All the Candles in Kapuskasing

“Last one,” Karen said, holding up the squashed bag of vinegar crisps. She shook it, and the sound of the few remaining crumbs was pathetic against the roar of the wind.

Connor, huddled under a thin motel blanket that smelled of dust and cedar, just shook his head. “You have it. My teeth already feel like they're wearing little sweaters.”

Karen managed a small smile and tipped the last fragments into her mouth. She crumpled the bag into a tight ball and tossed it towards the overflowing rubbish bin. It missed. Neither of them made a move to pick it up.

The power had gone out six hours ago. The snow had started that morning, a few lazy flakes, and had transformed into a full-blown blizzard by noon. The highway was closed in both directions. They were stranded in Kapuskasing, in a motel called The Northern Pine, which seemed to possess very little of the north and no pines whatsoever. Just peeling paint and a lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke.

“Do you ever think about Maya’s wedding?” Karen asked, her voice quiet. The question seemed to come from nowhere, but in the flickering darkness, it felt strangely appropriate.

Connor shifted under the blanket. He stared at the way the candle flames made the cheap art print on the wall—a washed-out picture of a loon on a lake—seem to ripple. “Sometimes. Why?”

“I was just thinking about it. The photos she posted. Everyone looked so happy. So… sunny.”

It had been a summer wedding, on a farm outside of Guelph. Tents, fairy lights, hay bales for seats. The opposite of this cold, dark room. Connor had stared at those photos for weeks afterward, a knot of something ugly and complicated in his gut. Guilt, mostly. But also jealousy.

“I told her I had that big presentation in Montreal,” Karen said, tracing a pattern on the worn chenille bedspread. “The one for the marketing conference. Said it was the make-or-break moment for my promotion.”

“I remember,” Connor said. “Sounded important.”

Karen let out a short, humourless laugh. “It wasn't. I mean, it was a presentation, yes. But it wasn't… vital. I could have moved it. Or I could have just flown back for the weekend. I didn't even try.” She looked up, her eyes catching the candlelight. “The truth is, I’d just been given the lead on the Beauchamp account, and I was terrified I’d mess it up. I convinced myself that if I took even one day off, if I looked away for a second, someone else would swoop in and take it. So I stayed. Worked fourteen-hour days. For nothing. I just looked busy.”

Connor was quiet for a long moment. He had pictured her in a sleek boardroom, commanding attention, being brilliant. The reality was so much smaller, so much more… human.

“She would have understood,” he said finally.

“Would she? I lied about it. I made it sound like I was choosing my future over her past. It was just easier than admitting I was insecure.”

The silence returned, but it was different now. Less empty. One of the candles sputtered, its wick drowning in wax, and the room grew a little darker.

“What about you?” Karen asked gently. “You said it was a family thing, right? An uncle’s anniversary?”

Connor pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He had used that excuse for everyone, a vague, unimpeachable reason that brooked no further questions. It was a lie. A clean, simple lie to cover up a messy, complicated truth.

“No,” he said, the word barely a whisper. “There was no anniversary.” He took a breath. “It was because of Chloe.”

Karen’s expression softened with understanding. “Ah. She was the maid of honour, wasn't she?”

“The one and only,” Connor said, a bitter edge to his voice. “I just… I couldn't do it, Karen. I couldn’t stand there, in a suit I couldn't afford, and watch her walk down the aisle holding flowers and looking perfect, and then have to make small talk with her over dinner. I couldn't listen to her talk about her new life, her new boyfriend. I wasn't strong enough. It had only been six months. I was still a wreck.”

He remembered the invitation on his counter. Maya’s cheerful, looping script. He’d imagined the whole day. Seeing Chloe’s smile, hearing her laugh. The casual way she would touch someone’s arm when she was talking to them. He’d pictured himself trying to navigate that, trying to pretend he was fine, that he was happy for everyone. The thought of it had been a physical pain, a closing of his throat.

“So I made up an excuse,” he finished. “A boring, solid excuse. And I spent that entire Saturday at home, ordering pizza and watching bad action movies, pretending I wasn't a coward.”

Karen reached across the small space between the beds and put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were cold. “You weren't a coward, Connor. You were heartbroken.”

“I was a bad friend,” he said, the admission finally coming out. “We both were. We had our reasons. We had our perfectly understandable, selfish, human reasons. But the end result is the same. We weren't there for her. And we weren't there for each other, either. That was right around the time we stopped… talking, really talking.”

He was right. After the wedding they’d both missed, a distance had grown between them. Their calls became less frequent, their texts more perfunctory. They had let their separate, secret shames curdle into a kind of mutual avoidance. It was easier than facing the fact that they were both changing, drifting away from the people they used to be, the friends who would have dropped anything to be at that wedding.

The wind howled, a sudden, violent gust that made the last two candles flicker wildly. For a terrifying second, Connor thought they would go out, plunging them into total darkness. But they held. Their small, stubborn flames steadied, and the light returned, faint but persistent.