So I smile and say, "I promise, there's nothing," and I pick up paper and ribbons and go back to work. The guilt sits in my rib cage like a second heartbeat for the rest of the morning.
Rome and Erin's place is quiet at five o'clock that same afternoon. Erin's at a late consultation, so it's just the two of us, which hasn't happened in a while.
He's cooking. Nothing fancy, just pasta, the kind he used to make when it was just us growing up. Rome has never become a great cook, and neither have I, but those first few years together he overcompensated for our absent parents,not letting me do anything, taking the caretaking to an extreme that meant I wasn't allowed near a stove or a chore.
Eventually I learned to be a part of whatever he was making, and now cooking together feels like coming home in a way that has nothing to do with the actual apartment.
Sometimes I think about how hard it must have been for him. He was barely more than a kid himself, and suddenly he had me needing him for everything.
He must have wanted a break at some point. Must have needed space I never gave him. But he never complained, never raised his voice. Never once made me feel like anything other than wanted.
I still crumble a little at the thought. I just loved him so much. I never liked the quiet when our parents were gone, but when I was with Rome I didn't feel unloved or unseen. I felt like the center of someone's world.
I sit on the counter. It's my spot. It's been my spot in every kitchen Rome has ever had, from the tiny walkup in Chicago to his penthouse there to this place he shares with Erin. He's never once told me to get down. Other people's counters, sure. But his counters are mine.
"How's the interview prep going?" he asks, stirring pasta.
“Fine, I think. I signed up for a practice test next month."
"Good. You'll crush it."
"I know."
A half-smile pulls at his mouth. "Humble."
"Accurate."
He turns back to the stove. The kitchen smells like garlic and the candle Erin keeps on the windowsill, something herby and warm that makes the whole apartment feel like a home instead of just a place where people live.
I watch my brother move around this space that belongs to him and Erin, this life they've built together in a small town he never planned to stay in. I am so happy for him.
"Lil, I'm sorry," he says suddenly.
I frown. "For what?"
"For pushing so hard. About this year. About Portugal. About all of it." He turns the heat down and leans against the opposite counter, arms folded. His eyes are the same shade as mine, but they carry more years in them, more worry.
"I know I've been pushing too hard."
"Rome, no..."
"I was scared. I saw you burning out and I didn't know how to help except by throwing options at you, and most of them were the wrong options, and I know that now."
I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, making myself small on the counter.
"You were never too much," I tell him. "Annoying, yes. Too much, no."
The half-smile comes back. "That's generous."
"I'm a very generous person."
He retreats for a moment, turning back to stir the pasta, check the vegetables. All the small domestic movements that look so natural on him now, but didn't always. Rome in a kitchen used to be functional. Rome in Erin's kitchen is comfortable.
"I chose to come here," he says, his back to me. "Harbor Hill. Erin. I chose all of it, and I don't regret a single day. But I think about you in Chicago finishing school by yourself, struggling, and I hate that I made it harder by leaving."
"You didn't."
He had, but not in the way he takes the blame for. That's all on me.
