Page 128 of The Breakup Artists

“Des,” she corrects me, like it makes her sad. “You can’t even say her name. And I think it’s because you’ve convinced yourself that if you don’t talk about her, the past will cease to exist. It won’t.”

“I’m not...” My thoughts spin so fast they make me dizzy. But I can’t finish that sentence because it’s not true.

“You didn’t cry, August. You didn’t cry the night it happened. You didn’t cry at her funeral. In fact, I’ve never seen you cry about it, not once since that night.”

“So damn what?”

“So I love you is what,” she says, and her response only frustrates me more. “And Des loved you. More than anything. She’d hate to see you doing this to yourself. In fact, she’d probably do anything to make you stop. And since she’s not here and I am, it’s up to me to do this in her place.”

“I’m done,” I say, grabbing the door handle and stepping into the warm night air. But two seconds later Tiny’s standing on the quiet road in front of me.

“Do you remember after your dad left and your mom locked herself in her room?” she says, her voice strained with emotion, her chin unsteady. “How Des let you sleep in her bed every night for months? Sat for your paintings and made your school lunches? She was always there when you needed her, when I needed her. Always. Always.”

I press my lips together, shaking my head, not because I don’t remember—I’ll never forget—but because this conversation is bullshit.

“Des was the best older sister in the whole damn world. She loved you more than a brother; she took care of you like a mom and a dad. And I know that losing her was life shattering, that there will always be a Des-shaped hole in your heart. But this thing we do where we never talk about her? I’m not doing that anymore. And this thing where I let you hide? Never again. Because like I said, I love you, and what I’ve been doing isn’t love.”

“Tiny,” I say like a warning, but it comes out more like a whisper.

Only this time she holds out her arms and tilts her head up to the sky. “I love you, Des!” she shouts at the stars. “I love you and it hurts. It hurts that you’re not here when we get home from school, that I can’t ask you for relationship advice, that you can’t see the awesome company August and I built. Did you know we built it for you?”

I stand there frozen, unable to think, process, breathe.

“You’ve suffered an unimaginable loss, August, an unbearable one. And what I’m trying to tell you is...stop bearing it. For once in your life,” she says, but her voice cracks, “lean on me.Please.Let me shoulder this with you.”

“You can’t,” I say, and where her voice is clear, mine is barely audible.

“Let me cry with you. Tell stories about Des and laugh with you. Anything but what we’re doing now. You think if you just hold it tight enough, bury it carefully behind your Wall, that your grief can be contained. It can’t. The pain needs a way out, and if you keep holding it in like this, it willdestroy you.”

I’m shaking, but it’s not cold. I stare at Tiny, the ground under my feet no longer solid. “And so what?” I say, the words sticking in my throat. “I deserve it.”

For a second, she pauses, shocked. “What? Youdo notdeserve this. Don’t ever say that—”

“It’s my fault,” I snap.

“It’s not—”

“That night?” I half yell, half swallow. “That night I went to her door to say good night, and Iheard them. Kyle was begging her to go out. Iknewthey were drinking. IknewDes had gotten into a blowout fight with Mom earlier andwas having a rough day. And I knew that if I knocked, Des would tell Kyle no; she would stay home. But I didn’t.I walked away.”

She stares at me. “Why?” she demands, matching my intensity. “Why did you walk away?”

“Because,” I say, frustrated, “I didn’t want to get in her way. Didn’t want Kyle to be right, that I was a needy younger brother—”

“Because youloveyour sister,” she says, cutting me off. “How dare you blame yourself for this, August Mariani. This isnotyour fault. You were a kid who wanted to say good night to his older sister and turned around because he didn’t want to interrupt her fun with her boyfriend after a long day. You didnothingwrong.”

I shake my head. I don’t agree.

“Look at me,” she says. “If this were reversed, if this were my mom who died, would you blame me?”

“Not the same.”

“Yes the same. Would you blame me or not?” she says forcefully.

I rub my hands over my face. “This is stupid, Tiny. I’m going home.”

But she pushes me with both hands. “Would you or would you notblame me if the situation were reversed?”

“No,” I yell at her. “Okay? Are you happy? No!”