“My baby,” she says, the words muffled against my chest, where I’m sure she can feel my heart slamming against my rib cage. “My boy—you’ve gotten so big.”
Her graying hair tickles my chin, her fingertips pressing hard against my shoulders. She smells like floral perfume, even though I never knew my mother to wear perfume. I never knew her to be much of a hugger either.
I find Ely’s gaze over my mother’s shoulder, feeling somewhat frantic. I’m not sure whether I desperately want Ely to save me or just to explain what the hell is happening here, because this, whatever it is, is the last thing I expected.
The moment stretches on long enough, my arms hanging useless and indecisive at my sides, that my mother finally pulls back and looks at me properly. Her cheeks are wet with tears.
“Hi, Mom.”
“My sweet baby,” she says. Her voice is trembling. “I’m sosorry. There aren’t enough words to tell you how sorry I am. I’ve missed you so much, honey. But your father…”
But my father what?I want to say. I’m sure my fatherwasthe driving force behind me getting kicked out of this house. But it’s not as if my mom stood up for me. She could have fought on my behalf. She could’ve argued. Instead she was just a helpless wisp standing by, like part of the backdrop. An extra in the scenes of her own life.
I look down at my shoes in the sparse grass. My therapist used to tell me to try to find the word to describe what I felt—to learn the difference between anger and frustration, anxiety and anticipation. But if there’s a word for this feeling, I don’t know what it is.
“Let me bring the luggage inside the house,” I say, and take a step back, out of her arms’ reach.
Ely tugs the duffels out of the back seat of our rental. When she passes mine over, our eyes meet. I’ve never been the greatest at reading facial expressions, but right now, the question in her eyes is louder than spoken word.
“I’m good,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear.
“You must be Ely,” my mother says as we head up the cracked pavement back toward the house. “Wyatt told me you were coming. I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Mary.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ely says from behind me. I’m already ahead of them both, taking the steps up the front porch two at a time. I don’t know what I’m in such a hurry for. Getting inside that house isn’t gonna get me out of this situation. I can’t run away anymore.
“Your brother’s in the kitchen,” Mary says once we’ve taken off our shoes in the foyer, suitcases clustered around the foot of the stairs. “He’ll be wanting to see you, I’m sure.”
Of course Liam’s home. I don’t know why I assumed he wouldn’t be. It’s our dad’s funeral.
“I didn’t remember you had a brother,” Ely said.
“Yeah. He’s my twin, actually.” I probably should have told her that sooner, but it’s hard to talk about your family when you don’t exist in their world.
My mother leads us down the hall and into the kitchen, which looks just like it always did: snipped right out of a 1970s Polaroid, complete with yellow tile floors and Formica countertops. Liam’s at the table. He’s bigger than I remember—tall and bulky, far too big for the plastic chair he’s in. He’s let his beard grow out. I push down a pang of envy; the most I’ve ever been able to manage is a weak stubble.
He’s out of that chair before Mom or I can say a word, clapping one beefy hand on my shoulder before I can even consider stopping him. “Bro,” he says. “You don’t even have fuckin’Facebook.”
A laugh escapes me, high-pitched and frantic. I don’t even know how to respond to that. Liam looked me up on social media? All this time, my brother was trying to get in touch with me, and I had no idea. At least, that’s what he’s telling me.
But what reason does Liam have to lie?
For a moment we’re both silent, staring at each other, Liam’s gray eyes anxious beneath knit brows. He’s not gonna break. He’s waiting for me to make the first move.
And I do. I pull my brother into a rough embrace, breathing in the dizzy scent of Old Spice as he pats me on the back the way guys do in football movies.
“I couldn’t get ahold of you anywhere,” Liam says when we finally separate. “I tried. You never picked up when I called. And when I googled you, all I could find was bougie articles about you being some fancy-pants art snob.”
The situation is still awkward but maybe less so. Something about how nervous Liam seems, maybe. Like he’s the one who wants my attention and affection for once instead of the other way around.
I snort. “I guess they’re not wrong. This is Ely, by the way. Ely, meet my brother, Liam.”
Ely steps forward, smiling, to shake Liam’s hand. God freaking bless her for being chill about this. I’m not sure I would be so mellow in her place.
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“Likewise. Now that my twin brother has a girlfriend, I’m looking forward to living out my life dream of telling you all the embarrassing shit Wyatt got up to as a child.”
Ely’s pretty cheeks turn pink. “I’m not—”
