His face crumples inward, and I watch him school his expression before he speaks again.
“Someone told me something once,” he says. He pauses, ducking his head like he’s searching for words. “A therapist, actually. She said that all of us hurt people, that’s just a part of being human, but the kind of prolonged bullying I engaged in leaves an indelible mark.” He gestures to his heart. “Like a tattoo. And that mark grows bigger and uglier over time, especially if the hurt continues. The person can cover the tattoo eventually, but it’s still there. I know I left a mark on you. I wish I could erase it completely.”
I still. For once, I don’t interject.
“I notice everything about you,” he continues, speaking softly. “How you take your coffee with hazelnut creamer. The way you hum to yourself quietly when you’re washing your hands, or typing on your laptop. How you wear your glasses onclinic days but braid your hair on OR days.” He looks at me. “But I also notice how you flinch when someone compliments you. How you shy away from anything that leaves you unguarded. And I wonder how much of that is my fault.”
Something sharp and aching arrows through me. I’ve been waiting years to hear those kinds of things from him, and he couldn’t have put it better if he tried.
He means it too. His sincerity projects with each word. For the first time, I allow room for a sliver of a foreign concept, at least when it comes to him: forgiveness. It builds in the corners of my heart.
“Grant,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “You really have done so much work.”
“Yeah. That’s an understatement.”
We stare at each other. Chatter from other diners reaches us, but it feels distant. Like we’re in our own bubble. What am I going to do now? He’s just swept away some of the pall hanging over my adolescence.
He reaches across the table to grasp my hand, and I let him, savoring the feel of his thumb sweeping across my skin. The intensity of our eye contact plucks at tender spot in my chest. I almost can’t stand it.
I pull back. “All right,” I tell him. “Enough serious talk.” I prop my chin on my hands. “You mentioned travel, before. Tell me some of the places on your list. I know you have them.”
He chuckles, and the atmosphere changes. We talk for a long time, and eat, and then talk some more. He tells me about his favorite football memory (a Hail Mary to win the district), and I give him my reasons for enjoying musicals above all other forms of entertainment (because they are objectively better, that’s why). I tell him about how I want to go to a real Broadway show someday. He wants to visit Switzerland. We discuss how we’ve both developed a begrudging appreciation ofAppalachian culture. Neither one of us wants to leave the restaurant.
By the time he takes me home, we’re both yawning. He walks me to my door. We linger on the sidewalk in front of my apartment.
“Would it make you skittish if I said I want to do this again soon?”
“Actually, I think I’d be okay with that.” I cock my head. A streetlight shines overhead like we’re lovers being spotlighted in a play. “And I’m shocked I actually mean it.”
His cheeks crease with his open beam. He leans in to kiss me, a soft press of lips that soon turns more passionate. His fingers toy with the hem of my skirt.
I pull away. “Do you want to come in?”
He closes his eyes. “More than I want my next breath,” he says. He steps back. “I want you to know how serious I am, though. This means more to me than just a fling.”
I lean back against the doorframe. A car horn honks somewhere nearby, but I don’t take my eyes off him. “I would still believe you even if you came inside.”
“I know.” He brushes his hand over his hair. “Maybe you should try this denial thing. It’s kind of a fun experiment.”
I laugh. “I’ve never denied myself a single thing. Not since I could indulge myself, anyway.”
He pitches forward and presses his lips against mine again. His mouth is soft.
“Goodnight, Kendall,” he says.
I watch him walk away.
“This pizza might be the highlight of my week.” I take a huge bite and savor it. There’s goat cheese, paprika, spinach, andsome kind of cream sauce. I’m in heaven. “Other than seeing my big brother, obviously.”
Blaine smiles at me with his mouth full, so he’s got marinara sauce all over his teeth. It’s disgusting and he definitely did it on purpose. Gloria swats at him.
“Behave,” she says.
We’re at a tiny little pizza place together. It’s in a residential area and other than the sign outside, it could be another nondescript home with tan siding. The mismatched chairs and tables lend it an air of haphazard fun. The food is delicious and the fact the service is slow is almost a feature.
I need to get back home, and I’m sure they do, as well, but we’re enjoying ourselves. I’m close to my brother in a way I can’t easily explain to other people. I’m sure growing up poor could drive some people apart, or foster resentment, but we formed a strong bond. I can remember a few winters where we shivered under a blanket together at night despite our mom doing all she could to keep the house warm. We stood up for each other in school. Once he got out of school and got a job, he helped me here and there, sending money when he could and offering encouragement. Despite my talk about him being my asshole brother, I would do anything for him.
“How you feeling?” I aim my question at Gloria.
