Page 11 of Love Never Happens with your Brother’s Best Friend

“But we didn’t do anything really bad.” Dylan laughs. “Just kid stuff.”

“Nah. It was just fun. We never hurt anyone.”

We’re quiet again and I think about the things we did growing up. But mostly I think about Rita. I have thought about her every day since I left.

Sometimes in a quiet moment, I’d randomly do a Google search but there’s not much about Rita Carmichael of Oak River. She’s not on Facebook or Instagram. She doesn’t have a Twitter account. The most recent photo was posted three years ago. She wants to be anonymous. I get it. Sometimes I think, like right now, that would be heaven.

Dylan and I follow a track around the property and beyond, visiting places where we stashed secret weapons, or created hideouts in the trees in anticipation of the inevitable zombie apocalypse.

When we get back to the Carmichaels’ house, I help Dylan get ready for the camping trip he is organizing. He runs his trail guide business from the family home where he has all the equipment stored in one of the outbuildings that used to be a stable.

“Light and waterproof. That’s what you want when you’re hiking.” He pulls the tents, camping mats, and backpacks from a rack. “You carry everything with you. Once you’re up there on the track, there’s no stopping by a store if you’ve forgotten something,” Dylan says laughing.

He hands me some rain jackets, waterproof leggings, and sleeping bags to fold up and put into the backpacks.

“Summer is my busy time, but I get bookings all year. In winter too. It’s always good to get out on the trail.”

Dylan checks off fold-away gas stoves, bowls, plates, and cutlery from his list, then packs them too. He lifts one of the backpacks testing the weight.

“There’s room for some personal items, a change of clothes, and food, of course.” He tosses me the backpack. I catch it. “But that is all you need for a few nights out.”

Jeanie calls out that dinner is almost ready, so Dylan and I head back to the house to wash up and help set the dinner table. Ted, Dylan’s dad, comes in. He hugs me warmly and asks how I am.

“It’s great to see you, Brodie. I watch all the Boston Bullets games. I’m a big fan.”

“Thanks, Mr Carmichael.”

“Ted. Call me Ted. Mr Carmichael makes me sound old.” He laughs then goes to the kitchen where he greets his wife.

I’m arranging knives, forks, and serving utensils on the table in the dining room when I hear the front door open. A voice calls out.

“Hey, everyone.”

It’s Rita. Her mom calls back that her timing is perfect. Ted says something to her in the hall about Bambi who was released today. Then she appears, framed in the dining room doorway. I smile, say hi, and wave with a comical fistful of cutlery, like Edward Scissorhands. Our eyes meet briefly before she looks away.

She is as pretty as ever. I like her dark hair cut short in a kind of tousled, loose way that suits her. She drags her fingers through her fringe, sweeping it behind her ears. Smiling, Rita raises her hand and then backs out down the hall.

“Mom, can I help with anything?” I hear her say from the kitchen.

Dylan comes in carrying a stack of plates, a tea towel in each hand.

“This is so awesome, isn’t it? Just like old times.” He sets down the plates, then begins to place each one around the table in between a knife and a fork. “You were always over at our place, eating our food.”

“That’s right. I don’t know how your mom does it, but roast chicken anywhere else just isn’t as good. How does she get the skin so crispy?”

“Family secret. She won’t tell you. She hasn’t even told me.”

“But you live here. You can just eat your mom’s chicken every day.”

“We don’t eat it every day. Mom only roasts a chicken on special occasions.”

“Like now?”

“Sure. Like now. It’s not every day we get a visit from a sports celebrity.” He laughs and flicks my arm with a tea towel.

Rita comes in carrying a steaming pot with a lid. She sets it in the middle of the table on a woven mat. Dylan tells me to sit anywhere, so I pull out the nearest chair and sit down. Ted comes in carrying a plate of sizzling potatoes which he puts down next to me. Dylan rubs his hands together and says that he’s starving. Rita sits opposite. Jeanie carries in the honey-glazed roast chicken, crackling from the oven, sets it down in the middle of the table, then sits next to Rita. Ted is at the short end, at the head of the table. He taps his glass which quietens down the chatter.

“Welcome back, Brodie,” he says smiling, and everyone responds, raising their glasses, “Welcome back.”

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