Five playing cards innocently stared up at me, the hazy implications of their configuration consummating a previously murky intent. Four queens established the tableau, the heart suit carefully arranged on the left, followed by her sisters, each monarch a mirror image of the previous except for the suit. The last card, the ace of spades, broke the royal pattern, serving to complete the exceptional sequence in mocking simplicity.

I never played much poker, wasn’t the gambling type, but I knew enough that this hand, the one I held between my trembling fingers, was rare. I had never seen a natural four of a kind, and I likely never would again. Some hardened gamblers spend their entire lives drawing cards and never witness a hand like this.

I sighed.

Somehow, we’d all become four of a kind on this lonely, rainy, dismal holiday.

The afternoon presented damp and gloomy, October rain clouds tumbling across the sky like dirty cotton, whipped by a frigid wind, chilling to the bone.

I shivered and settled Bradley’s battered old suitcase into the trunk of the idling Ford. I slammed the cover and straightened, wrapping my arms about me, shaking as the wind tore through my thin jacket.

“Petie, my friend, sure you don’t want to go home?”

Bradley stepped around from the passenger side of the car. He wore a sensible parka, complete with fake fur lining the hood, and cowboy boots.

“Don’t call me Petie,” I responded glumly.

Brad halted beside me and cocked his head to the side. His usual wisecracking visage crumbled into a more serious, thin-lipped frown.

“You need to tell her,” he said seriously.

I nodded my head. Yes, I needed to tell her. And if I weren’t such a hopeless coward, I would have climbed into the warm Ford with Brad, travelled the four hours to Apsley, and talked to her like I should have months ago.

“Bradley! We need to get going before these skies open up!”

Bradley’s mother leaned out the driver’s window, her hair billowing in the wind, flashing us both an impatient look. With an exasperated shrug, Bradley turned towards her. She ducked back inside the vehicle, furiously cranking up the window to repel the biting wind.

“I’ll be there in a minute, Mom.” He turned back to me. “There’s still time. You don’t even need to pack. Mom will wait. Come back home. It’s Thanksgiving.”

I bit at my lip, tempted, but then resignedly shook my head. Brad sighed and moved forward to embrace me. I stiffened for a moment, then acceded. His palm smacked my shoulder, and he released me.

“If you won’t go see her, then you should at least call her.” Brad shook his head in dismay. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“I know,” I whispered.

Brad nodded disappointedly, refusing to condone my reluctance. Without another word, he turned and rounded the car. The passenger door slammed. The Ford pulled away, squeaking its tires on damp pavement.

I enviously watched as its taillights disappeared around the curve in the road, turning left at the stone gates of the University, towards feasts and family.

As far as I knew, Brad had been the last of my few friends to leave the school, rushing towards home-cooked meals of turkey and parsnips set on extended dining room tables, laughter and warmth surrounding them all. I stared up at the empty dormitory, its harsh white cinder blocks reminding me more of a jail than living space for twenty students. I mentally corrected myself. It was entirely possible this Thanksgiving holiday I was the only student foolish enough to avoid escaping the campus. Holidays stung the most — school slowed down enough to provide us time to think.

The first drops of October rain spattered to the pavement, dotting its surface like a complicated jigsaw puzzle. After a few minutes, moisture trickled into my hair and down my neck. Shivering, I trudged up the worn path towards the dorm, watching my sneakers until I passed into the relative warmth of where I now called home.

I stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at the clouds tumbling chaotically like cats chasing their tails. Streaks of water, like tears, trickled down the window, obscuring my vision. Trees bent and twisted in the wind, multi-coloured leaves whirling in mini-tornadoes above the manicured lawns and footpaths crisscrossing the quad.

We’d kissed for the first time on a day mirroring this: stormy, dreary, rain pattering against basement windows. For as long as I could remember, Lauren and I had been inseparable — she lived next door, and we had blossomed from kindergarten to high school, fraternal twins from different parents. It had been a dismal October day, around Thanksgiving, watching a rerun of Gilligan’s Island, or some other sitcom equally inane.

“Have you ever kissed a girl?” Lauren asked quietly from her end of the sofa.

I shook my head; girls didn’t exactly flock to my side. Skipper smacked Gilligan with his hat for the zillionth time. With no warning, she crawled close, her hands resting entwined against my shoulder, her face hovering only centimetres from mine.

Without thought, without considering what it might do to our easy friendship, I kissed her. Simple as that: lips touching, her warm breath banishing the pattering of the rain outside.

Oh, I loved Lauren in my own way, and I always would, but an emptiness intruded. She desired different directions in life — a large family, maybe a hobby farm. I needed to reach the stars. Lauren stood by my side, but we rarely talked; our easy friendship dissolved in passionate kisses and sensate petting. A typical high-school romance.

We sat together quietly, watching the sunset, fingers entwined in complicated familiarity. The end of summer approached, neither cool nor hot, leaves beginning to change colour in the dappled sunlight. Subtle tears filled her eyes, but none yet spilled.

“Do you really have to go?” she asked.

I nodded with a touch of regret as the sun began to kiss the horizon over the lake. Mist spiralled upwards from the water, shrouding the molten ball of orange.

“You know I do, Lauren.”

I wanted to tell her then. I’ve hated myself ever since. Yes, I loved her, but not in the way she wanted. And I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t as she looked up at me, losing me to the big world outside of hers, trusting that I’d someday return. Instead of telling her what I felt, I kissed her, telling her what she wanted to hear.

“I love you, Peter,” she said simply.

I should have told her then. I should have. I should have. I should have.

I swallowed and said exactly what I shouldn’t have. My words were true, but they also weren’t.

“I love you, too, Lauren.”

Sharp in my memory, her yielding lips brushed my cheek, her soft breasts pressed into me, her final embrace before I left her.

“Come back soon,” she whispered. “Maybe Thanksgiving?”

I heedlessly climbed into the family car, on my way to university and a new life, leaving her standing alone on the curb. As the car moved inexorably away from her and towards the beckoning unknown, I failed to look back. I don’t even know if she waved.

I stared out the window at the unrelenting rain, the campus awash in what had begun to look like the great flood. The ceaseless rain transformed footpaths to swollen rivers, manicured grass sodden and listless. My heart ached in regret and indecision.

Most of the time, I still hated myself.

An unusual stillness permeated the dorm. Only a muted laugh track kept me company as I sat alone in front of the droning television. Gilligan’s Island had transformed into slightly more cerebral humour: MAS*H graced the magic box, where the antics of Hawkeye, Trapper and Hot Lips ignored the general dreariness beyond the large windows.

Not many dorms on campus yet were co-ed; this white-washed cinder block structure housed twenty of us. Twelve girls, eight guys, all living together in controlled chaos, sharing four bathrooms, one shower and one common area. By this time of afternoon, there usually would have been four fights for control of the only television, while four of the guys would be playing Euchre on the old battered card table in the corner. Sometimes, the game participants played for money, mostly to pass the time. Sometimes, they would switch to Hearts, and occasionally, when they could find four students who knew how to play, Bridge. All in all, a contented community, if not the quietest in the world.

Today, as most of my dorm mates travelled to distant homes where relatives and girlfriends and boyfriends waited to greet them, the dorm reverted to an eerie silence.

I glanced out the window during a commercial. The rain continued to pour over the world, cleansing it and drowning it simultaneously. I sat at the end of the more comfortable sofa in the common room — a luxury rare for me. The singular communal phone hanging on the wall stared accusingly at me. Brad’s words haunted me.

Call her, at least.

Sometimes, I shared too much with Brad. I suspected he might have sensed my guilt, regardless. He was correct, of course. I missed Lauren terribly. I missed her laughter and her effortless friendship. I desperately wanted to call her. I should have called her. I wanted to love her. I couldn’t. Fairness and life mixed like oil and water. I tore my eyes from the accusing instrument hanging on the wall and returned to watching the antics of the 4077th.

A new episode of MAS*H began with haunting theme music. Suicide is painless. Uh, huh.

Somewhere down the hallway, towards the female section of the dorm, a door slammed, and I sensed, more than heard, a whisper of feminine giggling. Presently, the entrance opened to my right, and two girls entered.

The brunette, Alison, stood tall and lanky, wearing blue jeans and a bright blouse. The girl beside her, Claire, was only a little shorter, caught laughing, her blonde hair drawn back in a long braid.

Rumours circulated around, as rumours normally do, that these two girls might be a little more than friends. They had arrived together from the same all-female academy directly to our little university. Alison and Claire, indeed, seemed inseparable. Personally, I didn’t believe the rumours, but even if they were true, I didn’t care. If they were happy together, what else could one ask for? Honest love held far more appeal than a fractured lie of a more typical relationship, whatever that meant. Rumours birthed from the silliest misunderstandings. Girls tended to display more affection than guys, that was all.

“What’s up?” Alison asked me.

I shrugged and motioned the girls to make themselves comfortable.

“Watching reruns. You want to watch something?”

Truthfully, I was somewhat surprised anyone else remained in the dorm. I didn’t mind if they wanted to watch another show. Well before Alison and Claire had wandered in, my attention had meandered far from the Korean war and sarcastic doctors flashing across the television screen.

Alison plunked into the far sofa and Claire stretched out, yawning onto the sofa nearest the phone, cradling her head on her hands.

“MAS*H is fine,” Alison offered, settling in and turning her eyes to the screen. Claire shrugged agreeably, following Alison’s lead.

In the first commercial break, Claire pushed herself up and approached the phone. I closed my eyes and turned away, not even wanting to think about the accusing instrument.

Claire dialled and spoke purposefully into the receiver, her voice drowned amongst the blaring commercials. I thumbed down the volume for her. After a brief conversation, she covered the mouthpiece and faced us.

“Cafeteria is closed for the weekend.” Alison and I groaned together. Claire smiled. “What do you want on your pizza?”

We failed to agree, so Claire ordered two, one with anchovies, the other without. Alison shrugged, willing to eat either.

Turning away from the television, I glanced out into the downpour. While the sun hid behind the cloud cover and the relentless rain, its light became decidedly more distant as an invisible sunset approached. Twilight filtered through the clouds, washing the world outside grey and featureless.

I squinted. A flash of pale colour shimmered upon one of the footpaths. I wiped at the condensation on the window, ignoring the dampness coating my palm. Shielding my eyes, I peered out.

A girl walked laboriously through the downpour, her head down, unprotected from the rain. Taking each step carefully, her boots nearly disappeared in the wash of water flowing down the paths. She carried bulky objects in her arms, clutched protectively to her chest. I neither recognised the girl nor her burden through the onslaught.

“Who is that?” I asked, my finger pressed against the glass.

In a moment, Alison leaned on my shoulder, her clean feminine scent washing over me, her brunette hair tickling my cheek. She peered through the small cleared patch beyond the streaked rain. I shifted to give her more room. Alison blinked and then bit her lower lip.

“I think it’s Paige,” she murmured. “Silly girl, out in the rain like this. She’s crazy, you know.”

Alison straightened and wandered back to her perch. Ignoring the television, I continued watching the girl struggle through the downpour. Once, the girl nearly slipped and fell, and the crazy urge to laugh descended on me as I watched her struggle to retrieve whatever it was she had been carrying from the saturated ground and wipe it off with a bare hand. The urge to laugh fled as quickly as it had arrived, and I mentally chastised myself, ashamed. The inappropriate urge to laugh obligingly transformed into a vision of myself, a knight in shining armour racing through the rain to help the girl up. I shamefully banished the second image, convinced that it would have been the knight, not the girl, who would have needed rescuing. I continued to watch her slow journey.

Five weeks ago, shortly after arriving on campus, the common room smelled of instant coffee and toasted waffles. Morning sunlight flooded through the tall windows. Both male and female students, in various states of dress, wandered about, engaged in morning conversation, laughing and planning the upcoming day. Towards the back of the dorm, showers rained accompanied by off-key singing. In short: controlled chaos.

I recognised Alison and Claire from brief introductions upon arriving, both attractive coeds, seemingly comfortable amongst the ebb and flow of our somewhat frantic mornings. Both women drank steaming cups of coffee near the sinks, engaged in fragmented conversation. Alison touched Claire’s hand, emphasizing a point.

Behind me, two guys argued about the teaching abilities of a shared professor. To his friend, another guy boasted about his sexual conquest from the night before.

Paige wandered into the common room from the female wing. She wore mismatched socks, baggy sweats and an untucked purple satin blouse clearly cross-buttoned at her throat. Wisps of her golden hair escaped a haphazard ponytail at the nape of her neck to frame her defined face. Carrying a short stack of books against her chest, she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She avoided eye contact with everyone, including me, as she strode deliberately to the exterior doorway to find her runners.

Even as she breezed through the morning slalom course, her grey eyes held an unusual intensity of focus, haunting in its depth.

Paige had never introduced herself to me. I only knew her name through others in the dorm. Her isolation neither offended nor surprised me. It wasn’t only me; I had never witnessed her socializing with others, either.

As Paige laced her runners, picked up her books and opened the exterior door, Alison called out from the sinks, “Have a great day, Paige!”

Without glancing back, Paige simply waved her fingers over her shoulder as the door closed behind her.

Sunlight bathed the quad as fluffy cumulus clouds skipped across the sky. I sat alone on unyielding concrete steps, watching students hurrying to and from distant classes, some carrying coffees and textbooks.

As noon rapidly approached, I gathered my textbook from the steps, pushed myself up and descended to lecture hall 301. Early, I hesitated at the doors. Inside, a professor droned.

I carefully slipped inside, allowing my eyes to adjust to the relative gloom. Hundreds of students scattered about the large hall, none disturbed by my silent intrusion. A picture of a human hand, its fingers curled into a claw, projected brightly on a white screen at the front of the classroom. The professor’s shadow intersected the faraway wrist. I only caught the end of his question, “ ... indicates ischemia of the forearm?”

He picked a female student at random near the middle of the hall. After a moment of hesitation, she replied uncertainly, “Carpal tunnel?”

The professor shook his head sadly. “This will be on the exam, Josie.” He turned to the remainder of the classroom. “Anyone else? Anyone at all?”

I prayed he wouldn’t notice me lurking in the shadows at the back of the room. My grades were poor enough in macroeconomics, the next class in this hall, without participating unexpectedly in human anatomy.

As my eyes continued to adapt, I spotted unstyled blonde hair attached to a familiar girl, who sat alone in the front row of the hall, illuminated by the reflection off the screen.

“Paige?” the professor continued, his eyes settling upon her unkempt hair, his finger pointing at her. The danger, as I saw it, of sitting at the front of any classroom presented as undesired queries from overly enthusiastic teachers.

While her hushed voice barely reached me, Paige answered with full confidence. “Volkmann’s Contracture.”

These were the only words she’d ever uttered in my presence.

The professor nodded, satisfied, and moved on.

With a start, I returned to the present. Yes, Paige was an eccentric girl, certainly a loner, but despite Alison’s announcement, probably not any crazier than the rest of us. I watched pensively as Paige purposely and cautiously placed one booted foot in front of the other, like an automaton, moving steadily, if slowly, splashing through the river of a footpath towards the warmth of our dorm.

Paige appeared, following a bluster of wind and dampness, as the exterior door opened and shut. She pressed the door closed and stood dripping near the entrance. I glanced up.

Her eyes seemed somewhat vacant, her golden hair plastered in tangles to her scalp. Across her chest, she clutched a stack of soggy and soiled library books. She wore a thin autumn jacket, an insufficient windbreaker, incapable of protecting her from the rain, its fabric stuck to her like a reverse wetsuit. Her muddied jeans mirrored the jacket, clinging to her legs like a second skin. For the first time, perhaps, I noticed that beneath her plastered clothing, her body rivalled Alison’s or Claire’s. Of course, at the moment, Paige more closely resembled a drowned rat, or a lost child, unable or unwilling to care for herself. She shivered uncontrollably as she stood at the entrance, her eyes slowly focussing and assimilating our presence.

Studiously, she bent and pulled off her boots. I was sure water would come pouring out of them as if she’d stepped from a cartoon tempest. She straightened again, still shivering, her teeth now chattering. She refused to move from the entranceway, as if afraid of trailing water through the common room.

I hesitated, not knowing quite what to say at her sodden appearance. What finally emerged sounded inane and stupid, even to me.

“Shouldn’t you be home for the weekend?”

Instead of ignoring me, as I expected, Paige shrugged, her thin shoulders pushing her soaked clothing upwards. Unexpectedly, a deep melancholy crossed her fair features, and she lowered her eyes to study her soaked, unmatched socks.

A quiet voice dragged my stunned attention from Paige.

“Jesus,” Alison whispered as she pushed herself off the sofa and approached Paige. Gently, Alison extracted a few of the muddied books from Paige’s arms, and then grasped her elbow, guiding Paige towards her room.

Numb, I watched them disappear into the gloom of the hallway. When I turned back, Claire shook her head and shrugged, returning her attention to the mindless sitcom on the television.

The petite girl delivering the pizza wore a sensible yellow slicker, and a baseball cap proclaiming Domino’s in tall red script. She stood miserably under the overhang, huddling away from the downpour. Her Civic idled at the curb, spewing exhaust in a billowing cloud fighting for supremacy with the cold rain. The delivery girl looked damp, but far less so than Paige had. She held out two covered boxes appearing far too small to contain large pizzas. I grasped the boxes and placed them inside, out of the weather.

“Crappy night,” I remarked, fishing in my wallet for cash.

“Not a night suited for man or beast,” she replied with the hint of a smile. “Not even dragons would be out in this.”

Agreeing, I passed her two twenties. I couldn’t afford it, but I told her to keep the change. Despite over-tipping, as far as I was concerned, she deserved every penny on a night such as this. She smiled radiantly from beneath her cap, and then, turning on her heel, ran determinedly into the storm. A latent desire to be that knight emerged again for the anonymous delivery girl, as she fled into the wind and rain.

The girl slipped behind the steering wheel of her Civic, pulling away and driving far faster than might be considered safe in this weather. I sighed, lifted the pizzas and trudged into the common room, thankful for the warmth and the light there.

Claire set the steaming boxes on the card table, helping herself to a couple of slices and settling into the sofa, her attention returned to Trapper and Henry Blake.

Moments later, Paige and Alison reappeared, walking together into the common area. Alison strode directly towards the pizzas, while Paige remained awkwardly near the entrance. Paige no longer resembled a drowned rat, her skin radiant without streams of water dripping from her chin. She wore a clean pair of Levi’s and a dry unpatterned t-shirt, far more fetching than the clothes she normally wore; I assumed Alison’s influence. Her hair remained damp, plastered to her head, but the strands bore the unmistakable streaks of a brush or comb, the tangles of the storm faded into straight, if limp, tresses kissing her shoulders. The shoulders of her shirt bore damp patches where her hair dripped water.

I motioned Paige over. Given her solitary nature, I had no idea if she even ate pizza, or if she was a militant vegan.

“Have some pizza, Paige. The cafeteria is closed tonight, I understand.”

I extracted two slices of pizza and returned to my former seat on the comfortable sofa. After a few seconds of hesitation, Paige walked gingerly over to the food and selected a single slice of the plainer anchovy-free pizza and then settled into the only free chair in the room, perching on the edge of the seat.

MAS*H faded into a commercial selling used cars. I muted the television and turned towards Alison.

Between bites, I asked, “So, what’s your story?”

Alison swallowed daintily, and turned her brown eyes towards me, raising her eyebrows.

“Story?”

“Why aren’t you driving into civilisation?”

“You want to know why I’m here on Thanksgiving?”

I nodded.

She sighed, nibbling her crust. After swallowing again, she nodded, pursing her lips.

“Okay. I’ll tell you.”

“When my parents had me, I think that they were expecting a boy. Don’t get me wrong,” Alison murmured, “they loved me, and they still do, but I really don’t think they knew quite what to make of me. Instead of Mommy, I think my first words were Nanny. I didn’t really mind; I suppose I have an independent streak. Maybe it’s because I had to develop that way. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.

“For high school, they sent me to Laurier Boarding Academy for Girls. I liked it there well enough, but what it really meant was they didn’t need to deal with me. Claire and I were roommates there.”

At this point, Alison flashed a knowing smile at Claire; the rumours surrounding the two girls floated into my consciousness. I mentally pushed away the gossip and continued to listen to her emotionless voice.

“I don’t think I remember a single time the family ever gathered together for holidays. Either Mother and Father were traipsing over the globe, or Father had commitments. Even before boarding school, my Thanksgivings consisted of cold turkey, and if I was lucky, I was allowed to eat in the kitchen with Nan and the maids. Of course, it was as close to family, I suppose, as I got.

“So, I called them two weeks ago. Surprisingly, Mother answered and actually talked to me. I mentioned I was thinking of coming home for Thanksgiving, and she agreed, saying she was looking forward to it.” Alison sighed, and for a moment, I thought I saw a tear forming, but then a determined set of her lips banished the momentary moisture in her eye. “Two days ago, Mother called the school, told the Dean she couldn’t reach me but to extend her apologies. Father and her had to go to Hawaii for the holidays.”

She shrugged, but she refused to meet any of our eyes.

“C’est la vie, I suppose.”

Claire cleared her throat, now perched on the sofa beside Alison. The girls held hands; the rumours tickled my mind again. Bullshit. Alison’s monologue caught in my throat; if I were seated beside her, and despite my shyness with emotions, I would have held her hand, too. Alison quickly composed herself and bit off another piece of pizza, but her bloodless fingers gripped Claire’s enough to cause a silent wince.

“I didn’t want to bring the party down,” Alison said easily. “I’m used to it, but you did ask.” She forced a thin smile to her lips.

Claire cleared her throat again and tilted her head to the side.

“I’m here because I didn’t want Alison to be alone on Thanksgiving. When I’d heard that she was going home, I made plans to go home, too. Then Alison’s plans fell through, and,” she shrugged, “my family understood, even if Alison begged me to go.” She released Alison’s fingers and shifted herself to lean carelessly back into the sofa. She adjusted her legs to lie comfortably across Alison’s thighs. Alison rested her hands upon Claire’s shins, stroking gently.

“I thought that we’d be the only two in the dorm.”

Claire flashed me an enigmatic smile.

“We spilled. What’s your story, Peter?”

Telling them about Lauren, the real reason that I was sitting here in this deserted dorm in the middle of a rainstorm, seemed inappropriate; I barely knew any of Alison, Claire, or Paige. I settled for half-truths, none of them lies, exactly; I simply omitted the single-most important reason I avoided returning home.

I inhaled deeply and began.

“Did you ever have an uncle who drank a little too much and then talked too loud? At every single family gathering?”

I doubted Alison could relate. Claire shook her head with a small smile, answering the rhetorical question.

“Yeah, I had to fight off his hands every single time. He was too drunk to be a real threat, but it kind of grossed me out,” Claire said.

Even while clearly disgusted, Claire didn’t seem overly upset or traumatized about her offhand revelation. Often, the male side of the species disappointed me, including myself.

“Well, mine doesn’t try to molest me, but he is obnoxious. He smokes, he drinks, and he tells the most off-colour jokes...”

Claire interrupted. “Tell us some.” She laughed.

I turned to her. “You want to know why I’m here or not?”

Claire cast her eyes towards her toes, nodding her head. “Tell us the jokes later, then, you big baby.”

I shot her an exasperated look and continued.

“Anyway, it doesn’t make for the greatest holidays, and Mom and Dad insist on inviting him. Not surprisingly, he’s not married, and really doesn’t have any other family.”

“You didn’t go home because your uncle tells bad jokes?”

I sighed, realising elaboration was necessary. My excuse seemed thin and inconsequential after Alison’s and Claire’s revelations. I had unexpectedly entered into an escalating game of Truth or Dare.

“Truthfully, no. That’s only part of it.” I forced a phony, sheepish look. “I’m a little behind in my classes, and if I want to be here next semester and keep my scholarship, I need to study this weekend.”

Claire laughed again, pointedly. “So you watch MAS*H reruns. I like your studying technique.”

I shrugged. I’d study eventually.

None of my tale rang false; yet, in the very least, Claire clearly discerned my excuse might lack completeness. Truth. Dare. Claire cast me a disappointed expression, but she pressed no further.