It’s weird now that I can compartmentalize it. If I think about that moment too deeply—the smell of the emergency room or the look on my brother’s face, the vomit I spewed along the concrete outside or the sound of his mother’s scream, the way the sheets in my guest bedroom had still smelled like him or the mug in my sink from the coffee I poured for him that morning—it comes roaring back.
I’m not sure how long it took me to reach the point where I could pluck each of those triggers and place them inside their own box, teaching myself to acknowledge the reality of those memories, but pretend they don’t exist at the same time. A few months, maybe.
I was able to function after that, by all appearances, at least. I attempted to get back to work, knowing my publisher had provided me extensions on all my deadlines due to extenuating circumstances, but I quickly found that while I was surviving the day-to-day again, deep-seated depression and suppressed grief cause writer’s block. Who would’ve thought?
My move to New York was supposed to be brief. Get my family off my back about therapy, fresh air, and the lifeline I forcibly cut my ties with. I was going to go out there, sublet a cute apartment in Greenwich Village, and live out my Carrie Bradshaw dreams.
Instead, I failed. At everything. And for some reason, it was comforting.
It’s so much easier to be sad because you’re a failure than to be sad because you lost all the love you’d ever known.
I wallowed in that. The failure, the depression, the one-night stands, and the heavy drinking.
Then Everett knocked on my door.
I could cover up well enough if I had notice. Nothing motivated me to clean my apartment like a call from my parents or my brothers letting me know they were going to come visit. I could play the part of hopeful writer and New York tour guide, happy and optimistic to be living in the City of Dreams.
I wasn’t expecting Everett that day, though. He showed up uninvited, took one look at my dead eyes, the stranger in my bed, and the mess I was living in and hauled me back home.
He was convinced that the smell of the ocean, my favorite West Coast coffee, and my mother’s arms would healwhatever demons I spent those years fighting. I hate to be a disappointment, but six months after moving in with my twin, his girlfriend, and her ten-year-old daughter, I can say with confidence that I am.
A disappointment, an imposition, and—still—a massive fucking mess.
So, I resolve to stay up all night, staring at a blank computer screen and attempting to form words. I think the only reason my brother hasn’t kicked me out yet or forced me to get a job is because I’ve been convincing him that I’m writing again. I hate being a liar almost as much as I hate being a disappointment, so I try my best, but my brain is perpetually empty, I think.
It appears that I can’t stop being both of those things.
My routine is to be up when Everett and Dahlia start their day at four in the morning because they’rego-getters. I check in with them and make conversation before either of them is fully awake. They assume I’m working away at my manuscript, and I’ve always been a late-night writer.
Then, when they get home from work at the end of the day, nobody questions why I’m still in bed, and nobody asks me to have dinner with them so we can talk about our days and pretend like I’m as fucking happy as they are.
I throw an oversized cardigan over my shoulders, rising from my desk and sneaking down the stairs. I put my tea kettle on the stove as I hear the sound of the shower turning on above my head. I sort through the pantry in search of my favorite tea, grabbing the honey too.
A few moments later, I hear what resembles pounding horse hooves more than footsteps descending the stairs, just before my massive, six-foot-something brother turns the corner. He’s got only a towel slung around his waist as he runs a hand through his wet dark hair.
“Motherfucker!” Everett gasps, rearing back when he flips on the light and finds me standing at the kitchen island. “Christ. You’re like a goddamn cat.”
“That’s a compliment to me.”
“Up early or haven’t slept?” he asks as he walks over to the coffee maker and gets a pot brewing.
Everett doesn’t have to open his businesses until after ten o’clock, but since Dahlia has been taking a baking course at a nearby culinary institute and has to be there by six, Everett gets up with her every morning. He makes her coffee, sees her off, and then gets her daughter ready for school.
“Haven’t gone to bed yet.” I yawn, knowing he’s aware of my sleep schedule. I think he’s still hopeful I’ll get my shit together, that one morning he’s going to get up and find some kind of productive, motivated, ambitious version of me who’s ready to take on the world.
“How’s the book going?”
The kettle begins to whistle, giving me the perfect opportunity to avoid the question. I snatch it off the stove and pour my tea. My brother watches me as he waits for Dahlia’s coffee to brew, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.
I put everything away and creep toward the staircase. “Well, I’m going to try to get a few more words in.” A few words I won’t delete. “And then get some sleep. Have a good day.”
“Lele.” My brother’s voice is stern, and the tone makes me pause, turning to look at him. “You know what today is, right?”
My stomach bottoms out. “Yes, Everett,” I murmur through clenched teeth.
“Are you okay?”
I sigh, throat suddenly tightening. “I am fine. The only thing that makes me not fine is when everyone is asking me if I’m fucking fine.”
