She sniffles again and nods, rests for a while against me. It feels huge and heavy, this moment, and while I’m glad we’re having it, I also feel so unequal to it. I’m frayed and overwhelmed by my own experience today, worried that I’m barely strong enough to hold Tegan up during this.
Before I can stop myself, I wish again for Adam. Tegan leaning against me, and me leaning against him.
That way, I could definitely handle it.
I wish I hadn’t told him, in my haste, to give Tegan and me some time tonight.
After a few minutes, Tegan sighs and straightens, swiping at her face. She smiles ruefully at the damp spot of darker black on my black T-shirt.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve got another one.”
Her smile widens and she laughs, and I feel slightly less unequal.
Without words, both of settle back into her bed, side by side and propped up on pillows. Tegan unmutes the TV and we watch for a while, chuckling together at parts that are funny, groaning together at parts that aren’t. It’s so similar to the night before Tegan almost left me that note, the night before Adam and Salem knocked on my door, but also hugely different.
All because Tegan and I talked honestly about something we’ve—I’ve—avoided for years.
“Teeg.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for how I’ve always been, about Mom. I’m sorry that I made it so you couldn’t talk about your version of kidnapping or witness protection scenarios. I’m sorry that my being angry at her makes it so hard for me to talk about her. And I’m so sorry about the stupid postcards.”
Tegan tips her head toward mine.
At first, I think what I must want her to say is some version ofIt’s okay, orDon’t worry about it, the kind of small absolution most of us get in response to the meaningless errors of our daily lives.
But I know the way I’ve been with Tegan about Mom is more than a meaningless error. Deep down, I know it’s not okay, and also I know that we’ll probably both spend a lot of our lives worrying about it, because what’s happened to us with our mom is big and difficult and unusual.
Deep down I know it’ll take a lot of different kinds ofsorryto get us where we need to be.
So it means a lot more that she offers one of her own.
“I’m sorry I impersonated you and wrote an email to Salem Durant and agreed to tell our entire life story to a really popular podcast.”
Both of us laugh. Big, real,Isn’t this all a little absurd?laughing. The opposite of something canned.
When we start to trail off, sighing it out and wiping at eyes that were already wet with emotion, Tegan adds, “But it hasn’t been the worst thing. This trip.”
“No,” I agree. If we never found out another thing about Mom, everything about this trip would still be worth it, if only for this moment. “It hasn’t been the worst thing.”
Of course, as soon as I say it, I think of all the other worth-it things about the trip, many of which I shouldnotbe contemplating in front of my sister. My neck flushes.
She nudges with her foot, her smile saying she sees right through me.
“I mean. You did get aboyfriendout of it.”
“Oh my God, Tegan. He’s not my boyfriend.”
She giggles and nudges me again, and I think I might . . . I’m pretty sure Ialsogiggle. It makes me flush in embarrassment to realize it. It is humiliatingly immature, and also humiliatingly pleasant, to think of Adam Hawkins as my boyfriend.
It is not-humiliatingly lovely to giggle about it with my sister.
I let her tease me about it for another ten minutes—her flopping dramatically against the pillows again and declaring that it’s “soromantic,” pointing at the pink splotches on my neck and her proud declarations that she “knewit,” recounting every occasion where she caught Adam making eyes at me. When she asks, with waggling eyebrows, if we’ve kissed yet—she drags out the word, obviously asking about more than kissing—I poke her in the side and gently scold her, telling her it’s time we get to sleep.
That, at least, is an easy boundary to set.
