When we get to the Powwow, Gwen and I separate like we always do whenever we attend something together that isn't inherently dangerous. She goes one way to peruse the booths set up along the perimeter of the dance area, and I weave through people to find a good spot to watch the first dance.

Once I'm settled, I scan the crowd of shoppers for Gwen. Most of the time, without meaning to, I keep track of her position relative to mine. She'd call it my savior complex, and at first, that was accurate enough. If there was a danger, Gwen was standing in its path, but ever since we planned out the rest of the trip, she hasn't been the same chaos magnet. Her default setting is malfunctioning.

Across the field, she catches me staring at her, and she cocks her head in question. I shake mine to let her know it's nothing, and she shrugs before turning back to the vendor selling orange shirts with an Indigenous design and the words Every Child Matters in bold letters. Something the older male vendor says causes her broad grin to bloom in full force, and when she looks down to run her fingers along the fabric of the shirt, he sizes her up.

A stab of possessiveness strikes my chest, and I look away. It's not the first time it's happened, but each time it does, I get angry with myself. Gwen's friendliness attracts men keen to take their chance like bees to honey. At this point, I should be used to watching her fend off eager suitors. But when he says something to her again, and she glances up, her smile is tight as she hands over her money.

My education in Gwen's body language has been extensive, and that sign of discomfort raises my hackles. I abandon my good spot and wander over to stand beside her while the vendor takes his time making change, talking to her about all the places he could show her on the island if she was interested. Unless he hasn't aged well, he's got to be a good twenty or twenty-five years older than her. She's terrible at blowing people off if they push her hard enough.

"Hey gorgeous," I say, putting my hand on the small of her back. "Did you want me to buy that for you?"

Her shoulders visibly relax, and when she glances up at me, her brown eyes are sparkling with mischief. We've played this game before, but I've never been so blatant in my "back the fuck up" vibe to whoever was bothering her. The first few times, I wasn't certain I was reading her right. 

"You mean if I'd waited two more minutes you'd have bought the shirt for me?"

"Whatever your heart desires." I gesture to the rest of the booths. "It's yours."

She bites her lip, and it looks like she's suppressing a laugh. "I honestly never thought my sugar daddy would be so young and attractive. Sometimes I just want to pinch myself." She gives an exaggerated pinch on her arm, and now I'm the one fighting a laugh.

"Here you go, Gwen," the vendor says, passing her the change. "I guess, uh, you've already got someone to show you around the island."

"She does, yeah." Normally, my interference feels like a game, a quick jolt of pretend, but that possessive spark I felt earlier is threatening to switch on a pilot light inside me, which is new. The last thing I need is a simmering sense that Gwen somehow belongs to me when she very much does not. And I certainly don't need that sort of feeling creeping into our every interaction. We're solid where we are. Friends.

"Blake Robinson?" a familiar voice says behind me.

I drop my hand from Gwen's back, and turn to face my old mentor, Herbert Beaudry, from Doctors International. My surprise must register on my face because he chuckles in response.

"Long time, eh?" he says.

"Yeah," I say, but I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice because the sight of him has rapidly transported me back to a day I'd never want to relive.

"Do you want me to stay, or..." Gwen throws her thumb over her shoulder, but she's searching my face with concern and questions I don't want directed at me.

"I'll catch up," I say. "Go ahead."

As she wanders off, Herb says, "Girlfriend?"

"Oh, uh, no. No." I run my hand through my hair and grimace.

"Would have been more surprised if you'd said yes, I think. She didn't seem like your type."

I stare at him for a beat, unsure how to respond. He could mean that in a million different ways, but no matter how he clarifies that comment it'll be a dig at either Diana or Gwen, and I wouldn't be able to stomach either one. Best case scenario it's a dig at me, but that sort of banter is long gone. If I was being morbid, I'd say it died with Diana.

"What are you up to these days?" It's easier if I take charge of the conversation rather than letting him steer it in a direction I won't like.

"Back working for Doctors International, actually," he says. "Heard you got pulled from the DRC a few months ago."

"You here on leave?" I ask. The situation in DRC is exactly why we haven't spoken in years, and I've got no desire to have that conversation a second time.

"In a way, I suppose." He smiles. "My daughter lives here on the island with her family. I got a place here now too. Setting down some roots. I do remote fly-in work for a few months at a time—Yukon, Northwest Territories, Nunavut, Manitoba, Northern Ontario—and then I pick up some emergency room shifts while I'm off. More balanced than the life I used to live, but I still get the thrill of helping people who otherwise might not get it."

Silence falls between us as I digest this news. I hadn't realized that Doctors International had opted to invest some of their resources at home instead of always looking outward. That must be recent. It's not like I've been checking my work emails for opportunities I know I can't or won't take.

"We've got a doctor moving on, out of my program, right around the time you could return," he says. "If you wanted to—"

"I don't," I say. "Perfectly content with what I'm doing."

"Back to the DRC?" He squints at me, and his disapproval is clear. "You don't have to throw yourself into maximum danger to help people."

"Someone does," I say, "or no one gets helped." I glare at him. "We've been down this road, Herb."

"Sure. Years ago. Thought a bit of perspective might have led you in a different direction. She'd never have wanted—"

"Don't even." I shake my head. "You can't know. I can't know."

"You made a pact with Diana to help the disadvantaged, those people whose voices weren't often heard. You didn't make a pact to travel down dusty roads being shot at. Come work for me. You make the difference, but you don't put your life on the line to do it."

"It was nice catching up with you, Herb. Glad to hear you're happy in your newest role. But I, uh, didn't come on this trip to talk shop. Kinda the last thing on my mind."

"When it's on your mind again..."

"I'll be on a plane back to the DRC." I shrug. Honestly, I've hardly thought about work since Gwen and I started traveling together. It's been liberating, but I realize that won't last. Choices will have to be made.

"How's your family?" he asks before I can step away.

"Haven't seen them much," I say in a clipped voice. He was always one to pry, to dig. Any relationship with him wasn't allowed to exist on the surface. He whittled people down to their core. At one time, he was more like a father to me than my own dad.

"Still? I find that interesting," he says. "What you've given up on. What you've clung onto."

"Are we in therapy? Did I miss where you went back to school to become a different kind of doctor?" I shake my head. "You can't help people who don't want to be helped."

He huffs out a laugh. "That's a powder keg." He searches my face and then lets out a deep sigh. "When you decide you want to be helped, you call me. I'd love to have you back on my team."

He's deliberately misunderstood me, and I purse my lips in annoyance. A drum beat starts, and the announcer comes over the speaker system.

"It was good to see you," Herb says. "I've kept my ear to the ground, and I'm always glad to hear you're still alive." He gives me a wave and disappears into the crowd without another word.

I stare after him, heart pounding. He hasn't seen me in years, and he doesn't know me anymore. The work I do is valuable, and if I don't do it, people who really need help don't get it. His warnings are meaningless.

~ * ~

The rest of the Powwow passes in a blur. A few times Gwen tries to talk to me, but I'm too in my own head to listen or respond properly, and eventually she gives up. Seeing Herb jolted memories in me that I haven't allowed myself to take out for a very long time.

All the evenings we spent talking medicine and discussing the future, seeing him in the hospital when I woke up to hear Diana hadn't survived, the fight he and I had before he quit Doctors International—a rush of emotions I thought I'd dealt with during my forced therapy. I definitely boxed up those events, but seeing him seems to have pried the lid off.

Gwen gets up and dances every opportunity she's given, and like always, attracts a ton of attention from any man with a pulse. Old men, young men, all milling around her like she's the party bus and everyone wants a ride.

My frustration with everything just keeps rising, and when I approach Gwen to tell her I'm leaving, she gives me a fake pouty expression before it morphs into one of concern. She puts her hand on my bicep and searches my face for an intense beat.

"Are you okay? Do you want me to come too? I can be done."

"No. You're having a great time. I'm just... I'm not."

Her fingers trail down my arm, and I feel every inch of their journey. She confettis my world with her casual touches.

If I stay, I'll end up ruining her day somehow. My mood is cloudy confusion, but every time I look at her, the last place I want to be is away from her. Which feels like a whole other kind of problem. I can't even pinpoint when my emotions started to shift, but today is the first day I've been conscious of it.

"Okay." She circles my wrist lightly with her fingers. "I don't know how much longer I'll stay, but I'll meet you back at the cabin."

"If you need me, call me."

That comment causes a smile to tug at the edges of her lips. "My savior."

"I'm serious."

"I know," she says, "I know you are." She lets go of my wrist. "Go have your Blake time in the cabin."

Someone calls her name—because of course everyone knows her—inviting her to dance again, and she glances at me over her shoulder before she joins a group of people shuffle stepping to the Indigenous music playing.

She looks happy, and that shouldn't make me sad, but it does. Her comment about Blake time makes me think I might need a whole lot more than just a few hours without her in the cabin. Things between us are becoming complicated, and that's not something I need or want.

With that thought buzzing in my head, I turn and walk back to our shared cabin.

Update: Friday

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