Page 81 of Break Points and Face Offs

“It’s fine.” He shrugs.

I search his face for telltale signs of lies. I don’t see any. I also try not to get frustrated with him the way Father would for his basic answers.

When I look at him, really look at him, my chest clenches with love. This is my baby brother—the only other person in the world who understands what it was like to grow up with our parents. The baby I’ve been trying—and failing—to protect since the day he was born.

“Travis seems nice.”

He turns a deep, beetroot color.

“Boyfriend?”

“He’s straight.”

“Oh.” Poor Jamie. “Is Joelle his girlfriend?”

He snorts. “No way. Joelle only likes guys who can crush beer cans with their faces.”

“How did you meet them?”

“At a sorority party. Joelle takes an Intro to Psych class with Elias. She’s from Texas, too. Elias thought they might get along.”

“Elias is the German hot shot?”

Jamie nods.

“A little presumptuous of him.” I take a sip of my coffee. It scalds my tongue.

“They do, though.” He shrugs.

I have an irrational hatred for this Elias guy and nothing Jamie can say will sway me otherwise.

“So, they’re your best friends at school, then? Travis and Joelle?”

He shrinks in on himself. “I do make an effort with my fraternity brothers.”

“I’m sure you do.” I try to sound soothing, but he continues to make himself small. Everything about his body language is defensive and on edge. He looks how I imagine I look when having lunch with our father. It breaks my heart.

“Jamie, I’m not here to admonish you. I’m not Father.”

“I know,” he says meekly.

The food arrives and he picks at it like a bird. I flinch at memories of Father chastising him at the dinner table while Jamie shrunk deeper and deeper into himself.

He’s quiet, and I wonder if he’s frightened to say the wrong thing, the way I am around Father.

Once we’re out in the parking lot, I find it impossible to keep this up.

“Jamie,” I say, turning to him. He looks stricken, like I’m about to shout at him. When have I ever shouted at him? But of course, you don’t need to shout at someone to make them feel talked down to. Father does it to me all the time.

“I just want you to know …” I clear my throat. God, why is this so hard. “I … love you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. Surely I’ve told him this before? No? Well, wasn’t it implied?

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Yes, of course. Can’t I tell my brother I love him?”

“Are you sick? Is Mom sick?”