Chapter 3
FINN
IT TAKES ABOUT AN HOUR to get from the airport to Allie’s place. We stop at Tim Hortons for coffee and donuts, apparently it’s a Canadian initiation of sorts. I choose what’s called a honey cruller and it definitely helps improve my sour mood.
My brother informs me that we’ll go to his house first, say hi to Mum and Florence, and then he’ll take me down the road to get settled at the bed and breakfast.
Out of the kindness of my heart, he says, I won’t make you stay with us and Mum.
You’ll have your own cabin at Alba’s. The place is really nice.
You’ll like it there. He pauses for a beat, casting an almost anxious look my way, before adding, You’ll like it here in general, I think.
He adds a casual shrug, but I know he’s feeling the pressure after trying for years to get me to come to Canada.
I hate that I notice the bit of tension between us. I love my brother, I really do. He is funny and kind to everyone, and he got us out—away from our violent, piece-of-shit father, and on the path to a better life. But then he came here, across the Atlantic, to get a fresh start.
And that left me in Scotland with Mum to pick up the pieces. To deal with my rage and the aftermath on my own.
A part of me resents him for it. I don’t begrudge him his happiness, but now I feel trapped in Scotland, like at least one of us should be close to our mother.
I’m sure I will, I say, pulling myself from my own thoughts and looking out at the water on our drive. It’s undeniably beautiful in its vastness—Canada has so much wide open space; so many green trees sprawl out along the highway, untouched. I roll down the window and can smell the salt in the air.
We pull off the highway and onto a driveway that winds down towards the water, crossing over train tracks that my brother tells me aren’t used anymore.
He and Florence live in a place called Christmas Island, which sounds like something from a children’s story.
As fate would have it, he had unknowingly bought his wife-to-be’s childhood home long before they ever met.
And while we’ve chatted over FaceTime on the occasions that I’ve called my brother and she’s nearby, I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Florence in person.
That slither of envy worms its way in again, making me feel quite poorly.
As far as romantic love stories go, theirs is a bloody great one.
It was Florence’s first visit home in a decade, and Allie pulled her over for speeding.
And while I think she was pretty mugged off when she found out my brother had bought the place—and about the driving ticket—he managed to win her over.
Another tick for Allie boy, while I’m not a good fit.
The house itself looks almost like a small cottage from the outside. A sign to the right reads, Lake this way, with a painted blue arrow pointing through the trees and in the direction of the water.
I look back towards the house, which has a long deck lined up around the entire front of the building.
The screen door swings open with a creak, and a beautiful redhead strides outside, heading in our direction.
While she may be short, something about her entire demeanor tells me she’s not to be fucked with—that she might even tackle me to the ground if I was being a shithead.
But she smiles at me, a lovely, genuine smile that’s almost a little impish, and says, Hello Finn. I’m so glad you’re here. She pulls me into a hug.
Floreeeeenceeeeee, I singsong into her ear and she laughs, pulling me away to get a good look at me. I smile my most devilish smile and she grins back at me, wicked and mischievous. I hear my brother groan.
I’ve always worried about what would happen if you two joined forces, he says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking genuinely nervous. Florence only laughs and skips over to him, kissing him on the cheek and nestling into his side.
We’re interrupted by Mum, who follows the sound of voices out the front door.
Oh, my wee Finnie, she says, her tone morose and her eyes sympathetic. I try not to groan. I’m not bloody wee, I’m over six feet tall. You must be exhausted, what a horribly long flight you’ve had.
I’m fine, Mum. Just fine. I say, my smile a wee bit tight. I try to check my rising irritation. She’s only worried about you, I remind myself. Except it feels like all she does is worry about me.
You must have been so stressed, and all by yourself—
Here we fucking go.
Honestly, Mum, it was fine. It wasn’t. The flight was annoying at fuck, but I don’t need to add any fuel to her fire. And I’m here now, it’s no bother, really.
I try to keep the tone from my voice, the arsehole tone, but I think Florence notices. She smiles at my mother, a nice, pleasant smile and not the half-wild one she gave me, and ushers her back inside.
Come on Eileen, let’s give Finn the tour and then let Al take him down the road to the cottages. I’m sure he’s desperate for a nap.
Florence, I know through Alistair, lost her mom more than a decade ago.
I feel a stab of guilt at her gentle voice with my own mother, who I could stand to be a little nicer to these days.
Mum’s in Edinburgh, an hour away from me in Glasgow, but I still see her at least once a week, often more than that, and we speak on the phone every day.
Does she talk to Alistair every day? No, because he’s busy. But I’m the poor, lonely sod who needs more frequent check-ins, I guess.
As promised, I’m given a tour of the house, the air inside cool compared to the sticky heat spreading outdoors as the day goes on.
The house has a spare room where Mum is currently staying, and an upstairs loft, but is mostly on one level.
The front windows look out to the deck and the lake beyond.
We walk down to the water, a dock jutting out into the lake.
Fuck this is a nice place to live. Something about it makes me feel trapped in my own life.
Have you been in yet, Mum? I ask, knowing the answer. She shakes her head.
’Course not. Far too cold for me.
Ah c’mon Mum, it’ll be a laugh, I say, wrapping my arm around her shoulders but unable to stop from sounding sarcastic.
I’ll be shocked if she gets in even once this summer.
She’s always cold, even in the summer heat, but more than that, it’s nervousness—probably worried she’ll get a chill and simply never recover.
My brother sighs before adding, It’s really not that cold Mum, especially once you get in.
Now, I’m biased, Florence starts, but this is the best spot for swimming in all of Cape Breton.
My cousin Alba, however, holds the second-place title at her bed and breakfast. There’s a dock there too.
She glances down at her phone. And speaking of Alba, I need to head over there.
We’re going to get Violet at the airport, but Alba’s going to leave the cottage open for you, Finn.
Violet—the other member of our merry little wedding party, or so I’ve been told. Florence’s cousin, Alba, is also standing with her. It’s only me standing on my brother’s side, as far as I’m aware.
It’s the second one on the left. Florence says before she turns to my brother, You know which cottage, right Al?
He nods, kissing Florence again before she departs.
MY brOTHER, AS IT TURNS out, has no idea which fucking cottage I’m supposed to be in.
It’s one of these two, he says, shrugging. That’s all I know.
Well, does it matter? I ask him, glancing between the two, nearly identical cottages. I point to the one slightly closer to the water. I pick that one.
He shrugs again. Works for me. But don’t be surprised that if you’re not in the right one, they may very well move you. You think Florence isn’t to be trifled with? He snorts. Wait until you meet Alba.
My brother leaves me, returning to his house to entertain our mother. I want to sleep—or get on a bike and go exploring, something to work through this restless energy.
But first I need to shower, and wash off the lingering plane travel.