Page 3 of On Tap for the Bear
"Already started a batch." I pull two glasses and start pouring our house stout—the weekly check-in is about to begin, and we all know it.
"So," Beau says, accepting his stout with a nod of thanks. "We all felt that, right?"
"The ley line," Calder confirms. "It's been more active."
"Any other disturbances?" I ask, falling into the familiar pattern of our weekly meetings. Calder inherited Dad's position as the primary ley line guardian, but he trusts me to help keep track of these things.
"Nothing major," Beau reports. "Had a couple of calls about weird lights in the forest last week, but that turned out to be Gary Northwood's nephew trying to shoot a horror movie for his YouTube channel."
"Mrs. Wilkie reported that her garden gnomes keep moving," Calder adds. "But that's been happening for years, and we all know she's just forgetting where she puts them."
"Anything else?" I ask.
The silence that follows is heavy. We all know what—who—I'm really asking about. We've had variations of this conversation every week for the past six months, ever since Jonah disappeared.
"Nothing new," Beau says finally, his voice careful. "I checked with the Coast Guard again yesterday. Still nothing."
Six months. One hundred and eighty-two days, if I'm counting. Which I am, even though I tell myself not to. Jonah went out on one of his research trips—something about tracking orca migration patterns—and never came back. His boat wasfound three weeks later, empty, drifting twenty miles offshore. No blood. No signs of struggle. No body.
Just gone.
The official story is that he fell overboard. Accident. Case closed.
But we're not entirely human, and we know better than to trust the official story.
"Calder's been checking the ley lines," Sawyer had told me last month, his voice rough with something between hope and despair. "Says there's a disruption pattern that doesn't make sense. Like something's blocking the natural flow."
I'd wanted to ask what that meant, if it meant Jonah might still be alive somewhere, if the ley lines could lead us to him. But Calder had just shaken his head, his expression grim, and I'd swallowed the questions.
Now I look at my oldest brother, the one who inherited the responsibility of guardian, the one who carries the weight of protecting this town and everyone in it. He meets my eyes, and I see the same exhaustion I feel.
"The pattern's still there," Calder says quietly. "Whatever's causing the disruption, it hasn't changed. Hasn't gotten worse, but it hasn't gotten better either."
"So he could still be...” Beau starts, then stops.
Alive. The word none of us can quite say out loud, because saying it means admitting we still hope, and hope is dangerous when you're counting days instead of weeks.
"I don't know," Calder admits, and the weight of those three words settles over all of us.
I pour another round, even though none of us are drinking much. It's something to do with our hands, something to focus on besides the empty space where our youngest brother should be sitting, probably rambling about marine biology and showingus videos of whatever sea creature caught his attention that week.
Dad used to say being second-oldest was the hardest position—all the weight, none of the authority.
I'd thought he was full of shit at the time.
Now, standing here with a bar full of people who don't know that magic is real and monsters exist, watching Calder carry the burden of Jonah's disappearance on top of everything else and Sawyer’s quiet grief at the loss of Tanner’s mother, I understand.
I can't fix this. Can't bring Jonah back or lift the weight from Calder's shoulders or ease the pain in my younger brothers' eyes.
But I can pour another round. Keep this place running. Make sure that when—if—Jonah comes home, there's still a home to come back to.
The door opens, and Cilla walks in carrying a large basket covered with a checkered cloth. She weaves through the tables with the ease of someone who's been coming here for years, but it has barely been a year, smiling and waving at familiar faces.
"Special delivery," she announces, making her way to the bar. "Fresh potato rolls for tomorrow's burger special. I tried a new recipe with rosemary and sea salt."
"I could kiss you," I tell her, taking the basket. The smell alone is enough to make my mouth water. "What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. Consider it payment for that wonderful mushroom risotto recipe you gave me." She leans against the bar, her hair tied back with a flour-dusted bandana, more smudges of flour dusting her forearms. "Besides, I might need a favor."
