I don't know if you've ever flown across Canada and then been given news that you have to share a shoddy motel room with a guy you hate all in one day, but it's pretty much impossible to survive without snapping. Especially when you're tired and hungry.

Warren seems to notice my agitation because, even though it's almost midnight by the time we're on the road and heading to the motel room he booked, he stops at a twenty-four-hour convenience store to buy me food. There are few options for me, but I eventually find a vegetarian sandwich. Warren gets some kind of sandwich that reminds me of Thanksgiving dinner. After paying, the two of us eat outside on some rotting wooden picnic table. The air is warm from the leftover heat of a summer day, but the breeze has an oceanic chill to it.

We're on the road again as soon as we're finished.

But while my stomach is full and I'm feeling less agitated, by the time we make it to the motel I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to fall asleep. The four-hour time difference is getting to my head; I feel energized because while it's midnight here, it's only eight P.M. in Vancouver. Four hours isn't something I can instantly adapt to, but I'm going to have to find a way or else tomorrow is going to be a terrible day of overtiredness and way too many coffees.

The motel we're staying at adds an extra twenty minutes to our trip tomorrow, but for once I don't mind going off course. Adding extra minutes means more time away from his family. I shouldn't be nervous about meeting them – it's not like I'm actually Warren's girlfriend – but I am. First impressions are always important.

I don't know if Warren bothered to check the online reviews of the motel, but the look of disgust on his face when he unlocks the door and pushes it open tells me he didn't. He flicks the light on and curses.

The motel room is crowded with two twin beds and a small nightstand between them. An old-fashioned alarm clock sits beside the dusty lamp. Everything about this place is disgusting, worn-out. From the colour of the walls to the state the carpet is in, it all makes me wish we were back in our dorm room.

My skin itches uncomfortably as I look at the beds. All I can do is hope all the bedding has been washed.

For the next fifteen minutes, we get situated. I would rather exit the motel room and find a different place to stay. Warren, however, looks exhausted. And I can't blame him. After a long day of flying, dealing with the time changes, and then driving around, he needs to rest.

While Warren stares out at the illuminated forest that seems to stretch on forever until it reaches the Bay of Fundy, I get ready for bed. The bathroom is cramped and just as disgusting as the rest of the room, so I brush my teeth and wash my face as fast as I can. I'd prefer to not stare at the streaked mirror and the discoloured tiles.

When I exit the bathroom, nothing has changed except the clothes Warren is wearing. Instead of his shorts, muscle shirt, and sweater, he's wearing boxer shorts and a loose-fitting Vancouver Canucks T-shirt. I purse my lips. I wouldn't be surprised if Warren stripped right in front of the window.

He doesn't move when I walk up to the window that, I now notice, is open. The cool summer breeze trickles in, smelling like pine and salt water.

"Next time," Warren murmurs. "I think you should choose where we stay."

I smile before I can comprehend what I'm doing. And, for the first time since arriving here, he takes his eyes off the view and looks at me. He's also smiling, and for a moment, I'm taken aback. It's rare to see him genuinely smile. It's something I never knew he was capable of, and I'm ashamed to admit I like it.

Which is why I quickly wipe away my own smile. Just because he's smiling doesn't mean he's a different man – he's still the same Warren I've known since January. I refuse to let a smile cloud my vision.

"Well, for the first time, I think we agree on something," I reply, abruptly turning back to the bed. Images of bed bugs burrowing beneath my skin invade my mind and I suppress a shudder. I'm definitely picking where we stay – wait. Next time?

"Should we record that as an achievement in our books, Scotia?" he drawls. "I have a pen."

I roll my eyes and climb into the bed. Despite the rest of the motel room, the bedding appears to be the only thing that is kept clean on a daily basis. "Goodnight, Warren."

It's all I say to him. There's something in his tone that makes me think he wants to have a conversation with me, which is the last thing I want after hearing that nickname leave his mouth. He knows how much I hate it.

But he's Warren – he likes to push buttons and annoy people if he's not sleeping with them. That much I've learned about him. And that's all I ever want to know. He's not someone I can ever see myself getting close to. Yes, I can fake it. But with everything I've experienced and heard, I could never see him as more than an acquaintance.

* * *

Just after eleven-thirty A.M., Warren and I hit the road and start heading to the one place I'm dreading beyond words. I'm dreading it so much I wish my boss had denied me the time off. I'd rather be working than be stuck in a vehicle with Warren for four hours.

He continues to switch between radio stations as the rental SUV rolls down Brunswick One Highway at a, thankfully, safe speed. I have to admit; I was afraid he would be a terrible driver. He's proven me wrong – he's an excellent driver and follows every rule as best he can. He drives with his body relaxed and one hand on the wheel as he hums along to the music. The rigidness in my body slowly eases away, and I find myself utterly relaxed in the passenger seat as different nautical-like buildings, trees, and endless ocean pass by. Neither of us talks for the first hour, but it doesn't bother me. I feel like a tourist and enjoy taking everything in, from the wide-open skies and boardwalks to the many different lighthouses.

We're in the midst of bypassing Penobsquis when my iPhone vibrates. The vibration causes me to jump and quickly pull it from my pocket. On the screen is a notification from a geocaching app, telling me about Fundy National Park and the number of geocaches it contains.

Sadness slices through me. I thought I had deleted any remnants of my geocaching days. It is an activity I haven't done since losing Carter, and while I don't want anything to do with the hobby we used to share, I miss it greatly. There was always something about hiking – doing the physical work and sweating – that made the reward of finding one that much better.

I've heard of Fundy National Park before. It's supposed to have the world's highest tides; pristine forests; and a generous amount of Atlantic Canadian culture. You're supposed to be able to kayak as the waters rise up to twelve metres or more; walk the strange sea floor at low tide; venture inland where trails lead to waterfalls located deep within exquisite Acadian forests. There's also supposed to be over a hundred kilometres of trails to hike, ranging from mild to extreme.

Out of curiosity, I tap the notification. A familiar page, decorated in green, black, and tan pops up, along with a map that has at least sixty green location markers pinpointing each geocache located in the national park.

Excitement rushes through my blood. There are so many geocaches waiting to be found. So many notebooks that need my name and the date pencilled into them.

I glance down at my shoes: Nike runners that are perfect for hiking. I peek out the window. The sky is the bluest I've ever seen it and the sun is shining down upon my face, warming my sun-bruised cheeks. I wonder what geocaching would be like in a foreign area. Everything here is new and different.

My curiosity is quickly snuffed, replaced by an aggressive pang of despair. Carter and I used to geocache all the time. We would stay out late and wander the trails of High River until we found every single one, laughing and smiling and making memories that are now too fragile to touch on even my strongest days. Things have gotten a little better, but there's still an ache I can't seem to eradicate.

Shaking my head, I look out the window, my eyes instantly catching a green sign that says we're twenty kilometres away from the national park. Something I haven't felt in a long time – the urge to go on an adventure, perhaps? – fills my chest, and I begin to scroll through pictures other geocachers have taken.

Awe is all I can feel. Everything about it is striking. I close my eyes and picture the waterfalls; what the sand between my toes would feel like; the cool spray of salt water against my face; the earth beneath my runners; the ink of the pen I always carry gliding along a pad of paper.

The urge is stronger than ever. Almost strong enough to make my body splinter in two. Maybe, just maybe, I've been going about this coping mechanism wrong. Maybe avoiding the things we used to do together has been a mistake all along. Doing those things without Carter doesn't necessarily mean I'm doing them to overwrite the memories I already have, right?

A plan begins to brew inside my mind. Warren has been receiving daily emails from his sister about the wedding, and I know he's frustrated. Hazel said that we didn't need to be there until Canada Day. It's only the twenty-seventh of June, which means we have four days to do whatever we want. I doubt Warren wants to throw himself into the whole scheme of adjusting the final plans for a wedding before then. I certainly don't.

I glance at Warren. His Ray-Ban sunglasses reflect the sunshine as he chews on a piece of cinnamon gum.

"Warren?" I ask.