“He’d be laughing about this,” Shane says. “Not at you, but the whole thing, you know? He’d treat it like an adventure. Staying overnight at some random lady’s house.”
I cringe again at the thought of what’s left of my brother left behind in a restaurant and now being transported to a stranger’s home. But if it was actually him, alive Everett, he’d probably be laughing about it, asking the lady about her life, and enjoying it like an adventure.
I keep forgetting he was always braver than me.
And I’m proving it even now as I crumble into Shane’s arms and let him give me a hug, a big Shane hug, that I haven’t had in years, and didn’t realize I’d missed until now.
12
Shane
January 1999
When I come outof the bathroom, I see Ethan sitting by the big window that faces the parking lot, watching the snow.
I miss him like this—sitting by a window, looking out at the sky, the way he used to do. Curious Ethan. I missed him so much.
I get the disposable camera out of my coat pocket. I lay across the bed to get a good angle. I snap a picture. Ethan turns his head to look at me. I snap another one.
“Is this fun for you?” he says quietly.
I rewind the film and set the camera down. “Sorry.”
He shrugs weakly. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.” He looks out of the window again. The snow is coming down like cotton balls pouring from the sky. It’s sticking to everything, piling up on cars.
“Try not to worry about Everett,” I say. “He’s safe.”
He nods. He bends his head down, honey-blond hair tumbling over his forehead. Sad Ethan. Then he looks over at me. “Hey, did you tell that lady my name?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I might have.”
He nods again and looks out the window.
I’d missed our photo adventures. I thought about them a lot over the last five years. I especially thought about how they eventually stopped being about the photos and turned into us being alone together. Alone to talk. Alone to make out. It was exciting, but it was frightening too. I was always waiting for someone to catch us. But being alone with him was something I used to look forward to.
And here we are, alone together again.
I don’t know if I’d call this exciting.
I look around the room. The bed isn’t very big. Maybe full size. I decide that can be where Ethan sleeps. I try to figure out how I’ll sleep, because there is no way he’s going to allow us to be in one bed together. Even though his initial iciness toward me is starting to melt just a little, it would still be too much. And too presumptuous.
I’m considering putting two of the chairs together to see if I could somehow lay across them when Ethan gets up and goes over to his coat and puts it on. He pulls the hood over his head and goes out into the snowy evening. I almost follow him, but I figure he’s just stepping out for a smoke. I doubt he’d be so crazy as to attempt to walk through the snow back to Denny’s again.
At least I hope not.
I take the opportunity to use the motel phone to call my boss and Gina to tell them about our delay, but I don’t tell them about Ev’s ashes. I don’t want that gossip mill running around town and upsetting Ethan even more, or worse, making it back to his parents. I get to talk to Mikayla for a little bit. Just as I’m hanging up, the motel room door flings open and a stack ofplastic totes with legs comes inside. I rush over to help, grabbing the top one. Ethan sets the rest on the table. Snow falls off onto the table and carpet, melting into puddles.
“What’s all this?” I ask him.
He takes the lid off one of the totes, then he picks it up and dumps out the contents. Packages of food and plastic bottles of water spill all over the table and bounce off onto the floor.
Ethan shakes out the tote and sets it down. He glances over at me. “Mom packed this one.”
“I can see,” I say, picking up a microwavable cup of noodles off the floor.
I gather up packs of crackers, trail mix, chips, bottled water, Gatorade, and lots and lots of Cup O Noodles and set everything on the table.
Ethan opens another tote and rummages through it. He pulls out a flashlight, a crank-up radio, and some bungee cords.
