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“He went to rehab then,” I forced out the words, the memories making my skin itch. “Because he felt my pain when he woke up in the hospital. He felt my panic. That was the first time he was sober, stayed that way for almost six months. He relapsed but got sober again right away, staying clean up until… yesterday, I guess.”
His sobriety was the permission I gave myself to leave. To study in Paris and eventually settle in Jupiter. Ansel was the one who had urged me to follow my dreams.
“You’ll waste away here, honey,” he said gently. “And you’re only here because of me. But I promise you here and now that I’m okay. And the only way I won’t be is if I see my sister sacrificing her dreams for me.”
I’d called the hospital where he’d been pronounced dead and was lucky enough to get in contact with the doctor who had treated him. The doctor had been kind. Patient.
“Although I can’t be sure, I would hazard a guess that this was the first time he’d used in a long time,” he informed me, his voice calm and even on the phone. “The toxicology from his previous overdose shows a much higher concentration.” I heard the rustle of papers on the other side of the phone. “What often happens with addicts who have been in recovery a while is something triggers them to relapse suddenly, and they think they can handle the same amount of drugs they did at the height of their addiction. Yet their body cannot metabolize that much.”
I racked my brain, for probably the millionth time since my mother stepped foot in the bakery, wondering what could’ve triggered my brother to relapse. I searched my memory for our last phone call, cursing myself for being so wrapped up in Rowan and not hearing it.
Whatever it was… the thing that would’ve told me that he was not doing okay. I would’ve heard it. If I’d been listening for it. If I’d been thinking about something other than myself and my giddiness over my new relationship.
“I didn’t feel it,” I told Rowan. “He died yesterday at six in the morning. And I was in the bakery. Making croissants. And I didn’t fucking feel a thing.”
Why didn’t I feel anything? Was it the distance between us? Was it because I hadn’t seen him in months… the longest we’d been apart?
No, it didn’t have anything to do with physical distance or time. Another chasm had formed between us. I’d moved forward in life and love, and I’d left my brother behind. To rot in that town with my mother. Without a shield from her venom.
“It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s fuckin’ not,” Rowan immediately hissed.
So predictable. He stepped up. Wanted to go to bat for me. Protect me. Even from myself.
“It is,” I protested, looking up with dry eyes. I was in too much pain to cry. I hadn’t known that was a thing. That your body could be in so much agony that there wasn’t a way to expel it physically. “I left him. I made a life here.” I waved my hands around my living room. The one I’d been so proud of, my eyes grazing over all the things I was so proud of. Now every fucking thing haunted me, taunted me, showing me what I had and what my brother hadn’t. I wanted to tear it all to shreds.
“I was too much of a coward to stay there, be near her. And I wasn’t strong enough to get him to leave with me. He was half of me, and I just… left him. To die.”
“Enough.” The single word was a solid thing, jolting me. “He was half of you,” Rowan acknowledged. “And knowing how stubborn you are, I know that you couldn’t convince him to do anything he didn’t want to do. That he wasn’t ready for. You can’t take that on. And though I didn’t know him, I know that he adored you. Know he’d be really fuckin’ pissed off you’re laying the blame at your own feet. This is a tragic thing. A fucking horrific thing. It doesn’t make sense. It won’t make sense. Even the people we’re closest to, who we know the best—especially the people we know the best—can hide the truest, darkest parts of themselves from us.”
Emotion saturated his tone. And knowing. A knowing that might’ve piqued my curiosity normally, but not now.
“Please, Nora, can you let me cook for you?” He locked eyes with me.
I wanted to fight him. But instead, I nodded, too tired to do anything else.
Chapter
Twenty
Recipe: Tarte Tatin
From ‘Dessert Person’
We flew to Chicago for the funeral.
He would not have wanted to be buried there.
He didn’t even want to be buried.
He’d wanted to be cremated, his ashes scattered off the coast of Washington. He’d already told me that. Made me promise to do it for him.
