“What?” I respond, frustrated.
Warren shifts his weight, and for a moment, it seems as if he’s going to turn and walk away. Instead, he plants himself so every part of him is facing me. He rubs a hand over his head furiously, as if he is trying to calm himself through his own skull.
“We are not teammates, okay?” Warren yells. My body stiffens, and my joints lock in response. There is nothing handsome about Warren’s face as he loses his temper. There is no glint in his eye or warmth to the edge of his mouth.
“This isn’t good cop/bad cop. You do not get to make any sort of decisions when it comes to my brother. You should have called me the moment you saw him at the park.”
I look down at my feet. I haven’t felt at the mercy of someone’s temper since I moved out for university. There was a reason I chose to move away from home and stay away. I hate it. I hate feeling like I’ve let someone down. Like I’m inherently bad or wrong. Tears brim my eyes. “I know. I’m—”
Warren interrupts, more flustered than before. “You don’t have any say over our lives.” His tone switches towards the end, sounding like someone reaching their breaking point—voice pitching higher and shaky.
I step backwards until the backs of my legs find a chair; I sit. Maybe if I show him I’m not a physical threat, he’ll relax, like a bear or something. “I know that, Warren.”
“Okay.”He throws his hands up, exasperated, but hesitates as some familiarity falls back into his expression. His eyes fall to the floor as he wipes his nose with a knuckle before putting his hands on his hips. He shakes his hanging head.
When he looks up, there is no arrogant mask or anger. His face tells me a different story—he’s embarrassed. After a moment of looking between Luke and me, trying to form words, he turns away and storms down the hall to his bedroom.
When my parents would punish me, they’d dismiss me after. Usually by saying, “Go to your room” or “We’re done talking,” and I would know what to do, at the very least, to not make things worse. Now, I have no idea… I guess it’s up to me. I take Willow back to our room, feeling a deep sense of defeat.
Two silent hours pass. After composing and deleting several lengthy text messages about roommate boundaries, emotional outbursts, and a sprinkling of apologies, I carry Willow downstairs. I place her on the play mat in the living room, then go to make dinner.
Warren and Luke are still shut away in their rooms, and there are no signs of life other than the sound of Willow’s coos and jingling toys. I decided upstairs that the best strategy would be to make enough spaghetti and meatballs for the house—a peace offering of sorts. An olive oil–infused branch.
The expression that fell over Warren before he shut himself away told me everything I needed to know. He was far more upset with himself for blowing up than he was at Luke or me.
Having Willow with me has its challenges, but at least I have over a decade of time before being thrown into raising a teenager. Warren is doing his best in an impossible situation, though hecouldbe less of a jerk about it.
I’m straining the pasta when the sound of Warren’s door opening disrupts the otherwise quiet apartment. I take a deep inhale, reminding my nervous system that I have every right to take up space here. He can be pissed, but he can’t make me uncomfortable in my own home—I won’t give him that power.
I scoop three portions of pasta into the bowls laid out on the counter as Warren approaches from down the hall. His footsteps stop at the corner of the kitchen, and I hear him softly shut a drawer that I’d left open. He doesn’t move. I turn, two servings in hand, and walk towards him.
For the one who did the yelling this afternoon, he does an extremely convincing impression of a scorned child. His head hangs until he can probably see my feet, then he slowly looks up. Eyes heavy and hesitant. There is possibly even fear. Of me? Strange. Not once, even during his yelling, was I fearful of him. Nervous, sure… but not scared.
I tilt my head towards the living room while holding up the two bowls, gesturing for him to follow me, and we sit next to one another on the couch.
“Thanks.” He takes his dinner from me, and then we sit in silence while I try to slurp my noodles back as quietly as possible.
When I place my empty bowl on the coffee table, I turn to see that Warren has barely touched his food. He catches my eye briefly before speaking. “I’m sorry for earlier. That was not okay.”
I nod, almost missing the uncomfortable silence.
“I get angry sometimes. It…” He hesitates. “I’m working on it, amongst other things… in therapy.” His voice is low and raspy, sounding like the ghost of his usual self.
“It’s all right.”
“But it isn’t.” He tucks one bent leg up on the couch cushion so his body faces mine. His eyes are deep in thought and not entirely looking my way. I swear a person could spend years trying to decipher all the inner workings behind his eyes. “It’s not okay, and I’m sorry.” His nostrils flare as he looks down at his lap. I can practically hear the lecture he’s giving himself. No need to layer on. “Fuck… I—”
I interrupt. “I should have called you. I know that now. I think I was trying to balance being Luke’s roommate and yours—but that was wrong. He’s a kid. Even though we aren’t a team, I should have placed your interests above his.”
Warren chews his lip as he looks towards my face.
I choose to speak instead of thinking about the swirling in my chest that occurs when he looks at me so carefully. “Team is a weird term, right?”
“Mutually beneficial cohabitants.” He doesn’t relent his stare as he responds, but his voice is less grave.
“MBC for short?” I jest.
“You could redesign those god-awful pamphlets Rachel had.” The usual confidence in his voice returns somewhat.
