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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
I asked Patrick what he wanted to do this week and whether it was rollerblading with me on the boardwalk. “Oh, boy,” he said. “I think that’s a little bit outside of my wheelhouse.”
“You’ll change your mind.” I said without hesitation. He was already half convinced. I could tell he liked the confidence.
We were on our way back from our first date where we watched the sunset in an area of town called Encinitas. He scored brownie points for suggesting tacos which, unknowing to him, was my all time favourite dish.
As we pulled up to my beachside Airbnb he parked the car and turned to me. “What are you doing tomorrow? Want to see each other? I’ll be your two-week boyfriend. I don’t care, I’ll see you every day if you want.” This string of consciousness was jarring to hear out loud. I quickly fought to hide my stunned expression and told him I’d text him.
I decided to do an impromptu two-week workcation in California when the company I work for just about pioneered a Work Away program where employees could work anywhere in the world for up to a month. I took it as an opportunity to rekindle my love of solo travel and shake up the views from my 500 square foot apartment in Toronto. I met him on day three.
I’ve always stood by the thought that meeting people while travelling has this funny way of removing the gaps in your relationship timeline. My experience with Patrick was no different. While I initially justified that nothing could possibly come out of two weeks, something about the way we were together made me pay a bit more attention with every passing day. By the end of the first week, it felt like we had been friends for years.
He was the perfect gentleman. Like, get out of the car and open the front door, pay for every bill despite trying to split, put his hand under my chin before going for the kiss kind of gentleman. It was quite foreign for me, especially years into the pandemic.
I often thought about how wonderful it was to have met someone who could join me on all my post-work adventures. We went hiking, out for road trips, watched movies and tried every restaurant on my bucket list. All while catching the sunset every day. And, before I knew it, I realized I had developed a sweet spot for this guy who crashed my workcation.
On one of the nights out I asked him if we could check out Little Italy. He made the effort to book dinner plans and arranged the Uber ride to get us there. When we arrived, I watched as he had a difficult time waving the host down despite our reservation. I let him try a few more times before I gently raised my arm; we were approached within minutes. As we got taken to our table I turned ecstatically and got a teasing smirk and eye roll back.
Across the table I caught him looking at me, a lot. After what began to feel like a blinking contest I winked and he let his guard down. “A lot of guys have probably told you you’re beautiful, but I like you because you’re smart.” Now I was the one returning the eye roll. But I never admitted it was then that I saw him differently.
For dinner we ordered two very different pastas and came to a consensus on the pizza we were splitting. We also settled on an appetizer which took a while because I learned he didn’t like tomatoes and my first suggestion was of course bruschetta. The entire process felt like a compatibility test and I wasn’t entirely sure if we were passing or failing. Our compatibility hinged on the bottle of Chianti we agreed on.
When we wrapped up, he covered the bill. Fully ready for a night out in California, we ended up at an oyster bar on the same strip. Not two espresso martinis in, I let out a yawn and blinked the tear away. A caveat of workcation was living in the eastern time zone mentally and it was well past my bedtime.
“Time for bed?” he asked. I nodded relieved.
On the Uber back to mine, I squinted out the window, desperate to capture every view of California while I could. I felt him take my hand gently but firmly. This peculiar moment felt significant.
I turned to look at him. “So, I’ll ask again. Any chance you’ll go rollerblading with me?” I floated eagerly. He laughed at the persistence. “You know what? I just might because I like you so much.”
When our last day together rolled around I was frantic for most of it, knowingly projecting my sadness. He was busy planning for a trip with his roommate to Yosemite. Admittedly, part of my curtness was my jealousy of not getting to experience it with him. We stood in line at Oscars Tacos, my final meal request before leaving.
“I thought we were hanging today?” I asked a bit short.
“We are. Also, isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” I looked at him and he shook off the confusion. “After this I’m driving you to your PCR appointment, dropping you off, getting stuff for the trip and coming back,” he riddled off the to-do list calmly.
I softened when I realized that part of why he was busy was due to my own errands. “Okay,” I said apologetically, “I understand.” I knew I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
That night I already missed him. He had come over later than expected and climbed into bed when I was already drifting to sleep. I ran my hand through his hair and then back to measure the features of his face. I fell asleep slowly to the raindrop white noise he played on his phone, a quirk I learned on how he couldn’t sleep in complete silence. And just like that, it was morning.
I didn’t let him see me upset when I shut the door behind him.
We never did go rollerblading on the boardwalk. We exchanged a few “I miss you” texts and short phone calls in the weeks after my trip. I wrote him a postcard. And I cried when I let myself miss him. Then, eventually, life’s every day happenings diluted the yearning I felt for him. Conversations every week became every other, then it was every month and, sure enough, not at all.
They say that people come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. While I still grapple with what category Patrick falls into, I often think about how great it was to have gone on workcation.
Jorielle Nunag lives in Toronto, Ont.
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