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“Those boxes over there.”
“Great. I’ll put them in the fridge.”
“I’ve got it.”
“No, I’ve got it.”
We reached for the box at the same time, our hands colliding. He jerked his hand back so fast, you’d think I somehow burned him. Instead of anger, this time he looked alarmed.
I straightened, without the box, and frowned at him. “I’m sorry,” I said softly, even though I had no idea what I was really apologizing for. For bumping into him again? For obviously making him hate me?
“Yeah, me too.” He turned and strode toward the stairs, taking them at a jog, never once looking back.
Expelling a breath, I propped my hands on my hips and let my head fall back. As much as we clearly needed to hash this out, I knew this wasn’t the time or place. But there was no way I was going to let another ten years pass without getting some sort of answer out of him.
Spying the box of flowers, I swore under my breath and picked it up.
I ventured down the same stairs Aaron used to disappear and found myself in the massive kitchen, lost in a sea of bodies. Chefs and busboys and servers darted back and forth in a frenzy, preparing for both dinner service and the wedding from the looks of things.
Through clouds of fragrant steam and ‘whooshes’ of flames, I saw Aaron having an intense discussion with one of the other chefs. He held up a finger to the chef and darted away, yanking open a giant metal door. The cooler.
Trying to make myself as small as possible to avoid getting burned by hot pans or crashed into by any one of the staff, I held the box aloft and made my way toward the cooler.
Opening the door, I stepped inside right as Aaron was coming out. The accident I’d been trying to avoid happened anyway, with the last person I wanted it to.
The box of flowers fell to the floor as my hands went to Aaron’s biceps to steady both of us.
Likewise, he dropped whatever was in his hands and grabbed ahold of my shirt.
A rush of memories and feelings surged to the forefront of my mind, stuff I thought I’d buried a long time ago.
We’d been in this situation before—holding one another, so close each quick exhalation fanned across my skin. He was shorter the first time, though. Back then, his blue eyes were glassy and bloodshot and he smelled like vodka. And when he’d pressed his lips to mine, I was too stunned to do anything. Then the longer I stood there, letting him kiss me, the more I wanted to kiss him back. So I did.
It was hot and wrong. He was my stepbrother, for starters, and he was drunk. But if he didn’t care, why should I? Especially when it was the thing I’d spent the better part of a year fantasizing about, ever since he turned seventeen. What started as a playful wrestling match in the living room turned into me pinning him to the floor while trying to pretend I didn’t feel his hard-on, or that my own wasn’t digging into his hip.
We didn’t speak about it then, nor did we speak about the drunken kiss that came later… or anything else that happened that night. I chalked it up to all of the alcohol he apparently had. If he didn’t remember, I wasn’t going to make things super awkward and ask him about it. Plus, the guilt had already set in, gnawing its way through me as I slept. He was my stepbrother. What the hell was wrong with me? I was supposed to look out for him, not take advantage of him!
When Aaron woke that next morning to the sound of Mom summoning us to breakfast, he climbed out of my bed and made a beeline for his room without so much as a backward glance. He was probably still hungover, plus the threat of being caught was even more possible in broad daylight.
I’m sure my mom would have been mostly fine with the situation, but his dad would not be ok with any of it. While Paul had kept the not-so-funny gay jokes to a minimum after I came out to my mom my junior year, I still caught the disgusted looks and snide remarks from time to time—the fear I would somehow corrupt his son. Turn Aaron gay through osmosis or some shit. I had broad shoulders. I could take Paul’s bullshit. But I didn’t want that for Aaron, especially if he was still trying to figure things out for himself.
Little did we know it was the breakfast—the one where our parents dropped the bomb on us that they were divorcing.
It was also the day before I was set to leave for Mississippi. Even though school didn’t start until August, I had to be down there in June for the summer football program. Since the family was already “splitting up,” as Paul put it, it seemed like a good time to announce their impending divorce.
Aaron accepted that proclamation the same way he accepted any other bad news—by upending his chair, screaming “Fuck you!” at his father, and storming out.
By the time he came back to the house, it was nightfall. His dad was irate. Mom tried to keep Aaron, claiming she’d already registered him for his senior year of high school and that this was his home. His dad wouldn’t budge. The minute Aaron showed his face, Paul grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the already-packed car.
I managed to give Aaron one last hug and tell him everything would be ok. Instead of telling him “Goodbye,” I told him “See you around,” to make it feel less… permanent. But the look he gave me, like he knew I was lying before I did, twisted right through the center of my chest. I never forgot it.
And it was the same exact look on his face in the cooler, ten years later. Eyes so full of hurt and anger and sadness. My fingers tightened on his arms, pulling him closer, trying to let him know I wouldn’t let him go without a fight this time.
He stiffened against me, the muscle along the side of his jaw flexing. “Don’t.”
“Aaron…”
“I don’t want to talk.”
