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In our whirlwind story, I was careful to omit any discussion of my family.
After Sofia’s parents and Ciara go home with a plate of dulce de leche en tabla, it’s my turn to enjoy a fudge square accompanied with a cup of rum coffee.
“All four of you live in the same neighborhood, but in different houses,” I say.
“If it wasn’t for our grandparents’ house, I’d probably be living at my parents’ place in my old room or I’d be Ciara’s roommate. My sister could rent the place, but I welcome the independence, even if she’s been footing the bill for months. Although, now, I can pull my weight again.”
I take another bite of fudge. “You guys are close.”
“We fight with vehemence––as you know––but yes, we are. Despite the disagreements, we love each other.”
I nod.
“Speaking of family… I didn’t know you had an older brother,” Sofia says.
I threw her a curveball. I expected that question. “I do.”
“You’ve never mentioned much about your family. I assumed your parents passed away and you were an only child.”
“My brother and I don’t have the best of relationships.”
“Do you have other siblings?”
I drop the fudge on the plate and wipe my hands with the paper napkin. “I’m the middle child—”
“You have another sibling?”
“I had a sister.”
Her face drops.
I avert my eyes for a beat. “My baby sister—who was three years younger than me—died of a drug overdose at twenty. Cocaine.”
She places a hand on mine. “I’m sorry, Bryce.”
“You didn’t know.”
She nods.
“With the age gap between us, my brother and I were siblings, but my sister and I were close. Really close. When we were kids, I was her monster slayer. Not my brother. Not my father. I was… her protector. When she turned eighteen, she decided to rebel. It started with chopping off her long, blonde hair into a buzz cut and dying it blue and pink. To further drive her point, her thrift store clothing screamed fuck you. Occasional drug use… ensued. Within a year, it was a problem. I heeded warnings about her drug use. She’d always throw in my face, I’m no choir boy. Sure, I dabbled with recreational drugs, but it was a passing thing. I hated the loss of control. So, after a few times, I stopped. My baby sister reveled in the loss of control.” My nostrils flaring. “For years after her death, I flagellated myself for not being more forceful—”
“You were only twenty-three—”
“I was old enough. I should’ve protected her. I carried that guilt for years…”
A beat of silence passes between us.
My baby sister’s beautiful face flashes in front of my eyes, like it always does when I think of how I failed her by not protecting her.
“That failure is what drives me in my business,” I add. “My vocation is to protect my clients from crooks, assholes, and wrongdoers. I wasn’t able to do that for my sister, but every day of my life, I make it my mission to do it for others.”
I close my eyes.
Sofia places a hand on my forearm. “Bryce.”
I meet her gaze. “I’m okay.” I’ll never be okay. I can only move on and forgive myself.
“What about your parents?” Her tone is hesitant.
