a cartoon mouse getting smacked with a broom. His mouth hangs open, unprepared to deliver a reaction. Those are not the words he was expecting, and that’s why they needed to be said.
“Thanks, I guess,” he finally says, stretching his lips out over his teeth and awkwardly mashing them together. He’s uncomfortable, which is weird because we’re brothers—it shouldn’t be hard to say those words to each other. But after Abby’s party I struggled to remember the last time he and I had. I couldn’t think of it, which means it’s been too long.
I step into him, and he flinches a little when I raise my hands. Placing my palms on either shoulder, I look him in the eyes and let the uncomfortable quiet strangle us as we’re forced to look at ourselves, at our own faces on someone else. It takes several seconds for him to return to character, for a softness to shine through this hardened armor on his face, but it happens. Slowly, it happens.
“I love you,” I repeat.
He swallows at hearing it the second time. His eyes shift to the side then back to me.
“I love you too, man.”
We both breathe out hard, our chests in sync with every in and out movement our lungs make. Once I think he’s ready for more, I tell him the part that’s even harder for me to say.
“I’m sorry.” My mouth waters delivering the words because while I truly am for many things, I’m not sorry one bit for others. That doesn’t matter, though. I realized last night that forgiveness doesn’t get put on a scale.
It’s going to take my brother some time to work through hearing these words, and I don’t expect to hear them back, though it sure would be nice. He folds his arms over his chest, closing himself off as he steps back until he can lean against the wall.
I maintain eye contact with him the entire time, even when he can’t hold it on his end, looking down often and rubbing his finger in the corner of his eye. Ready, he finally snaps his gaze up to mine and tilts his head to one side.
“Abby?” I hate that he starts here. It’s not the place to begin.
With tight lips, I shake my head and look down.
“It’s nothing,” I lie. I don’t swallow the painful rock lodged in my throat for fear he’ll see it. It’s my one big tell. I lift my chin and lean my head to the side to match his.
He smirks and puffs out a short laugh, moving his hands to his pockets and relaxing a little more.
“Guess she ruined both of us, huh?”
I shrug in response.
“Something like that,” I say.
He studies me, looking for the cracks in my answer, the way to really get to the core. I’m not yet ready for core sharing when it comes to her. I’m giving her up for him, and it’s going to take me a long time to not be truly bitter about it.
“I have to ask you something, and . . . it’s . . . “ I pause, rubbing my hand over my mouth while I fight through the wave of anger that still courses through my body over the things I’ve discovered in the last few days. “This is hard for me to talk about. Hard to wrap my mind around, but Hayden . . . I found the Olsen Academy letter, man.”
His eyes widen fast. His mouth remains a straight line, though. He’s been practicing for this moment, probably for years. Still, the unexpected timing was too much to prepare for now that I confront him about it in our gross-ass high school bathroom.
“Don’t give me the story. I want the truth. I can take the truth, okay? It’s this awful resentment we’ve both fostered that I can’t handle. Tell me. Tell it to me straight.” I brace myself for his response, which takes him several seconds to form.
“It was a really shitty thing to do, Tor. I’m sorry,” he says. I wasn’t expecting him to start so humble. It makes it easier to hear, somehow. His ability to admit that he did take something precious from me somehow makes the wound sting less. It stings all the same.
I nod and slowly spin where I stand, rocking on my feet. My head falls back and I look up at the ceiling tiles, marred with dangling pencils and gum.
“It was in fact a pretty shitty thing to do, Hayd. I’ll