Huge thanks to all the reviewers – your comments are priceless.

There'll be action sooner than you think and your questions will be answered. The most popular so far is 'why did he start to smoke and will he quit?' - the purpose of the story is not to make anyone look perfect, but to make everyone seem human. I'm a staunch non-smoker myself, so there'll be more on the topic.

"How thoughtful of them to get the underground line to the very airport," Chet said, impressed with newish Heathrow Terminal 5 station as they entered the white-red-and-blue train and sat on the seats. "My, it looks like a coach in our living room," he patted the seats, upholstered with blue fabric.

"Tube."

"What?"

"They call it tube here," Frank said. "Not underground."

Chet rolled his eyes, "I hope you don't expect me to suddenly become English just by crossing the border? Besides…" the voice of the announcer interrupted him with "Mind the gap. The next station is….Hatton Cross," message and he beamed, "Wow, I thought they only said it in the movies."

"Like hell, I mind the gap every step of the way here," Frank smiled back.

"Do they really drive on the left side of the road then, too?" Chet asked jokingly.

"Imagine, they drive on the correct side," Frank replied with a soft laugh. Chet was the easiest person to be friends with – he was easy-going, kind-hearted and honest. He knew when to talk and when to say nothing.

At Joe's funerals, he kept his arm around Frank's shoulder throughout the ordeal of watching Joe's coffin disappearing six feet under and never said a word. Neither did he say anything, when Frank cried into his shoulder. Chet knew just too well that no words could ease the agony of losing a sibling.

They chatted all the way to Frank's station, never touching a subject of Bayport. Frank was glad that the topic of differences between the UK and the USA was broad enough to hopefully keep them talking until Chet's flight back.

The topic did come up, though, four days later, when Frank took Chet for a walk in Hyde Park. They walked pass a bench with a writing on the backseat.

"Pam Weiseiller was here – do sit and enjoy life," he read. Ha watched the bench for a few moments, lost in thought, and then shook his head with a smile. "This is an incredible way to remember, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "Innit, I meant," he added, his smile growing wider.

"There are many of them," Frank nodded at the row of the benches, each carrying a message in memory of other people.

"You wanna sit and enjoy life? My feet are killing me."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, just watching people go by – elder couples, young mothers with kids, joggers with headphones on, tourists with cameras. Everyone was moving at their own speed, but the feeling of relaxation was in the autumn air. There were distant sounds of traffic outside the park gates.

"So. How are you, Frank?" Chet asked, finally breaking the silence.

"I'm very well, thank you."

"How English of you. But seriously – how are you?"

Frank inhaled deeply and reached into his pocket to get a pack of almonds. He took a nut and tsk-ed at a squirrel a few feet away. The animal looked up, its fluffy tail alert. Frank tsk-ed again until the squired believed in his kind intentions and ran to take the food from his hand. The next second it ran away and started to bury the gift.

"How did you do it, Chet?" he finally asked.

"Got over Iola's death?" at Frank's nod, Chet put his chin into his hand. "Who said I ever did?"

Frank blinked at him. "Didn't you?"

Chet's lips curved into a sour smile, "No, Frank. I did not."

"But… but you have moved on, haven't you?"

"Moving on has nothing to do with getting over her death. Moving on is all about deciding to make your existence a little better – going to a good college, getting a nice job, having a nice pay, living in a lovely place, you name it. I've moved on, that's true. But I didn't get over her. Getting over someone's death is about finding peace again," he mused and looked at his friend. "And I'm not at peace yet."

"Finding peace again," Frank chucked bitterly. "You know…. Two years ago, when he'd chase me around the house for stealing his blanket in the morning to wake him up, that didn't seem like peace at all. And now I think those were the most peaceful times of my life."

Chet smiled to that and turned to look back at the squirrel, which found other aaawing people to feed it. The two sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Will the pain ever ease?" Frank finally asked.

"Someday," Chet answered vaguely. "But not too soon for you. Not after the bond you shared."

The bond they shared. Frank had heard the line a million times after Joe's death. The sympathetic "you were so close, I am so sorry," would haunt him for years.

"It just doesn't get better, Chet," he whispered, his voice quivering. "They say time heals, but it doesn't. Even distance doesn't. Every day is like that Friday."

"Give it more time. It'll never heal completely, but if one day you stop thinking 'what if I never asked him to come?', 'what if I threw his driving licence away?', 'what if we fought all the time and he wouldn't want to come to see me?'…well, that will be good."

Frank shook his head, "That's the trouble, I keep on asking those questions."

"Blaming yourself?"

"Sorta."

"Did you ever want to know if I blamed him for Iola's death?" Chet asked. The honestly of the question left Frank speechless for a moment. "Don't look at me like that. I didn't. When they broke the news, I thought – why didn't Joe do anything to prevent it? But the answer was so blatant that it hurt to admit he was not to blame – he didn't know it would happen… If he did, he'd move the Earth to prevent it, I know. But I can't blame people for not being psychic."

Frank threw his head back, staring at the bare benches of the trees.

"You had someone to blame, at least. Not Joe, but the terrorists. You have a reason why she died – because someone hated us and wanted us dead…. But I have no reason why he died – I don't know why God wanted him dead."

"And what difference would it make?" Chet asked. "So you'd chase the bad guy, God or whomever. You'd make him pay for it. But it wouldn't bring him back, Frank," he said quietly. "Iola didn't come back when you found Al-Rousasa…. I am sorry, Frank…. "

Frank sniffed his nose as he shook his head, "No, Chet…. You're – you're right. He's not coming back, I know…. I used to crazily hope that maybe it was a terrible mistake and he'd be alive somehow, but time goes on and…nothing happens. I've moved across the ocean but nothing has changed, you know?"

Chet put an arm around his shoulder. "You don't have to go it alone, Frank. No one thought you bad for moving to England….well, almost," he added warmly, "but we're still there for you – me, the gang, everyone. We all know how horrible it all is for you- so if you just want to talk…"

"I know, Chet. And you have no idea how much it means to me – to just know that all of you are still there, even after I basically ran away…." Frank suddenly wanted to call someone from their circle. "I'm a selfish jerk, aren't I?"

"Did you think me so after Iola's death?" Chet asked.

"Of course no!"

"That answers your question, too," Chet said with a soft smile. "You're not a selfish jerk. You're someone who lost his brother. That hardly makes you a jerk."

Frank's throat hurt with tears, so he changed the subject, "How-how is everyone?"

"Good. Not great, because you know why, but good. Enjoying the adult lives after school."

"I'll be there for Christmas. In Bayport, I mean. God knows I don't want to go back there…"

Chet nodded his understanding. The first Christmas without Iola was not merry at all.