When I left the faith and our parents disowned me, he was the one to reach out and tell me that he loved me, that he understood, and that he’d always be here for me. He promised me that I’d always have access to my siblings and the kids, and he’s kept that promise.
My shower is cold and half-assed, but soap has touched my skin now, so everyone can leave me the hell alone about it. You would think that when a guy’s life falls apart, he’d be able to stink up the place in peace.
He’s one to talk, anyway, I think.
After Brody’s divorce, he didn’t answer his phone for two weeks. Graham, Edie, and I all thought he died or something. I was ready to fly out to check on him, until Edie texted to say that he was fine, just holed up in a hotel suite and reading alone in the dark like some kind of depressed fictional vampire or something.
Maybe I’m not divorced - maybe I don’t know if I evenwantto be divorced – but I still lost something this week. I should have the freedom to hole up in whichever dark cave I choose, too.
Despite how badly I just want to be left alone with no one to bother me, or to ask how I’m doing, or to offer me their homemade cheer-up cards covered in crayon drawings – okay, maybethose arekind ofadorable – I find myself reaching for my phone to send a text to Graham, telling him to come to Brody’s.
True to his nature, he uses his key to let himself into the house an hour later, nearly on the dot, with an arm full of fresh baked goods and a smile on his face. That smile fades almost immediately when his eyes land on me, and he sets down his gift before hurrying toward me with worry overtaking his features.
“I’m fine,” I tell him before he has the chance to ask.
“You look awful,” he tells me. His arms wrap tightly around me and I reciprocate, clapping him on the back as I stifle a pained groan. “Did you get into an accident? What are you doing here?”
“Missed you guys,” I lie. “Tell me what you’ve been up to, kid.”
I pluck a chocolate muffin in one hand and a brownie in the other as I listen to him ramble about his theology classes andhis work in the church, biting back a laugh at his basket of all-chocolate foods.
Graham only bakes with all-chocolate when he’s worried about something, like his big brother showing up out of nowhere and asking to see him on short notice. When I finally put his pattern together a handful of years ago and I asked him about it, he told me that‘God gave us chocolate because it’s healing, and it provides comfort to us in times of need.’
As I take a bite of the brownie in my hand, I can’t help but wonder if the kid’s not onto something with that. Or maybe it’s just sitting with my baby brother without our parents here to dictate our actions and conversation for the first time in more than a decade that feels so nice.
I always hated it when people older than me would tell me that I’d ‘just gotten so grown up’ when I was younger, but that’s all I can think about while I talk to him. He’s not my four-year-old kid brother with a bowl cut, wearing his Sunday best and a bow tie anymore.
Sure, he’s still stuck in our parents’ house and he’s still fucking brainwashed, but he’s all grown up, anyway.
If there’s only one thing I regret about leaving the way I did, it’s missing out on a lot of that.
“Do you promise you’re alright?” He finally asks. “I’m worried for you.”
“I’m just going through some stuff, G,” I tell him. “Not stuff I really wanna talk to my baby brother about.”
He sits with that for maybe a few moments too long, studying me before finally asking, “Can I pray for you?”
“Would it make you feel like you were helping?”
“Yes,” he nods.
Gesturing toward him, I pull my lips into a tight line. “Knock yourself out, then,” I tell him.
With a gentle, Graham-Montgomery smile, he makes the sign of the cross over his chest, clasping his hands together in his lap before he bows his head. His prayer is silent, but it’s long.
We sit for several minutes before he finally finishes, offering up a quickAmenbefore making the sign of the cross once more. Reaching forward, I stick my fingers into his hair to rough it up a little bit.
“Thanks, G.”
“I know that I don’t understand a lot of things about your life,” he says as he stands, “but if I can ever help to unburden you…”
Looking between my brother and his basket of snacks with a laugh, I tell him, “How about this: I’ll text you before I fly back out and you can bring some chocolate chip cookies for me to eat on the plane.”
“I can do that for you,” he tells me earnestly.
I stand, wrapping my arms around my little brother to squeeze him tightly. “Double batch,” I clarify, poking him the chest. “Don’t be stingy.”
“I’ll even make the chocolate chips myself,” he promises with a smile.
