by Mere Joyce
“Yeah, you’re right.” Thomas smirks.
He focuses on merging onto Highway 400, and I take the moment to pull out my phone and check the message. My eyes grow steadily wider as I read through the lines of carefully typed text. But when Thomas sighs, I shut off the screen and shove it back under my leg.
“I’m greedy. I want them all,” he tells me as he flicks the signal so we can change lanes.
I take another disgusting sip of coffee before I’m composed enough to answer with a shake of my head.
“At least you don’t discriminate.”
Thomas makes quick work of moving to the highway’s fast lane. The air outside is cool, but not so cold he doesn’t still have the windows halfway down. The wind rushes against us, a great excuse for him not to bother with the radio. He hates listening to music when he drives. Lucky for him, I find a soundtrack in the thumping of the tires and the flapping of the wind.
I drink my coffee and wait for Thomas to get lost in his driving. He’s happy to be silent, and it only takes a moment before I’m safe to pull out my phone and spend more time reading the message and crafting a response. The news Brandon has related is shocking, but not definite. And since I can’t do anything about it, once I’ve sent off my reply I stop myself from obsessing over it by digging my camera out of the bag by my feet.
Recording the car’s progress as we drive offers me a good distraction, and the video will make decent stock footage for some future movie project. The highway is busy, early morning commuters trying to beat the rush north for their last cottage country weekend of the year. I’d prefer the roads to be a tad emptier for the shot, but I can’t blame the other motorists. After all, we’re heading up to a cottage as well.
The trip is quiet, small talk interspersed with long stretches of nothing but the noise of the road. I think about Brandon and his message before I ponder what’s waiting for us at the end of this lengthy trip. The swirl of thoughts is like white noise of a different kind, comfortable companions to keep me occupied until we reach the highway’s exit and head in through Parry Sound.
The slower pace of in-town driving brings Thomas out of his own quiet thoughts. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel until his lack of rhythm irritates me enough that I can’t keep silent.
“Will you stop that?” I huff, exasperated.
Thomas smiles as he brings his fingers to a rest.
“Did I tell you I quit?” he says, the words out in a nervous rush.
Thomas is three years older and a great deal more experienced than I am, but I won’t deny loving how anxious he gets when making confessions to me. The only downside is that if he’s nervous to tell me something, it means he’s going to share information I don’t want to hear.
“You what?” I bark at him, annoyed he’s proven my point. “Thomas, you’ve got to be kidding me. That’s, what, your fifth job this year?”
He shrugs, flexing his fingers against the steering wheel.
“It was working the counter at a gas station. Not what I’d call a dream job.”
“At least it was something,” I say. “Why’d you quit this time? I thought you didn’t mind your boss.”
“I didn’t,” he says as we pull to a stop at a red light. “But I’ve, uh, I’ve decided to take off for a while.”
A sharp pain, like trying to swallow a chip that hasn’t been chewed enough, flares in my stomach.
“Take off where?” I ask, my voice as steady as I can make it.
This kind of declaration is not unheard of from him. A weekend with a new girlfriend, a nip down to the States for a concert — once it was a three-week camping trip in Algonquin with a rotating cast of friends. But I never like it. Even when he texts me updates whenever he’s got a decent signal, Thomas’s absences remind me of the week he didn’t communicate. If he planned vacations like a normal freaking person, I wouldn’t care so much. But Thomas takes off on a whim. I think he likes to pretend he’s a leaf, only barely a part of a rooted life and always ready to go wherever a strong wind might send him.
“Out of town. A road trip, maybe?” he says, trying to sound over-casual, as if he’s contemplating nothing more than a trek to the mall. “I was thinking out west, to see what else the Great White North has to offer.”
I study him with skeptical eyes while he focuses on the road, looking only so far over as to catch me in his peripheral vision.
“You’re going to travel the country. By yourself?” I ask. He nods, and with matching fluidity I shake my head. “Why?”
“Why not?” He smiles, trying to pretend this is all normal, like a production crew striking a set and moving to a new locale to prepare for the next shot. “I’m done school, I’m unattached, and I’ve got no decent job prospects. I can work at a gas station anywhere, if I need money.”
I scoff. “Yeah, and how is traveling going to change any of those things?”
“Maybe it won’t,” he says. His face wears the stupid, blissful expression he once told me he always gets when he reflects on the pure joy of aimless wandering. “But I want to see if it might.”
We leave Parry Sound’s main roads, a spark of excitement igniting in my brother’s face. We’re getting close to the cottage now, and he’s infinitely more excited about it than I am.
“You’re really going?” I ask as we brake at one of the last lights between us and Georgian Bay.
Thomas nods, giving me a steady look before staring back at the road.
“Why not?” he repeats, shifting gears as we pick up speed through the green light. “I was going to leave a couple of weeks ago, but then Uncle Simon died. I’m glad I didn’t take off before I heard the news … I’d feel like shit if I ever found out what Forrester was doing up here on his own. All things considered, the timing worked out well. You know, in a twisted sort of way. I think this weekend will be the perfect send-off.”
I pick up my phone as it buzzes with a new text. Brandon’s message is an instant reminder of why my brother and I are so different, of why I’ll never see things like he does. Aimless wandering is a void of meaningless inconvenience to me. Everything I need radiates from home base, and I like it that way. The wind could never lead me on some magical, unplanned journey. If anything, I’m a branch on Thomas’s tree, solidly stuck to the trunk with twigs inadequate to keep his leaf close.
My fingers click quickly against the screen of my phone, my mouth set in a line as I try to ignore what my brother has said, all while working to figure out how I will respond. I’m unable to properly voice my frustrations over his flightiness, and I can’t show him Brandon’s message as a means to explain why this weekend is, in fact, a horrible time for him to duck away from his life. So, after a minute passes in silence, I instead allow my lips to twitch in a small grin.
“What are you going to do about all your girls?” I ask.
Thomas laughs.
“That’s the extraordinary thing about girls, my dear brother,” he says, grinning as we turn onto a dirt road, an odd familiarity making me realize the cottage can’t be far away. “They’re everywhere.”
Kayla
LIFTING UP MY SUNGLASSES, I watch as Dad reverses his silver SUV before swinging the car in a three-point turn. The entire drive up here was a tumbling dance of tense silence twirling with sharp reminders he’ll pick me up tomorrow at noon. When we got close to the cottage, I had to pull out an actual map, the pain of trying to get a steady signal making it not worth the wasted usage costs of navigating with my phone’s GPS. I figured Dad would remember the way, but he said it’d been too long. Liar. He was too preoccupied with being angry, a facade that only fades now as his eyes cast wistfully about the property before his brows furrow and he spares me a final, worried look as he drives down the dirt path back to the main road.
When Dad is out of sight, I haul my duffel bag and purse over one shoulder and head towar
d the cottage. The wide wooden structure sits atop a small slope, large windows reflecting the nearest trees at its front. Behind it, an open space with a large fire pit is nearest to the back porch, while further away and to the right is an old shed. Straight back and down beyond the fire pit the ground slopes more, until it meets a set of docks that stretch over the calm, shining waters of Georgian Bay.
The day is bright, and the fire pit is lit, the smell of smoke wonderfully thick in the air. But no one is here. Whoever has already arrived could be inside, the cleaning and packing already underway. The thought sends a loose twist of panic springing through me. It’s not even ten o’clock yet. I hope I’m not late.
A red car I doubt belongs to Forrester is parked near the cottage’s front entrance. I don’t know much about cars, but the sleek, sporty design suggests this one is too expensive for any teenager to be driving. I don’t think Uncle Simon was rich, and I can’t imagine Forrester would want to drive something so flashy on dirt and gravel roads. When I spot the beat-up Jeep parked down the slope by the shed, I smile. The muck-green color reminds me of the Jeep Uncle Simon used to drive in the summers of my childhood. I squint, wondering if it could be the same vehicle.
“Kayla!”
The Jeep is forgotten as I spin around, the sound of a distant voice directing my attention back to the fire. Allison waves to me, a pile of wood held against her chest. I walk up the wide-planked stairs of the cottage’s back porch to drop my bags before joining her.
As I approach the pit, Allison adds another log to the stone-rimmed circle. Folding camp chairs have been placed around the fire, and I sit while Allison stokes the small flames. Her beige sweater and brown corduroys are covered in dirt from carrying the wood, but she doesn’t seem to care. She gives her front a quick brush with her long, bony fingers as she sits across the circle from me.
“Where’s Eli?” I ask, looking around for Allison’s twin. They could have come up separately, but it seems like a massive waste of gas if they did.
“With Forrester. They’ll be back in a minute,” Allison says, picking dirt from the underside of her unpolished nails. The expert way she flicks at the grime is entrancing, but when she raises a hand to her lips and uses her teeth to scrape out a stuck piece, I cringe and stare down at the fire.
We sit in silence, Allison oblivious to my disdain, until I hear a low murmuring off to my right. Two figures walk toward the house, each carrying an armload of firewood. Before them, a mud-splotched dog leads the way in a sprint, and when it notices a new arrival, it sets its sights on me. Tail wagging, it bounds to where I sit, two big, muddy paws landing in my lap as it welcomes me with a happy bark.
“Runner, get down, boy!” Forrester calls, and the dog’s head twitches to one side before he obeys the command. He sits down in front of my chair, his tail wagging against the ground.
“Hi, Runner.” I smile, petting the dog’s head.
I don’t have any pets, but I’ve always wanted a dog. I wipe the mud from my jeans with my free hand, while Runner nuzzles under the press of my other palm. He has the pointed ears and general look of a German shepherd, with the longer, softer fur of some other breed.
“Good boy,” Forrester murmurs as he passes. He drops his load of firewood and then gives Runner a pat. “Sorry about that, Kayla,” he says, his expression sympathetic and amused.
He looks better today than he did at the funeral. His complexion has lost its haggard paleness, and I can even see a twinge of pink in his cheeks.
“It’s fine,” I assure him, as Runner paws at me, annoyed my attention’s shifted away. I gaze back at the dog and pet him with both hands.
“Hungry?” Forrester asks.
He grabs a heavy skillet from beside one of the camp chairs. When he opens the small cooler beneath it, I glimpse a pack of butcher-quality bacon resting inside. My stomach growls, and I laugh.
“Well, I had a muffin earlier, but … I could eat again.”
“Thought we could have a late breakfast out here before we head inside,” Forrester says, before his voice drops and his eyes fix on the skillet in his grip. “I didn’t want to go in yet.”
I cast a quick glance at the twins, relieved when Eli wipes his hands on his jeans with a sigh.
“Hurry it up, will you? I’m starved,” he says.
Forrester lets out a chuckling breath as he sets the skillet overtop the flames. Soon, the bacon spits grease and the eggs sizzle, and I revel in the delicious scents mingling with the smoky fire. We pass plates and cutlery between us, and Thomas and Nolan arrive as the bacon reaches its perfect crispness.
“Ah, great. I’m hungry enough to eat the whole pig!” Thomas declares as he inhales the smell of breakfast and passes around a box of Danishes to accompany the feast.
“That’s not an exaggeration,” Nolan says, giving us a quick wave of greeting before he slumps into a chair. “If you’re not careful, he’ll devour the entire pack of bacon while your back is turned.”
His fingers move quickly over the keyboard on his phone, even as he speaks. He must be texting someone. I’m surprised his signal strength is so good. When I checked my own phone before Dad and I arrived, I only had one bar of reception.
Forrester serves breakfast, and I eat way more than I should, the meal too good to pass up. By the time the entire packet of bacon has been consumed — Thomas managing to wolf down a good third of it himself — my stomach is swollen as I lean back in my chair, full and satisfied.
Hailey’s car pulls into the drive as we’re finishing up the meal. I hear it before I see it, the stereo loud with music incomprehensible from this distance. Lyrics about truth and myth sung by a low female voice are all I can make out, the words and notes ones I don’t recognize.
“Hope I’m not late!” Hailey calls from the open window.
She switches off the engine, and the sudden absence of her stereo is as thunderous as the pulsing bass had been.
“You missed breakfast!” Thomas yells over his shoulder as he swipes his last piece of bacon through the remnants of maple syrup sticking to his plate.
“Ate already,” Hailey replies with a smile. She slides out of the yellow car, patting the dent over the left headlight as she walks around to the passenger-side door. “I brought someone with me,” she adds as she reaches for the handle.
I glance at the others, uneasy to hear Hailey’s arrived with company. The official purpose of this weekend is to clean the cottage, but I had my heart set on spending this time with my cousins — only my cousins.
I twist my neck to see who her companion is, pinching annoyance giving way to embarrassed relief when Hailey opens the door and a collie jumps out of the car. Runner’s ears perk up and he barks, his tail creating a miniature cloud of dirt as it thumps against the ground. He resists temptation for about ten seconds before he runs for the collie, and soon both dogs are sniffing each other, bouncing in careful circles until they determine whether they can be friends.
“I didn’t know you had a dog,” Forrester says, smiling.
Hailey approaches us, rose-tinted sunglasses covering half of her face. Her long black hair is twisted into a braid slung across her shoulder, and she wears a cream-colored sweater and a pair of faded blue jean shorts. Hanging down over her chest is a necklace: a leather strap with two wooden beads and a long white-gray feather dangling at the bottom. She strokes the feather as she joins us by the fire, a wide grin on her face.
“Had her for six years now,” she says, relating the story of how she came to own her pet. “Found her by the side of the road when she was a puppy. We tried to find her owners, but no one ever claimed her. She’s been ours for a long time now, though.”
“What’s her name?” Nolan asks, clutching his phone against his leg like he’s waiting to feel it buzz.
“Star,” Hailey says, and then she laughs. “Actually, it’s Starburst. Named h
er after my favorite candy. But we call her Star.”
“Looks like her and Runner made out okay,” Forrester says.
He motions toward the two dogs running in circles, each taking turns to chase the other. For a moment the canines attract all of our attention. Then Hailey takes a few steps closer to the fire, her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side.
“We’ve got two days to clean this place up, and we’re all sitting outside … why?”
I look down at my feet, studying the chipped pink polish on my toes like it’s a fascinating work of art. But to my surprise, the question doesn’t hang tense and unanswered. Instead, it’s Forrester himself who replies.
“Well,” he begins. I glance back up to see him surveying the group of us. His eyes move from one person to the next, and for a brief moment our gazes catch. Then he looks at Hailey, offering her a somewhat hesitant smile. “We were waiting for you.”
Hailey’s lips soften as she walks over to Forrester and grabs his arm, hauling him up as Eli and Allison put out the fire. Nolan makes another check of his phone, and Thomas and I call after the dogs, who run to join us on the path up to the cottage’s back porch.
Hailey
FORRESTER SLIDES THE KEY into the lock, turning it halfway before his hand stills.
“Sorry if the air’s a bit stale,” he says, his fingers jerking the lock the rest of the way. He twists the knob and pushes the back door open. “We haven’t been here in a few weeks. We were supposed to come up last weekend, but …” He stops again, his knuckles pressed white against his keys.
I guess I should be concerned about the way his sentence remains unfinished, but try as I might, I can’t get my eyes to stop staring at his skin. Squeezed so tight, his fingers are literally white. Pure white. As opposed to his usual tone, which is more tanned — but still white.