"So, what're ya writin' 'bout these days?" Rudy queries, the both of us lying on our backs on the grass in his backyard and watching the stars.

"Same thing everyone writes about," I murmur sleepily. "Love."

Rudy gives a soft huff.

"Bit young to be an expert on that, ain't ya?"

"I'm no expert, but I think I know enough," I mutter, indignant. After all, I love you, don't I?

There's a long pause as the concept marinates in Rudy's mind.

"What is love, Evan? Is it walkin' the dog so the other can sleep in, doin' taxes, makin' their coffee every mornin'? Or is it a feelin' like bein' struck by lightenin', like in all them songs 'n' books? Is it in the heart or the brain?"

I stare hopelessly up at the sky. Maybe they're two sides of the same coin. Safety, comfort, boredom, faithfulness, warmth, steadiness on the one side. Passion, folly, intensity, and thrill on the other side.

"Rudy, I honestly don't know."

Rudy scoffs softly. He is far more advanced than me when it comes to the art of love. He's a magician, a masterful manipulator of love, testing to see how elastic it can be, juggling two people at once and seeing how long he can cheat before his marriage snaps and Chelsea is no longer there for him.

"'Course ya don't. Yer too young to know."

For some reason that pisses me off, and I sit up on one elbow, facing him.

"I guess the question is this. Is love a spark, or a steadily burning fire? Maybe it's both. Love ignites a spark; love keeps the fire burning."

Rudy ponders this for a long moment.

"I reckon yer probably right."

Another long moment passes between us in silence. The more I think about it, the more I doubt my hypothesis. It's pretty clear that I represent one kind of love to him, and Chelsea the other.

"If I hadn't touched you in your sleep, would you ever have made a move?"

Rudy scoffs again, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"Naw. Never."

Damn. So much of life is made by random chance. The foaling, Bret not joining us that night, just the right blend of exhaustion and lucidity making me curious to see how he would feel. I still remember that curiosity. The memory of it is fading; I wish I could bottle up that naive, innocent, yearning burn of curiosity, back when he hadn't touched me yet. Any man, viewed day after day, loses his mysterious charm. After seeing him up close so often, even I've grown used to him.

Moonlight illuminates the little white hairs in his beard. They make me feel inconceivably sad. I'm suddenly crushed to realize I'll never see him in his thirties or twenties or younger. It's impossible to travel back in time and look at him, touch him, talk to him, when he was my age.

Inexplicably, I long to keep him this age forever, or at least until I can catch up. I don't want him to have a heart attack or a stroke and die, leaving me emotionally bereft and crippled, a cardboard sign in the wind. The terror of every couple with an age gap. I picture him in a hospital bed, one side of his face sagging, looking into my eyes and finally mumbling, "ah luv ya, boy. Always did. Sorry ah never told ya." Except I won't be a boy anymore. And I'll cry and cry and cry. Oh, mah poor boy, don't cry. You were such a beautiful spark. Thanks for everythang.

•••

Bret and I join some firefighter recruits on a training run, all of us wearing matching navy t-shirts and making the pedestrian population swoon. I suppose we do look pretty hot.

I can hardly focus on the aching of my muscles or labouring of my lungs with Bret talking my ear off about that baby.

Sammy doesn't really want kids. If they have kids, it's important to her that the baby be theirs, sharing their genes. She doesn't know what she's signing up for taking on two strangers' kids with no clue as to genetic predispositions and diseases. She's been begging him to see reason and have a kid with her - or, better yet, enjoy none at all. But Bret is stubborn and has already made up his mind to help the poor little soul. Anyone can make a baby. He wants to help one.

I can tell Bret's wrestling with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and desires right now, and it's my job as his bro to distract him. I shove him playfully and he shoves me back.

This is getting hard. God, every cell in my body is on fire. Hair and clothes plastered to my body with sweat, my soaked face crumples in the most atrocious, horrifying, gut-wrenching expression of pure effort. Opening my eyes, I find Bret staring at me.

"Fuck off," I gasp, shoving him again.

Then we're on the ground, roughhousing, while the other firefighters run around us. Kevin narrows his eyes suspiciously but doesn't dare say anything to Bret's face.

One minute, I've got Bret in a chokehold, our faces red from the strain. Then, in that uncanny way so characteristic of us boys, we're calmly talking about the bookstore in the next minute.

I've thought about this for a long, long time, since high-school. There'll be two main costs. Rent and inventory. I'll need a loan. Pedestrian-friendly location. Maybe a co-owner. I should start with a popup store before trying brick-and-mortar. It'll be months of sketching out ideas, writing a business plan, visiting other independent bookstores, scouting locations, talking to landlords and real estate agents, working with a designer on the webpage, thinking about events and customer outreach, and eventually negotiating a lease, before my dream can come true.

On our lunch break, Bret suggests we visit a bookstore and talk to the owners.

My heartbeat kicks up a notch when we enter through the doors. I try to avoid buying books online as much as possible, preferring in-person gathering, the smell and feel and weight of a physical book, and supporting a local business. Besides, there's nothing like the dazzlingly bright array of fresh, colorful new books on display as far as the eye can see. No matter the physical location, I always feel at home in these places.

There's a poster on the wall with a quote by a famous author and poet that immediately tugs on my heartstrings.

With the wrong people, it will take one slip-up, one small mistake for them to be on their way.
The right ones?
Even if you tried with all your might, you still couldn't push them away.
The ones meant for you will always stay.

•••

I make eye contact with Rudy across the yard and he winks with his characteristically brilliant devilry. It's been a while since we got any action in, since he and Chelsea seem to have exhausted everything there is to argue about and started getting along again. I follow him into a barn, looking forward to fumbling adolescently in the tack room or the loft or something.

Rudy notices me following him and turns around.

"Fuck, didn't even see ya there."

"Sorry," I flush. "I was trying to be stealthy. Didn't mean to creep you out."

"Yer okay. Just distracted. So how's everythin' goin'?"

"Um, good."

"What're ya doin'?"

"You said - I...I thought maybe you wanted my company." Wait, I didn't actually think we were gonna hold each other all night, did I?

Rudy chuckles lightly.

"Mah wife loves me again. Ah've gotta go spend time with 'er or she'll leave me." He takes my face in his hands and plants a soft kiss between my eyes. "We'll have some fun together again soon." This is followed by a perfunctory slap to my ass. "Keep 'im ready for me."

I force my lips into the most convincing smile I can muster.

"Yessir... Wait! Do you maybe want to go camping? With me?"

"Sure," Rudy calls over his shoulder, not sparing me a backward glance.

What exactly did I expect? Perhaps what I wanted to hear was: Chelsea and I don't have sex anymore. I come to bed too late and wake up too early. She resents me for the three boys, and all the years she's wasted away raising my songs. I resent her for making me feel trapped, strapped down by obligations I wasn't ready for. I want to leave her, Evan. I want to be with you. Evie, I'm going to divorce her to be with you...

Yeah, I needed a reality check.

•••

The most annoying thing while waiting for a text from Rudy is a steady stream of texts from Bret. Each one gets my hopes up, only to deflate them.

"Uuuugh, stop," I mutter under my breath, muting the notifications for an hour. I rake a hand through my hair, groaning with frustration. Rudy's been leaving me on delivered more and more lately; it feels like he's grown ambivalent, apathetic. Ironically, what we're suffering from is the same complacency that threatens his - and everyone's - marriage.

I decide to go ahead and pay for the campsite. He already said yes. Besides, fortune favours the bold.

Eventually, Bret returns from Sammy's, to grab a snack before driving both of us to the station for our next shift.

"You look sad," he pouts. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I force a smile, dodging an attempted cheek kiss.

"Are you actually okay? And don't bullshit me. Are you really happy right now or pretending?"

I'm too distracted to reply; something's caught my eye through the window.

I spot Rudy in the distance, leaning on his pitchfork and smiling fondly at Felix while the stablehand says something I can't decipher.

Is this why he's been so cold and distant with me lately? He's lost interest and now likes Felix?

You're being paranoid. To what extent am I imagining things, and to what extent are my fears real, my suspicions valid? It's impossible to know.

"Can you grab me something to eat from downstairs," I bid Bret absently. Dutifully, he takes off.

Despite my attempt to block it out, a sense of betrayal seeps into my core, alongside festering rancour and distrust. My fingers feel cold, my heart beating slowly, painfully. It's like a veil is being lifted from my eyes. And yet I don't dare trust what I see. I must be wrong. This can't be the truth. That he doesn't love me, that he never loved me. That I was always just a plaything for his amusement, something to use and then discard when he grew tired of me, no longer needed me. Cold, hard bitterness wells up inside me; I push it down. Chelsea is oblivious because she doesn't really know or care about her husband. I am not the same. I refuse to be cheated on the same as her.

Bret comes back with two sandwiches, which I resolutely determine we should eat outside.

Felix and Rudy are still chatting in the training ring when we approach. Unlatching the gate, I make my way towards Rudy like a fucking angel of wrath.

"Hi, Rudy," I greet brightly. He leans back against the fence behind him, lifting his hand in a wave. "Oh, hey, Felix."

"Hi..." Felix offers shyly.

"Oh, Felix, you know what?" I chuckle, feigning nonchalance. "You remind me so much of this one movie character... Can't remember the name." I snap my fingers in frustration. "Anyways, it was about this guy cheating on his wife."

Rudy's mouth is set in a hard, resolute line. "But it gets better!" I giggle, taking a bite of my sandwich. "He cheats on his wife with another man."

Bret, looking extremely confused, hasn't touched his sandwich. "And then! It gets even better. Then he cheats on that man with another guy! That's the character Felix reminds me of."

A perplexed look from Bret.

"I don't remember this movie-"

"You weren't there," I dismiss. "You know," I mumble around a bite of my sandwich, "I can understand cheating. But cheating on the person you're cheating with...that's low. Don't you think?" I look straight at Rudy.

"Guess so..." Rudy mumbles without conviction.

"'Cause that's hard to justify, don't you think? I mean, where does it end? A guy like that... I mean, he clearly doesn't know anything about love."

"Sure ya understood the movie correctly?"

"Oh, you mean because I'm so young and clueless about love?" I challenge.

Rudy's brow creases in a frown.

"I just meant, maybe ya didn't really understand the protagonist."

"Oh, you mean maybe he didn't actually cheat on two different people? Mm, no, I'm pretty sure he did."

Bret looks between us hopelessly.

"Just sayin,' if he did, there'd have to be a reason-"

"Besides him being an asshole? Mm, no, I'm not sure there'd have to be..."

"Alright." Bret finally declares, "I'm done with this," and leaps over the fence, running away.

•••

We're responding to a house fire, most likely started by an old electrical appliance left on and overheating. No cars in the driveway; owners could be on vacation. Moving fast, firefighters connect a hose line to the nearest hydrant. One mans the pump, others carry the hoses and climb ladders. Bret and I are among the rescue operation that enters the building.

"Love you, man." Bret forms a fist with his gloved hand and holds it out. Exhausted after about a week of sleepless nights, I barely have the heart to knock it with my own fist.

It's dark inside, and brutally hot. The sounds of the roaring flames and my own breathing through the BA are all deafening. I pan my eyes around the room, identifying fire, exits, and any movement. Our goal is to find and rescue any trapped occupants.

It's the whimpers that draw my attention before I see anything. And then I do see it, a dog burning alive. My throat closes and I suddenly feel woozy. Gripping the handrail on the staircase, I steady myself. In the next second, the dog has clearly died. The tightness in my chest won't abate. Even as a distant part of myself tells me to disassociate from the situation, my heart does what is customary in these situations and grieves. If I'd noticed the poor creature a moment earlier... The feeling of helplessness is crushing, a weight too heavy to bear.

Part of me knows that some of that helplessness comes from the toxic situationship I'm embroiled in, what I thought I'd always wanted now an oppressive boulder weighing on me night and day. I'm confused, misinterpreting signals, unsure how much of what I feel is reciprocated...

"Evan!" Bret's voice cuts through my melancholy. Before I can turn in the direction of his voice, I'm pushed hard. Lurching forward, I catapult onto the ground, something heavy landing on my legs. A loud crash and Bret's agonized cry follows. Fuckfuckfuck! My pulse is a thundering beat in my ears as I look over my shoulder. The thoughts race in my head. He's hurt. He was hurt because of me. Because I was distracted. Because I'm a bad firefighter. I'm shouting for help before I realize it.

It's all a blur after that. Men heaving, lifting, pulling Bret out from under the ruins. Heat. Smoking rubble. Bret's cries. The hammering of my heart. The commotion of firefighters providing medical attention, ventilating the smoke-filled room. I scramble to follow Bret's stretcher, reaching for his hand, mumbling sorryBretI'msosorry in a loop.

Through my tears, it's hard to distinguish the sunset-streaked sky from the flames of the fire licking the clouds, the sirens, the trucks. Everything's just red.

I blubber, "Look at me. Try to stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Come on, look at me."

Bret is wheezing something, except it must hurt to speak because his words all run together. His eyes are wide and round, stricken by panic and pain. I think he's thinking he's going to die. Pain this bad, I'm thinking he's got broken ribs, at least.

"You saved my life," I gasp, still stunned.

Bret's eyes focus on me gradually.

I interpret his muddled reply as, "I got you. Love you, bro."

I ride in the back of the ambulance with him. My legs are aching and it's hard to walk, but bruising and some gashes will probably be the extent of the damage.

There's no time to sit and sort through what happened or how I feel; on autopilot, I follow Bret's gurney into the hospital as far as they'll let me.

Later, I don't know how much later, it's all peaceful and calm and white, a stark contrast to earlier. Bret is lying in his hospital bed with his leg in a cast and I'm sitting at his bedside, my head on his lap. I realize I've just woken up from a nap. Bret himself is drowsy from the pain medication.

"Bret."

"Hello, darling..."

"Why'd you do that, you idiot?"

Bret blinks blearily at me.

"Oh, that? I didn't even think about it. It was just...like...a reflex."

"Fucking moron... Didn't know how much I tolerated you until you nearly kicked it."

We're like this, all of us, aren't we? We assume the people in our lives will always be there, like stationary landmarks, held in place by our implied, unacknowledged need for them. They keep us grounded. And, selfishly, we think they exist for us and us alone. Then, suddenly, they're gone, leaving us disoriented and lost.

Bret asks for some water, so I get up to go find a vending machine. On my way, I notice Sammy talking to floor reception.

I've never seen her look so small and scared. I hadn't even thought about the devastating toll this would take on her. My distractedness endangered so many more than just Bret. She looks up and we make eye contact.

"Sammy, I'm sorry."

Sammy awards me a pained, tight-lipped smile.

"Don't worry about it."

"No, really, I-"

"Don't bother, Evan." She gives a slight, almost imperceptible, shake of her head. The anger, pain and frustration she's undoubtedly keeping bottled up are making her tremble. "Bret wouldn't even be a firefighter if it wasn't for you." She shoulders past me and takes off at a brisk pace towards the door.

I remain at the hospital until nightfall, and then Rudy drives me back to the fire station, where I have a fitful sleep.

In the days that follow, the captain holds a white-boarding session to talk about what happened. I spend the entire duration of it wishing I'd died.

Cap comes to visit Bret in the hospital. And for all the vulnerability Bret emanates in that hospital bed, he defends me in front of the captain like a fierce lion.

"He's a good firefighter, sir," Bret declares resolutely, defiance shining his eyes amidst a gaunt face. "If he goes, I go."

After the captain leaves, I slump against Bret and he gives me a one-armed hug.

"It's okay. I love you, man."

"I love you, too."

I know Bret is truly going to be okay when he starts complaining that the water I bring him isn't cold enough.

He's eventually released from the hospital and put on bed rest at home, where Chelsea and I wait on him hand and foot.

He's got a mild, low-grade ankle sprain that doctors say should heal in a few weeks with proper rest and ice. His bruises look a lot worse than they really feel, Bret claims. The posterior rib fracture - though it could've been worse - is the most painful injury. It could've been a lateral region; there could've been organ damage, but that doesn't help me sleep better at night.

Perhaps the best thing to come out of this is Sammy finally, reluctantly, agreeing to adopt the baby. This accident made Bret a hero in her eyes, and she's now a lot more receptive to him.

He proposes from his sickbed, and she says yes.

•••

The weeks pass in a sort of daze. I eat, work and sleep, and not much else. Rudy doesn't touch me; Chelsea, never one to emote in public, is just off in her own private world of internalized worry, and Bret spends most of his time sleeping. The least I can do is look after Roger, Avery and Henry. Avery, strapped in a Snugli against my chest, is the only one who laughs and smiles at me.

Yet another casualty of my mistakes is Bella, who hasn't been getting the exercise she needs. Rudy's arranged for a jockey from Wilmot Mar to come ride her regularly, and I can't shake the feeling that I've been slighted, even though we both know I'm injured and caring for Bret.

On top of that, the weather's been shit.

I'm on my way to Bella's stall to check up on her, when I hear a shuffling sound from the rafters. It's dark outside, and raining lightly; almost everyone's gone home. If there's a colony of mice up there, I am not man enough to deal with it on my own. Out of curiosity, I sneak up the ladder to the loft spanning the length of the barn and peep over the edge. 

In the same alcove on the same bed of hay where Rudy and I kissed for the first time, Rudy is fucking Felix. Both are shirtless, Rudy's jeans unbuckled and Felix's pants dragged down to his knees. The younger boy grips the straw with his hands and teeth while he's ploughed from behind.