The look my big brother gave me before he left—the hurt, sad bloodhound eyes, the concern and the love—it gave me the resolve I need to move forward. Because I can’t see him look like that anymore. I can’t be the cause of everyone’s pain. I won’t.
A muffled crack reaches my ears and I freeze. It’s not him, I tell myself. It’s never him anymore.
But I tentatively make my way back to the window, anyway. Just in case.
And there, past the flagstone patio, in the shadows of the white cedar gazebo, is a dark form.
He’s here.
My heart skips and hops all over the place, stumbling to gain its footing.
He’s really here!
I check myself in the full-length mirror and I’m taken aback by my ghastly appearance. I look like utter shit. My hair is disheveled, unwashed and limp, and I’m not wearing an ounce of makeup. My once bright, flawless skin is marred by blemishes from every day I’ve been too tired to wash my face, and the sweats I haven’t changed in days are wrinkled and dirty.
Yep—shit.
I should change. I should put on makeup. Really I should shower, but surely by then he’d be gone, and then he might never come back.
I check my phone to see if he called or texted to say he was coming, but all I find are the last several texts from our year-long chat—all from me, all unanswered.
He must have wanted to surprise me. To tell me he was wrong, that we can make it work long distance, that he misses me. I don’t care what he tells me at this point, just as long as he speaks to me.
Like the first warm spring breeze after a long, frosty winter, my frigid heart thaws the slightest bit, and I recognize a feeling he stole from me when he broke my heart. Hope.
But a blast of cold grips my chest before it even can fully take shape—the thought of looking Brian in the eye faltering my steps. My belly rolls with nausea as unbearable regret lances through me, and I nearly double over. Could he ever forgive me?
I force it out of my mind. I have to get to him before he changes his mind about wanting to see me.
I rush down the stairs and through our foyer, nearly slipping on the marble tile. I take the quickest route outside—through the great room and out the French doors—only mildly aware that I’m barefoot. I hurry across the patio and around the pool, and down the two stone steps until my soles meet the dewy grass. And still, I run. I make a beeline for the gazebo—our gazebo.
“Bri?” I call out.
He doesn’t respond.
“Bri, are you here?”
Silence.
“Brian?”
I search through the shadows, seeking out his familiar form. But it’s too dark. We always leave the lights off in the gazebo. He may or may not know Sammy is at his friend Cooper’s party, but he doesn’t know my mother is in the city for the weekend, so surely he’s sticking to our protocol for sneaking around. Brian is closer to my brother’s age than mine, a grade above him, in fact, and only weeks shy of eighteen. Sammy was less than thrilled about us from the start, so we’ve always taken caution to keep our private life private.
Brian isn’t in the gazebo, a fact I realize before I step onto the wood-planked floor, so I sit on the bench that lines the walls, waiting for him to reveal himself. But when he still doesn’t emerge from the trees a minute later, I know.
He isn’t here.
He was never here.
I’ve become so desperate that even my mind has begun to betray me, conjuring visions of things that were never real, not even when they were real. Maybe tangibly, but not truly. Or I wouldn’t be alone in this gazebo right now.
The emptiness swells, the hopelessness surges, and I’m finally ready to set it free. There’s no other choice.
I slowly make my way back into the house. I’m in no rush—I’ve timed it perfectly. Sammy is staying at his best friend Tucker’s tonight, and my mother won’t be home until Sunday evening. I can’t let anyone mess things up, or make me second-guess something I’m sure of.
My feet track dew-damp spots through the house, but they’ll be long dry before anyone comes home to find them. I step back into my bedroom, and I pause to really take it in. The memories are suffocating.
Smiles and giggles as my mother painted my toenails right there on my stark white eyelet bedspread. My dad’s tickle attacks and dramatic readings of Harry Potter—awful British accent and all—but only on weekends, if he happened to be home for my bedtime. Sammy and his friends Tucker and David unapologetically manipulated by their six-year-old hostess into the tea parties and dance parties I loved so much.
