Gray hoodie. Ball cap pulled low. He sat in the back-left booth, our booth, fingers tapping restlessly on a water glass. His posture was smaller than I remembered—shoulders not quite hunched but not squared either. Like the weight of the last two years had finally registered somewhere in his spine. Like he’d given up trying to fake it.
When he looked up and saw me, he stood abruptly. Too fast.
He hovered for a second, uncertain, one hand twitching like he might go in for a hug but didn’t want to make a mistake.
Neither did I.
“Hey,” I said, my voice clipped and shaky. How could this be my brother? The same guy who TP-ed my ex-boyfriend’s house when he was mean to me in high school?
His eyes—still the same color as mine—flicked to my face, then down again. “Hi.” He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded once. “Thanks for coming. I-I wasn’t sure if you would.”
I sat without answering. The vinyl bench stuck slightly to the backs of my thighs. I kept my bag in my lap like a shield.
He sat across from me, slow and cautious.
The silence spread out between us, thick and sharp. A dull roar in my ears that only amplified the sound of my own breathing. My fingers clenched around the strap of my bag.
“I watched the game,” he said, finally. His voice was low. Careful. “Team looked good. That number twenty-two is a beast.”
“Oliver.” I nodded, blinking once. “Yeah. He’s solid.”
Another beat of silence. I shifted slightly. My pulse thudded against my collarbone.
Then, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he splayed his hands out on the table. “Sloane, look, I’ve been in an outpatient program for six months now,” he said. “Got a sponsor. Meetings twice a week. I’m… trying, Sloane. I’m really fucking trying, and I don’t know where to start. This is hard.”
I didn’t move.
His words landed like a brick straight to my sternum. Six months. A number I’d never been given. A milestone I hadn’t been allowed to celebrate. A version of him I didn’t get to witness because he decided I wasn’t good enough to be in his orbit.
My throat burned. I swallowed hard. “You left,” I said, quietly. “You blamed me for everything, and then you left. You made Mom and Dad think I was selfish for building a life without you. You disappeared.”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know, and I can’t take that shit back.”
His hand trembled on the table, just slightly. He clenched his fist and stared down at it like he was afraid it would betray him. “I was bitter. Angry. Watching you get everything right when I couldn’t even stay sober for more than a week after not making it to the NFL—God, I hated how good you were at holding your feelings together, and I hated how bad I was at pretending I didn’t need help. I blamed you.”
I looked away. The overhead light flickered. My fingers dug into the seam of my bag as I tried to stay grounded.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he said, quieter now. “It was easier to make you the villain than to admit I was drowning.”
My nails bit into the canvas. “I knew you,” I snapped. “I covered for you. I excused the absences and the spirals. I cleanedup your messes and kept my mouth shut because I thought that was what family did. I would’ve done anything for you, Caleb. Even now, you’ve destroyed my trust and my heart and yet I’d give you whatever you needed if you asked.”
He winced, like I’d physically hit him. “I know.”
“No, you don’t,” I whispered. “Because you didn’t just push me out. You weaponized me. You let them turn on me.”
“I know,” he repeated, softer. “And I’m sorry.”
I blinked hard, once, then again.
He wasn’t crying. He looked like he wanted to, but he wasn’t. And somehow that made it worse.
“I’m not here to fix it all tonight,” he added. “I just… I wanted you to know that I’m trying. I don’t expect you to trust me again. But I wanted to say I’m sorry. In person. While I had the chance. I’m not really comfortable traveling to Chicago, not while I still feel like every day is a struggle.”
I looked at him for a long time and finally I saw it. Not the brother I lost. Not the kid who spiraled. Not the man who blamed me for surviving what he couldn’t. I saw someone struggling, someone trying to be better.
“I didn’t hate you,” he said, quiet but firm. “I hated myself. And you were just… the mirror I couldn’t look at. You had this drive, this strength, and I was drowning in it. I’m not blaming you anymore, Sloane. I swear to God I’m not. I came tonight because I miss you. I miss my sister.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I looked away, embarrassed. I had no idea what to say. I imagined this moment so many times, and each time I’d yell and pull him into a hug.
