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“He doesn’t need me to keep him company,” Dad had grumbled. “Doesn’t need you to either. I told you that aggression was going to get him hurt.”
Dad insisted on going home, and instead of standing my ground, I caved. Like I always do. I could have made him get a Lyft or taxi. I could have left him to his own devices to find his way home, while I stayed behind to be with my brother like my gut keeps telling me to do.
“Are you going to sit there and burn a hole in my coat all night, or are you going to help me inside like a good son?”
The good son. That’s who I’ve always been. The good son. The good brother.
“You matter. Your heart matters.”
My heart wants Atlas to pull me into his arms and assure me that my brother is going to be okay. That he and I aren’t leaving off on a fight. Because I never meant to hurt him. Never meant to be another person who betrays him. I love Shiloh. He’s my baby brother but he’s so much more. He’s my world.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I find myself saying, and it’s a mountain of truth that threatens to topple under its own weight. I throw myself back in the seat and drag a hand through my messy hair. “When was the last time you said ‘thank you’? For me dropping everything to pick up your messes?”
He scoffs. “No one’s making you. If you don’t want to be here, by all means, son.” He makes a big sweeping motion across the driveway.
I grip the steering wheel so hard the chipped plastic digs into my palm. “Do you want me here?”
“I don’t need you if that’s what you’re asking. If you’ve got better things to do, do them.”
That isn’t what I mean, and he knows it.
“Do you want me to come inside and keep you company?”
He hmphs and crosses his arms, but doesn’t make any move to get out of the car. “Are you itching to get out of here because of your brother or because you’ve got a queer to shag?”
“Christ sake, Dad!” I slam both hands down on the wheel, then press them into my eyes. “You can’t just give me a straight answer. You have to use word games and play around the questions like they’re landmines. I’m here because I love you—and it might be hard to believe—but I can love more than one person at a time.”
I undo my seatbelt and lean across Dad to shove his door open. “And I fucking love Atlas, Dad. I love him more than I’ve ever loved another person and I’m goddamn terrified of what that means for me, for him, for Shiloh. I don’t have it in me to worry about what that means for you. Because yes, I’m queer. Yes, the person I think I’d like to spend my life with is a man. And if you’re going to shut me out and call me or my partner names over it, then I can’t fucking do this.”
Noise crackles through the open doorway: wind and crickets and shouting from somewhere else in the trailer park. But Dad just sits staring out the window with a tick in his jaw like he’s holding his tongue. Which is an improvement. But not good enough.
“I deserve better.” Finally, he looks at me, but there’s nothing I see in this man that I haven’t seen over the last ten. He’s made of steel, and he won’t budge for anyone. “Shiloh deserves better. Mom deserves better.”
I climb out, pull Dad’s spare wheelchair out of my trunk and thunk it on the ground beside his seat.
“Shiloh was right. I should have stood up for him years ago. I wanted to believe that you would love us the same, even if you were a cranky, grumpy old man. But you’re bitter and abusive, and I’m not sure there’s a heart in there at all anymore.” I sigh as he wordlessly shifts himself from the car to the wheelchair. “So, I’m done, Dad. The next time you need something, don’t call me. And when I go back to the hospital to check on Shiloh, I’m removing myself as your emergency contact. You’ve spent fifteen years building this bed, and I’m done laying in it with you.”
I expect pushback. I expect yelling, denial, and blame shifting, but all he does is grumble under his breath and wheel past me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to call out, to beg him to give me something, anything to hold onto. But as he rounds the trailer to the back ramp, that hope fizzles out. The lights inside come on, and five minutes later I realize this is it.
He’s made his choice. And it’s that neither of his sons are worth the effort.
My heart is numb in my chest by the time I climb back into the driver’s seat. My resolve says if I drive out of here, I won’t be coming back. Despite the pain it always brings, there’s a sense of loss, something dark and greedy opening up in my soul that makes it hard to breathe.
The phone rings in the hollow space of the car—loud and insistent—and at first I think it’ll be Dad. Not to give any deep confessions, but to ask me for something stupid and that I’ll cave because I have this bone deep urge to serve, to turn myself inside out for the happiness of those around me.
Instead, it’s that little peek of sunshine that threads its way into my darkness with every smile, every brush of fingertips, or laughter like a summer breeze. Even if my voice is unsteady, even if it’s on the verge of dropping into a chasm so deep it may never come out again, I still pull the phone up to my ear and murmur, “hey.”
“He’s awake,” Atlas breathes like the rush of words is a relief to his lungs. “He’s groggy as hell, but he’s awake.”
Just like that it’s like a rubber band slaps into my chest and forces a fresh breath into my lungs. It’s heavy and aches in my ribs, but it’s fucking incredible.
“They said he might not stay awake.” Atlas’ own voice is like an ocean wavering on the verge of a storm: calm but with warning. “He has some fucked up shit in his system. They’re detoxing him. Talking about a medically induced coma? I asked them to wait until you got here. This doesn’t feel like a call I should make.”
I swallow back the fear, the image of Shiloh in that hospital room winding up like our mom. “What call do you want to make?”
“He’s your brother.”
“He’s yours too.”
