She laughed, and the sound put a smile on my face.
“I liked one video,” she said. “You’re one to talk, though. You follow the whole team.”
“Of course I do,” he said, sitting down next to Mom on the couch. “My son’s their manager.”
“Interim manager,” I said, before either of them could say it first.
“Close enough,” Dad said.
My eyes went misty at what was almost a compliment. For a moment they sounded like the couple they must’ve been before Granddad wore them down. More like the parents they might have been without his controlling presence, his constant criticism.
It was tender, real. A glimpse of what our family could have been.
And, like everything good in this house, it was fleeting.
I wished I could bottle that moment—store it up for all the times I’d need proof that somewhere, beneath all the disappointment and expectations, my dad was proud of me. Saw me. Believed in me.
But I knew better than to hope for the impossible.
“At least you made it home eventually,” Mom says.
“Is the wedding still on? Sloane’s okay?”
“She’s okay,” Mom says. “We had a talk after Evan called, and she talked to the pastor. She understands that love is patient, love is kind, love can handle your husband occasionally losing his mind.” Mom’s smile looks like it was painted in watercolor. Too light and watery. “We leave for the church in a couple of hours, so you have time for a shower. Your tux is upstairs in your old room.”
“Thanks, Mom. Is Evan up there?”
“In your old room, too,” she says, giving me a pat on my arm. “He’s steady now, but he needs you, Ollie.”
A lump sits heavy in my throat. If I hadn’t spent yesterday with Poppy, I could have been here to help Evan this morning, could have sat with him, reassured him, stopped him from calling Sloane.
But the idea of regretting yesterday—it hurts too much to even think about it.
I pad up the stairs to my old room and open the thick door to see my brother on his old twin bed, head in his hands. His tux jacket is draped over the desk chair, and his tie hangs loose around his neck, as undone as he is.
My chest aches seeing my brother like this. Even now, I still half expect to see the brash wild child when I look at him. I feel guilty, but not because I don’t accept him as he is now. But because sometimes, I’m relieved that that guy is gone.
If only it had happened any other way …
When he sees me, Evan jumps up and throws his arms around me. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?” I say, pounding his back with my hand. But Evan doesn’t let go, almost squeezing the air out of me. “How are you feeling?”
“Too much,” he answers, finally releasing me to sit back on the bed. “My head is too much. All these weather delays and the mixup with the caterer were bad enough. And then the seizurereally freaked Sloane out. It happened while we were writing our vows at her apartment, and I dropped the pen. She thought I was choking or something, and by the time she realized, I was already gone.”
“I can imagine,” I say. Context clues tell me the wedding’s clearly still on, but that doesn’t mean all’s well in paradise. “Is she okay now? This isn’t the first time she’s seen you have a seizure.”
“She’s okay,” he says with a loud exhale. “But I’m not.” His eyes are red and puffy, and I’m forcibly reminded of Poppy’s red, puffy eyes. I blink away the memory. I don’t have room for those emotions, not right now. “I’m trying my box-breathing, writing down the stuff that makes me spiral. Even shutting myself in the dark with my noise-canceling headphones, but it’s like I’m watching myself from outside myself. I’ll tell myself not to react, not to worry, but Now-Me won’t listen.”
I sit on my bed across from him. It’s a big room, but we’re both a lot bigger than we used to be. Our house has two spare bedrooms and an office, but my parents made us share a room my last few years at home. I don’t know if it was Granddad’s idea or something Mom read, but it didn’t increase the harmony between us. It only made me more resentful when I’d see Evan climbing out the window at midnight and coming back at six a.m. stinking like weed or cheap beer.
There’s no hint of resentment in me for Evan anymore. I have issues with how my family went all-in on him and dropped me like a torn glove, but that’s not his fault.
“I’m so broken,” Evan says, his voice cracking, the tears flowing, making his shoulders and chest shake.
I get up and sit next to him, putting my arm on his back. “You’re not broken. You’re brave. After everything that happened, you could have chosen to be bitter and angry, andinstead, you’ve become the guy who lives to help others. I don’t know how you’ve done it.”
“I haven’t done anything?—”
