“Calum!” she exclaimed as she tugged off her headphones.
“Hey, sis.”
She let out a little squeak and jumped off her bed, crossing her room to the doorway, where I stood. Her eyes began to water as she hugged me. “I can’t believe you’re back here!” she said, her voice cracking as she stepped back.
“Me either,” I replied, my throat tight with emotion. I cleared it, forcing my lips into a smile as I looked at her.
Connor was just fourteen when I left home, but she’d been my shadow when I was here. She was twenty-two now, and the fact that she wasn’t that gaped-tooth ginger kid I’d affectionately called Pippy still surprised me each time I saw her, which wasn’t often enough.
A couple of times a year, she’d fly out to visit me. Sometimes with Mom and Gramps, sometimes with her friends, sometimes alone. We spoke daily over text, and I called her regularly to check-in.
Like Gramps, Connor had been trying to get me home for years now, but I always had a ready excuse with work. I offered VIP tickets to all my shows to make up for my avoidance and paid for all her flights to visit me to make up for it.
Last August, Connor, Mom, and Gramps had driven out to Halifax for one of our closer shows. The three of them had watched from backstage, away from the jostling crowds. It was the last time I’d seen Gramps alive. My heart twisted with regret I could barely swallow.
Connor took a shaky breath, pulling it together the best she could and turning her wise eyes on me, her expression softening. “How long are you staying?”
“A few days. I’ve got to head back after the funeral.” I replied, gaze flitting to the stairwell as my hands dropped to my sides.
I didn’t have to explain why I was leaving so soon—she got it. Connor had witnessed many arguments between Dad and me, and she understood that we couldn’t be under the same roof for long without exchanging harsh words. Sometimes, fists even. Like the night I’d left.
Connor’s relationship with our father was significantly easier. She was his little girl, his princess, and he didn’t feel the need to come down on her as hard as he had come down on me. He could be soft with her, and for some reason—he couldn’t be soft with me.
Growing up, nothing I did was right. Connor could do no wrong. Not that I blamed her. She reallycoulddo no wrong. She was sweet and studious, and she was on a path he approved of, even if it focused on music. She was in her last year of university, studying for her Bachelor of Music Therapy.
Like me, Connor had grown up with a childhood infused with music, all thanks to my mother’s side of the family. She took piano lessons from the time she was five and had a beautiful singing voice. She sounded as angelic and harmonious as my mother and grandmother before her.
She did a lot of recitals when she was younger, and she was a damn lyrical genius; she’d offered suggestions on more than one of our hit songs over the years, and I had no doubthertweaks were the cause of their popularity. But Connor’s end goal was to work with children with disabilities, not live a life in the public eye, like me. She had a massive heart; she was the good one, the problem solver, the peacekeeper. I was the tension and discord—the problem creator, the bringer of chaos.
My father could support Connor’s career choices because it was a sensible career. He had made no secret of his contempt over the fame that had come with the band’s success, and I knew my little sister carried that. He was proud of Connor though, and so was I. That was one thing we could both agree upon without a fight.
“Oh,” the soft smile she’d had faded, and she nodded, calculating the time. The funeral was in two days, and tomorrow was the visitation. I had my flight booked for the day after.
“It’s best if I’m not here for too long. Besides, I have a show coming up.” I replied tightly. She nodded, her shoulders dropping with disappointment. “What about you? How long are you back for?”
“I took the week off,” she replied, tucking her red hair—the identical shade of our mother’s—behind her ear. “I felt like I should be home right now.”
“Makes sense.”
“Are Dare and Evan coming to the funeral?”
“If they can,” I told her. Disappointment flickered in her irises before she nodded, looking away. “I’m pretty jet-lagged. I’m gonna go crash but let’s do lunch tomorrow,” I added, ruffling her auburn hair, like I used to do when she was a kid.
She wasn’t a kid anymore, and she wrinkled her nose with slight irritation, her hands going to her hair to smooth it down. She’d always be my little sister, though, and old habits were hard to kick. “All right, see you tomorrow. Night, Calum.” She answered, looking distracted, and disappeared back into her room, closing the door behind her.
I picked up my bag and guitar before crossing the hall to my bedroom, toeing open the door. Flicking on a light, I glanced around, setting my guitar case down gently while letting my duffle bag thump heavily to the floor.
My room hadn’t changed at all in the years it had been since I last slept there.
The same dark blue comforter was on the double bed, and the walls were still a light gray. My desk was tidier than I’d left it, but that too was the same. It was almost surprising, as I had expected my father to throw out my stuff after I left. Guess Mom wouldn’t let him touch this space, and she’d kept it the same for when I returned.
Nostalgia washed over me, crushed by regret. Letting a breath out, I approached the desk.
The stark white envelope stood out crisply against the black surface of my desk. My name was scrawled out in Gramps’ signature slanted penmanship.
I touched the corner of the envelope with my fingertips and drew in a fortifying breath before picking it up. It smelled faintly of him, of cigars and Old Spice. I could picture him hunched over, writing letters to each of us. It was something he’d always done. Something he’d passed on to me.
I wrote letters, too—but I was never brave enough to send them. Instead, I drenched those letters in whiskey and burned once I’d sealed them.
