“You were a kid, too,” I point out.
“Yeah, but — I was out of the house at school, but meanwhile you were rattling around down here with Dad, and you must have seen some shit. But I wasn’t here for you. And Mom — the last time I talked to her, while she could still talk, she made me promise —”
He stops, and I turn my head, watching the sea wall flicking by the window. I can’t see the ocean, but I know it’s out there, quiet and immense.
When Seth speaks again, his voice is low and urgent. “I’m not gonna do that anymore, okay? Whatever happens with Dad, or with you — from now on, I want to be part of it.”
“Okay.” I don’t really know what else to say. But I know what he means, and I feel a little lighter.
When we arrive at the house ten minutes later, we find Bree curled up in Dad’s recliner with a book, a blanket spread across her lap. There’s a Target bag full of clothing sitting on the coffee table, and I pick it up.
“Where’s Cole?” I ask, and Bree marks her place, giving me a searching look.
“Didn’t you know that he inherited his grandmother’s house? He didn’t think there would be enough beds for all of us, so he decided to spend the night up there.”
Of course I didn’t know. One more thing in Cole’s bag of secrets, I guess. But I’m not going to dwell on that right now.
“Do you think he would mind — I mean, do you think I should —?”
Bree raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me and sighs.
And I turn on my heel and bang out the back door.
It’s a route I’ve walked hundreds of times, down to the corner and then up the steep hill. Sharon’s house is gleaming white in the moonlight, surrounded by thepicket fence that I would know in my sleep. It’s a crisp fall night, the breeze lifting my hair as I walk, the scent of the ocean so familiar. I breathe in and out, and I try to ignore my sweaty palms, the way my heart presses against my throat, the prickling across my shoulders.
I have the gate in my hand, and I’m opening it, my feet scuffing along the front walk. Five wooden steps up, and then I’m crossing the porch, the plastic bag swaying at my side.
I lift my arm, and I ring the bell.
Seventeen
I’m Not Who You Think I Am
September 2025
HE’S RUMPLED FROM SLEEP,his hair hanging lank around his face, wearing an oversized T-shirt that I thought I had left behind in Cape Cod and a fitted pair of boxer briefs. When he sees me, he steps aside, opening the door wide to give me space to come in.
“Come on.”
He tilts his head and I follow, padding behind him up the stairs and onto the darkened landing. The only light is coming from his old bedroom, the one we spent so much time in when we were boys.
“You already know where thebathroom is.” He points down the hall, and I do as I’m told as he disappears into the bedroom. There’s some rhythm to this, some spell that has been hanging over us all day, and maybe if I execute every step of this dance perfectly, we’ll be okay.
I close the bathroom door behind me. Same pink tile, same antique fixtures. I dig through the bag and find a soft T-shirt for sleeping and a pair of flannel pants in my favorite royal blue, toothpaste and toothbrush that are the same brands I use at home. As I get ready, I stare at myself in the mirror. Same snub nose, same unruly curls, even if my face is a lot more mature than it was the last time I saw it in this room. I wonder what Cole sees when he looks at me. I wonder if I’d ever have the courage to ask.
When I step into the bedroom, Cole is already under the covers, his eyes closed and his body gently curled, the edge of the quilt I know so well pulled up tight to his chin. Like the bathroom, Cole’s room is unchanged, down to the decorative soaps on the dresser. I cross to the opposite side and lie down on my back, folding my hands across my belly and staring up at the ceiling. Cole’s shoulders are hunched, an impenetrable wall, and I wonder if he’s already asleep.
I wouldn’t blame him after today. I reach for the bedside table and turn off the light.
“I’m not the person you think I am.”
His voice is barely above a whisper, just a rumbleacross his vocal cords. I turn my head toward the sound, laying one hand gently between his shoulder blades. At my touch, he huffs, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Maybe that’s not — I mean, I’m that person sometimes. When I’m feeling good. But also I’m — like this. I’m like this a lot. And — I don’t think I can hide it. Not anymore.”
I don’t know what to say, not yet. But I roll onto my side and drape my arm around his waist, my face against his neck. And he hesitates, but then — much to my relief — he relaxes into me, back pressed against my chest, our bodies curving into each other, our legs intertwined. He sighs, a deep, shuddery rush of air, and I breathe with him, in and out.
“I have to tell you about that night. About prom night.”
