I sigh in defeat. “Thanks, Car.”
The rest of breakfast carries on in this same manner.
Carrie and Jess bicker endlessly, and their husbands lighten the mood with countless jokes and jabs. Mom and Dad smile sweetly at us kids as they eat and admire their little family.
It’s familiar, and it’s safe. I do my best to stay attentive and to interact, but some part of me is constantly stuck on the nagging in my chest.
A part of me was left behind in North Dakota—a piece of my consciousness kept securely in the palm of Rowan’s warm hands.
Every time Kyle or Jeff turns their loving gaze onto one of my sisters, or when my dad leans in to kiss my mom’s cheek, a pang of something sharp and hot cuts deep inside of my chest.
I find myself missing him even more here; I desperately crave the feel of his hands and the sound of his voice. Should I call him?
If I got drunk tonight and rang his number, would he feed me apologies until I forgave him, and would this pain dissipate?
Would I be able to lock myself inside my childhood bedroom and touch myself to the sound of his voice without guilt or restraint?
No, Elijah. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Remember why we’re here in the first place—you can’t trust him.
“Come on, Eli,” Carrie starts, dragging me away from the sink where I’ve just disposed of my plate. “Let’s go get your costume.”
“I told you they wouldn’t have anything left,” I say, watching as Carrie picks through the very few men’s costumes that Spirit Halloween has left.
“It’s not my fault your dumbass waited until the day of,” she snaps.
The store is packed. People from all walks of life are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, grabbing extra props and vials of fake blood.
“It wasn’t a matter ofwaiting. I didn’t intend on participating,” I shoot back.
Carrie snorts. “Yeah, cause that was definitely an option.”
I don’t argue with her. There is never a point in trying; all attempts are futile. Being the middle child, Carrie is used to being defensive. Where Jess believes she is perpetually right with no need to supply evidence or make her case, Carrie isalways ready to give you a ten-page essay as to why you are wrong.
I, on the other hand, feel no need to defend myself because I know no matter what I say, my opinion will not be taken into account. Youngest child syndrome to the max.
Tack on being the only boy, and it’s a double whammy.
“What about this?” Carrie presents a cop uniform, and unlike two of the others she has held up, this one is not slutty.
“Let me try it on,” I sigh, taking the clear bag from her hands.
She follows me to the dressing room and guards the flimsy curtain as I step inside to change. All the costume consists of is a pair of thin navy pants, a Velcro shirt made to imitate a button-up, collared uniform shirt, a fake badge, and a police cap.
“So,” Carrie starts, raising her voice slightly to be heard through the curtain. “Want to tell me what’s gotten you so down lately?”
I nearly trip as I slide one leg through the thin costume pants, my eyes darting to the red curtain as if I can see her through it.
“W-what?”
Carrie huffs. “Don’t act coy. I’m not nearly as self-absorbed as Jess—I can tell when you’re acting strange. Did the date not go well? With the lumberjack?”
I nearly laugh at her words, but manage to keep the reaction to myself.
I wasn’t planning on seeking advice from my family, but it is true that Carrie knows of Rowan and that I went on a date with him. Wait—did I ever actuallytellCarrie his name? Probably not.
I’m not a big information dumper, and now that I’m thinking about it, she never pressured me for any information about the guy I went on a date with, or the guy I slept with.
As far as she knows, it could have been two separate people. Knowing her brother, she probablydoesthink it’s two separate people.
