I find a bench under a large pine tree and sit down hard, my legs suddenly unreliable. I press my hands against my thighs and try to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
My heart is still racing. My chest feels like someone’s standing on it. The cool evening air helps somewhat, the smell of pine sharp and clean, cutting through the panic a little.
I don’t know how long I sit there before I hear footsteps on the gravel path.
“Dude, I say this in the most brotherly way possible: You don’t look okay.”
I don’t look up as my younger brother approaches. I just keep staring at my hands.
“Hey, Marco.”
He sits on the bench beside me, his weight making the wood creak. For a minute he doesn’t say anything, just sits there in his flannel shirt and work boots, smelling like sawdust and holding a beer bottle.
I try to smile but it fails completely. My face won’t cooperate, won’t manufacture the expression, won’t perform.
“I’m just?—”
“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. You’re not fine. I’ve known you my whole life, Atlas. I can tell when you’re not fine.”
My throat closes up. I look away toward the pine tree’s dark branches.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” Marco leans forward, elbows on his knees, not looking at me directly. “Like, I’m not going to push. But if you need to tell someone, you can tell me. I’m not going to judge.”
For a wild second I almost do it. Almost say I lost my job, I’m drowning in debt, I’m sleeping on Jordan’s couch in Denver when I’m not sleeping in my parents’ guest room under false pretenses. Almost let it all spill out.
But the words stick. I can’t. Not here, not now, not when the party’s still going and everyone thinks I’m successful and fine and exactly who I’m supposed to be.
“I know,” I manage. “I’m just … processing being home. It’s been a while.”
He doesn’t call me on the obvious deflection. “Yeah. I get that.”
We sit in silence for another moment. The music from the pavilion shifts to a song I recognize from my parents’ old records. Someone laughs, bright and happy.
“Hey, by the way.” Marco straightens up. “There’s this cool thing the library’s doing. They set up an Airstream booth in the garden over there—” He gestures vaguely toward the far corner, where fairy lights strung above the door show the entrance. “You can record messages for Mom and Dad’s archive or whatever. Pretty cool, right? Some guy named Kai is running it. Seems nice. Very … organized. I heard he’s into oral history and preservation and stuff I don’t totally understand but sounds important.”
I nod, barely processing the information.
“Sofia recorded a message earlier,” Marco continues. “So did a bunch of the aunts and uncles. I think I’m supposed to do one too, but I’m terrible at that stuff. Talking into a microphone feels weird.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You should check it out though. Might be cool to record something for them.” He stands, stretches. “I’m going to head back before Mom sends a search party. You coming?”
“In a minute. Cover for me?”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him deciding whether to push. “Okay. But seriously, Atlas. If you need anything?—”
“I know. Thanks.”
He walks away, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. I watch him go, his silhouette disappearing around the corner of the building, back toward the light and the music and the celebration.
I could go back too. Should go back. Find Sofia and make nice with more relatives and keep performing for however many more hours this party lasts.
But then I hear voices approaching. Someone laughing. A female voice saying, “Did you see Atlas? I haven’t talked to him yet?—”
No.
