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I like how she calls Martinique after work even though they just spent eight hours together, to commiserate over the awfulness of Martinique’s commute and her leering neighbors, who won’t let her pass their front step without catcalling.
I like finding Theo’s books scattered absolutely everywhere because she’s almost never without a book in her hand, carrying them from room to room, forgotten paperbacks continually turning up between the couch cushions, on the porch swing, and even in the backseat of my car.
I love watching her read, how she scowls at the page or sometimes gasps out loud, how she bites at her thumbnail, more concerned for fictional characters than most people are for their real-life friends.
And I love, on a level so deep it makes my chest hurt, hearing her talk with my dad. Theo likes to sketch in the hammock in the yard. My dad does his carving on his front step. When their hobbies align, they chat to each other for an hour or more about movies, music, politics, and World War II documentaries.
He doesn’t talk to me like that, or Reese.
Theo’s different.
She listens, really listens, not just waiting for her to turn to talk. Her face is open and responsive, and though she rarely gives advice, whatever she says is delivered with such kindness and sympathy that it feels like things are already on their way to getting better.
They’re out in the backyard together right now, my dad back at the grill for a second chance at ruining dinner, Theo setting out the fixings for fajitas.
I’m supposed to be chopping tomatoes, but it’s a lot less fun without Theo’s hand on top of mine.
“Don’t let him ruin the meat!” I shout through the open back door.
“He’s doing great!” Theo calls back, which I don’t believe for one second.
“You worry about your tomatoes,” my dad grunts. “And why don’t you mix up some lemonade while you’re in there?”
Theo says, “I already made virgin mojitos!”
She hasn’t been serving alcohol with dinner. My dad exclusively drinks alone in the pool house, so it probably doesn’t make any difference to him. But I don’t think he’s been drinking as much this week. His eyes are less bloodshot, and his movements are crisper.
Not that I’m getting my hopes up—it’s only been a couple of days. But that’s a couple of days more than usual.
In fact, this morning I saw several liquor bottles in the trash bin that were still half full.
It means nothing.
But also, it means everything.
We’ve barely sat down to eat, the table groaning with food, the yard lit up with fairy lights, when a familiar voice calls out, “What’s with the party? I’m supposed to be the one surprising you!”
Reese stands on the back step, unshaven, hair a little longer than usual, looking rumpled from what I’m sure was a very long flight but delighted nonetheless at the sight of our backyard.
“Who cleaned up back here?”
“Merrick!” Theo says at the same time that my dad shuns the credit. “It was Theo.”
I stand up to give my brother a hug.
He pulls me in close and slaps me on the back. I smell some exotic spice in his hair and feel the new muscle he’s built. Otherwise, it’s the most familiar thing in the world.
“Missed you, bro,” he says. “Hey, Pops!”
He goes around to my dad’s side of the table to hug him, too.
Theo smiles up at Reese. “Welcome home!”
“Oh no, you’re not getting off that easy…” Reese’s next stop is Theo’s end of the bench. “Come on, hugs for you, too!”
Blushing brilliantly, Theo stands. Reese lifts her right off her feet, which he does pretty much anytime he hugs someone smaller than him.
Seeing Theo’s small frame wrapped up in my brother’s thick arms gives me a strange feeling. It’s like watching her be hugged by me, but I’m also jealous.
