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“When did she say that?”
Kellan tilts his face up to me. “A couple days ago.”
As I drive, I hear their voices. Nine, ten, and eleven. The year Mom died. The two that followed, when I watched them half as much as Lisa did. I used to make them breakfast. Dinner. I could never drive them places. After I nearly failed tenth grade for missing class with Mom, I was on Dad’s shit list. I don’t think he wanted me around the boys. Of course, he worked all day and night, so what could he do?
I remember that big, leather couch. We would all three sit up there and play Playstation and I’d wrestle them and tousle their blond hair and help them with division.
I know I shouldn’t, but I think about them then and can’t believe Lyon is dead. My little brother only lived to be eighteen years old. I didn’t even see him buried. Tears blur the road ahead of me. I pull over on the shoulder, find a napkin in the glove box.
“I’m sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry.”
My hands feel hot and shaky on the wheel as I hurry to Forward Street. I’ve got five days. It’s a long fucking time. Instead of going out to Breck’s with Dove and Blue and him, I can spend all of it here at the cabin with my brother. I remember how they used to cry after she died. It will feel so good to hug him. My throat thickens just thinking about it.
The shoulders that run along the back roads leading to Forward Street are caked with the last snow. It’s hard and slightly brown. I drive slowly, looking for our family’s cabin. When I spot it, I park in front of the garage and step out onto the cold ground. My throat burns and tightens. I swallow and look around. This is the last lot on the road. If I recall, it’s got about a dozen acres.
I walk slowly up the steps onto the small porch and knock. Three times. Then, a minute later, four. I hear footfall right behind the door. My stomach flips, my throat knots up. My whole head feels infused with heat.
I think frantically about what I’ll say, but all I have is I’m sorry. That I wasn’t here. That I didn’t come while they were sick and missed Lyon’s funeral. That instead of coming after the funeral, I went to Syria, and then Iraq. When did I get so fucking selfish, I wonder as I press my finger to the doorbell.
We spent the last six weeks orbiting Maliki: an important mission but non-urgent. I waited until after Christmas to fly home.
I hear more footsteps, then nothing.
“Kelly?” I shout at the door. “It’s Barrett.”
It feels strange to say my name when I’m so used to being Bear. I knock some more. And then I hear it. Faintly. “Go away!”
“K?”
I press myself against the screen door, wrap my hand around the locked door handle. I could break through it with ease—but I won’t. “Kell, it’s me! It’s Barrett.”
“No shit! Go away!”
The tightness in my chest loosens, and I can feel the blood rush through my heart. So he’s pissed. Of course he is.
I swallow. “Please? I want to talk.”
The thick, wood door behind the screened one opens slightly and I smell old house and…some sort of food.
“Kellan—hey…” I press my forehead against the screen door. “Please.” My voice cracks there. “I need to see you.”
He laughs richly. “Oh—I bet.”
The door opens so slowly I don’t notice until I can see him standing maybe a foot back, in shadows.
I blink twice, quickly, and my eyes adjust. I blink again. I just…don’t bel
ieve that’s him. I don’t believe that’s Kellan. He looks…tall. So tall and pale and thin. Goddamn, he’s thin under that shirt that’s hanging off him. I’ve seen better-looking POWs. The pants he’s wearing lead to socked feet. He’s got on a beanie. A few more blinks and I can see his face. His fragile, bony, unfamiliar face. And hollow eyes.
I feel a tremble move through my shoulders. “Let me in. Please let me in, man. I’m your brother. I just want to hug you.”
I grip the screen door’s handle, feeling like the world is tilting under me.
“I don’t want to see you.”
My throat swells, until I feel like I can’t breathe. “Please?”
Kellan looks down at his feet.
