“That’s a while,” she argues gently. “What’s going on? You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird,” I lie immediately, biting into a soft piece of sweet potato. “I—”
She lowers her chopsticks and stares at me curiously. I’m not typically one for losing my nerve. It’ll come out eventually, most likely in a blur of words and a string of swears.
“Did you know that Brighton sleepwalks?” I ask her, careful not to approach any of my other feelings surrounding him.
“He has for a while,” Sunday says quietly. “How do you know?” Her eyes narrow.
“It’s happened a few times since I moved in,” I explain. “Last night it happened while Daisy was there.”
“Is she okay?” she asks, and I nod. I drove Daisy to school this morning and asked her how she was doing. I received a couple of grumbled responses, but for the most part, she wasn’t affected by her Dad’s episode. I thoughtthat’s good because I can’t shake the sticky feeling of my own trauma off my skin.
“Yeah. Nothing happened.” I hesitate. “Has he ever gone to therapy?”
Sunday shrugs, “We’ve tried. Our dad was kind of the man who believed therapy was useless for men. Talking about their emotions would make them soft. Brighton was exposed to a lot of the rants growing up, and I think it just stuck.”
“That’s stupid,” I say. “Therapy is for everyone.”
“Try telling Bri that.” She stuffs another piece in her mouth and follows it with a sip of Coke. “He goes to group, though.” I stare at her, confused, and she sets down her chopsticks. “Like group therapy—ex-military guys sitting around, swapping horror stories over bad coffee until they feel better?”
‘It’s not for anyone to hear.’
“Does he actually share?” I ask her.
“No clue. He won’t let me go. Bobo went a couple of times in the beginning, but eventually Bri just started leaving him at home and going alone. He never mentioned anything about him being forthcoming with his trauma.” Sunday explains, and everything is starting to make more sense, why Brighton is the way he is. “I do know it’s bad,” she says after a beat. “It’s been bad for years, and he manages, but whatever he saw… messed him up. He’s jumpy, his temper is shorter than ever, and he doesn’t talk to anyone about it.”
“He told me about the locks,” I say, and Sunday looks up from her food with a sad expression. “I’msorry—”
“He talked to you?” she says. For a second, I brace for her to be angry, but she’s not; she’s intrigued.
“Yeah. The first time it happened… he was trying to get into Daisy’s room, but it was locked, and he was just standing there rattling the knob.” The image is burned into my brain now.
“That’s not new,” she confesses. “I should have warned you…”
“You didn’t owe me that. It’s private.” I tap the table with my finger to get her to look at me, and she offers a soft, Sunday-specific smile. “He told me what happened with you.” I swallow. “The bathtub.”
“Oh, man.” Sunday sighs, her expression dropping. “Suddenly he’s a motor mouth.”
“I don’t think I really gave him a choice. I kind of demanded an explanation,” I admit.
“Reaper, you’ve never demanded a thing in your entire life, if he told you it’s because he wanted to…” she says, “Brighton likes control. It’s why he joined the military. He likes to say it was to support Riona and Daisy, but it’s because he couldn’t control our parents leaving, he couldn’t control my seizures… He needed control, and the military offered that.” Sunday explains between sips of her drink and bites of her lunch. “And frankly,” she stops, setting down her pop. For a second, I’m sure she’s about to call me out—or get mad I’ve gotten this close to him. I brace for the lecture, ready for it, and preparing a speech to assure her that I’d never cross those lines.If she told me not to…my mouth goes dry. “I’m just glad he’s talking to someone.”
I stare at her, confused by her lack of anger.
“Why do you look like you were expecting something else?” she asks.
“I feel like I’m going insane,” I confess, trying to process everything she’s said while still managing what’s going on in my own mind. It’s like bracing for a hurricane you’re smack dab in the middle of, and you can’t breathe or run. You just have to stand there and experience it, praying that you don’t die. “Cabin fever. I’ve got cabin fever.”
“What?” Sunday laughs. “Is this because you have a crush on him?”
I choke on the mushroom in my mouth, and my eyes water from the expected shock to my system.I’m definitely dying.
“I don’t have a crush on him.” I cough a little before taking a drink of water.
“We’ve been friends for almost ten years,” Sunday points out. “I know when you like a guy.”
“It’s your brother. That’s disgusting.” I try to argue, but she just laughs.
