Page 38

As many times as I’ve thought of Brendan in the last hour I half-wonder if I’m not imagining him when I open the door. But if I were imagining him, he wouldn’t look like he does at this moment. He and Will both have the kind of face that looks etched, carved in stone, when upset, and that’s how his looks now. As he moves into the living room, I begin running through a list of reasons he might be here, and they are all bad. He sinks into the couch, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. His whole body is tense, as if he’s considering fleeing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have come so late.”

“Brendan,” I croak, “you’re freaking me out. Is everything okay?”

“No,” he says. He stares so hard at the floor I’m surprised I can’t see the imprint of his gaze on the carpet. “My mom called tonight. She’s having a lumpectomy tomorrow. I guess it’s kind of like a mastectomy, but less invasive.”

I freeze in place, still standing across from him. That can’t be right. Dorothy is young and energetic, and he and Will have already lost their father. It seems too unfair to be true—as if anything has ever led me to believe life would be otherwise.

“Oh God,” I finally manage. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even know she had cancer.”

“I didn’t either,” he says. “No one did. She’s kept it to herself for weeks. I think she only called tonight because Peter forced her to in case something goes wrong…” He stops, swallowing hard, composing himself. “In case something goes wrong tomorrow.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” I tell him. I would give anything right now to be able to swear that, but I guess I can’t.

“You know what I did when she told me? I went to a bar. Not five minutes after she told me, I fucking drove to a bar. And I'm sitting there with this drink I don't want, about to go home with some girl I don't even like, when it hits me how fucking ashamed my mother would be if she could see me. I'm 28 years old, and the minute I get some bad news, I run off like a coward and try to pretend it didn't happen."

I sit beside him and squeeze his hand. "Brendan, handling bad news poorly doesn't make you evil. Did you talk to Will?"

He sighs. "I can't. My mother thinks he and Olivia are under too much stress right now. And she doesn’t want to throw Olivia off right before the race. She’s going to tell them after Western States."

That is just like Dorothy to be more worried about Olivia’s race and Will’s stress level than her own health. She will sacrifice anything for her kids. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a parent like that.

“So I guess you’re heading to Boulder in the morning?” I ask.

He looks excruciatingly defeated. "She needs Will there, not me. He’s always handled the catastrophes in our family. What if I make it worse somehow?”

“No one’s asking you to assist with surgery.” He looks unconvinced, and so desolate it hurts to watch. “Do you want me to go with you?” I ask impulsively.

His eyes go wide with relief, as if I’ve just offered him a million dollars or a private plane. "Would you?"

"Of course, if it would help." I think fleetingly of the article Timothy demanded be on his desk tomorrow morning and decide I don’t give a fuck. If I could give negative fucks, I would.

"Yes," he says with palpable relief. “It would totally help."

I scoot closer, and he immediately pulls me against his chest. It feels natural, like something we've done a thousand times. I know I’m enjoying this whole situation far too much. The smell of him beneath my nose: soap and fabric softener and a hint of alcohol. His warmth and his size.

"I don't know what to do," he whispers.

I know that feeling so well. Every time my father can’t be found, every time Sean sounds like he’s using again, every time my mother cries to me because of some way she’s been hurt, I feel suffused by my own helplessness.

"There's nothing you can do," I reply, "except try to survive it."

* * *

When I wake, I'm half strewn over Brendan, who's holding me tight to his chest. He has one long leg over the edge of the couch and the other on the floor. It looks horribly uncomfortable, but he’s awake and seems in no rush to leave.

"Erin?" he whispers.

"Yeah?"

"You were the only one I wanted to talk to tonight," he says. "Even if I could have spoken to Will and Olivia, you'd still have been the one I wanted to tell."

I feel my eyes welling over. I’ve been so busy ruing my own loneliness—but mine is temporary, and Brendan’s is not.

"I'm glad you did."

He pulls me closer. "I don't know why, but this just makes everything feel better."