnamon is so dry it makes the kids gag and they inhale the powder into their lungs. Cinnamon isn’t meant to coat lungs,” I state using the same tone I did during the talk at school today.

  As it turns out, it’s not only the appropriate use of social media I need to address but also the concept of gathering likes and followers by engaging in incredibly dangerous challenges. Frostbite challenges, fire challenges, alcohol challenges. They keep upping the risk factor to feed the need for a thumbs-up and a heart.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m glad I’m no longer a kid.” Felicity raises her pint in cheers. “And on that note, let’s talk about stuff people our age are interested in. Are you going on the Local’s Lumber this month?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Despite our difference in abilities (and desire to put effort into improving these abilities), she puts up with me on our group hikes and takes it slowly when she could easily rival the guys. Not too many people would be willing to move at my pace along the trails. Felicity makes sure I’m not left behind on bear patrol. But if it’s true that you only need to be able to run faster than one person, I’m screwed.

  RUMOUR HAS IT THERE’S a new guy who moved here. Before I get judged for coming off as a bloodthirsty single woman in my late twenties who gets excited about trivial things like this, let me state that we all get excited about news of this kind. Our small group of locals loves bringing in new members. When you live in a tourist town that thrives on seasonal staff, long term friends are hard to find.

  I’m not hopping on the calling tree and spreading the word about the newcomer yet. First, I have to check him out for myself. There are a lot of rumours that fly around town and they usually stem from one of the English teachers at my school. This one’s no exception.