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I wish I didn’t say it.
The air tenses between me and my brothers, and I don’t know how to course correct.
He is the same in all the ways that matter and count, but the more I’m around him, the more I know he’s not the Maximoff that I knew.
“He’s not that different, Luna,” Xander consoles. “He’s still there for us, and he’s still running circles around everyone ineverythinghe tries for the first time.”
I’m still having a hard time looking at Xander. He’s so much older now. So I stare at my cake while I say, “He is different.” I look up at Moffy. “You’re someone better.”
His brows knit together, emotion bobbing his throat.
In such a short time, I’ve come to realize this. He’s not easily triggered to fight anymore. He’s not speeding down highways. He’s not afraid of the media seeing his public affection or writing stories about his parentage.
He’s happier.
Envy burrows inside me, and I don’t want to be envious of my brother’s ability to find pure happiness within himself and his life. I just want to know that I, too, can be better.
I eat a huge bite of cake, hoping to avoid my feelings more than the conversation. I wish Donnelly were here.
I brave a glance at the shoe closet.
Donnelly has been among the racks of retro bowling shoes for thirty minutes and counting. He’s in a serious conversation with my dad and my therapist. I’ve only caught brief glimpses of him through the crack of the door.
The intensity of my therapist isn’t sitting calmly with me. She’s holding up a firm hand in front of Donnelly’s face, and he’s raking a tenser hand through his own hair.
During our last session, Dr. Raven asked me if she could speak to Donnelly, and I gave her permission. Now, I’m regretting it. I mistakenly believed she wanted to help him sort through what happened, but she’smytherapist.
She’s advocating for me, and she’s already thrown out words like “trauma bond” and “codependent attachment” to me. As if Ionlylike Donnelly because of my fractured mental state, but it’s only made me defend him more during those sessions.
I feel strangely protective over him, and I have no clue why.
I’m afraid Moffy and Xander will also conclude that Donnelly isnot good for me and my amnesia recoveryand I’mtoo attached, so I’m doing my best not to anxiously watch the shoe closet.
Moffy stands. “You want another drink?” He collects my empty can of Fizz.
“Yeah, but I’ll take a vodka cranberry.”
He pauses, just briefly. We’re all the children of an alcoholic, but I’ve always imagined I’d drink on my 21st. It’s not like it’s my first sip of alcohol. To my knowledge, I’ve never overindulged before. Though, what I did the last three years, I can’t be so sure.
“Unless…” I start, but he interjects fast, “I’ll get you a mixed drink. What about you, Summers?”
“I’m good.” He swishes his soda.
Once Moffy is gone, I’m left with my seventeen-year-old brother. He casts a glance to the shoe closet, then to me. “Donnelly’s been in there with your therapist for a while,” he says.
“Has he?” I play it off cool. Solid deflection tactics, I think.
“You’ve looked over there like twenty times,” Xander tells me, but not as a dig or forcefully pointed. He seems concerned.
“I don’t know what they’re discussing,” I admit softly. “But I can guess it has to do with me.”
“Probably.”
Bright neon lights flash on Lane 6 after Sulli lands a strike. I check my phone. Tom and Eliot are still stuck in traffic, and for some reason, Jane hasn’t showed. She’s a new mom, so it’s not so surprising.
I scan the carpeted area behind the alleys. “Is that your friend?” I ask Xander.
“Who?”
