I flinched, and her body tensed in my arms. I pulled her closer, but she did not soften. I brought my hands to her face as another supercut played out—fast and aching frames of too-familiar scenes. Of bicycle rides and ice cream cones and sleepovers on the back lawn. Of ballgames and barbecues and birthday parties. Of treehouses and squirt guns and scribbled signs that shoutedNo Girls Allowed. Of Katie, standing on the wrong side of a wooden door in a princess dress, begging us to let her play.
“Katie,” I said. “We were little boys—we were idiots. That’s just the way it goes. That’s just...”
“No, I know,” she said, and for the first time tonight, she tried to hold back her tears. It barely worked. The muscles around her mouth struggled to keep face, and that was what hurt the most. That some part of her was still afraid she was too much or not enough or not quite right. That there was still some part of her that did not know how remarkable she was or how much space she was allowed to take up and that I’d had a hand in leaving such a wound. “It’s just, I was always so jealous of him. Since the day I was born. It never seemed fair.”
“Do you mean with the baseball stuff?”
“Sort of. I mean, yeah. The things I chose, the things I was good at—writing, theater, art, design... It’s not the same. It’s not something you get scouted for, that people rearrange their lives for. I wasnever going to be the best at it, you know? You can’t be. And even if I was, I’m not sure they’d have noticed anyway. Mikey was the one with the gift. Mikey was the one who got everything.”
“That’s not true. You’re just as talented as he was. I know it’s different, but I’m serious. You’re unbelievable. You’re wrong that he got everything, Katie. You’re outrageously good.”
She shook her head. All of a sudden, she was a million miles away, and that glow—that good and hovering glow, the same one I’d been prepared to spend a lifetime trying to forget—began to flicker in the wind. I tried to remain neutral, to give her privacy. It was humiliating, wasn’t it? To have a heart so big the whole world could see it break?
“Baseball,” she said, “was only the half of it.”
“What was the rest?”
“You,” she said. “He got to have you.”
57
Katie
I fell asleep on the car ride home, my head on Tyler’s shoulder, his arm draped over mine. I listened to his heartbeat, to the hum of his breathing, to the sound of his voice telling the driver where to turn, that he could take the private lane, that it would be okay, to never mind, we would just walk, right here would be fine.
He carried me—my arms around his neck, the midnight sky a blur, the salt air smooth and easy on my skin—past the gate and through the front door and up the stairs into my room. Everything, still a haze. Still a dream.
I murmured something, what, I do not know, and Tyler inhaled and then swept my cheekbone, slipped a blanket over me, and flicked off the light. And just like that, that long and cruel first day of August faded to black. My broken heart, soft and warm and filled to the brim.
58
Tyler
I tiptoed down the stairs of the sleeping house and onto the just-as-dark pool deck. I was halfway to the cottage, the sky black and the sea breeze barely there, when I pivoted.
I did not know why I turned toward the water. I suppose I wasn’t done talking. I suppose there was more to the story, and I was hoping she’d be there.
That she’d listen.
That she’d understand.
59
Tyler
December, Eleven Years Ago
Long Island
I sat at the foot of Mikey’s bed, staring at our untouched meatball subs, our undrunk sodas, my trembling hands, my tapping feet. Two weeks had passed since the accident, and Mikey had just gotten home that morning. His million-dollar arm, elevated on a few pillows and held together by seven titanium screws and a custom-fitted brace with more dials and knobs than I had the balls to count. It ran all the way from his shoulder to his fingertips.
“You look like shit,” I said, finally.
It was easier, I guess, to say that thanI’m sorry.ThanI got a news alert on my phone when you were in surgery. They don’t think you’ll ever throw a baseball again.ThanThe cops only did a blood alcohol test. Katie’s the only other person who knows. She won’t even look at me. She won’t even open her blinds. Your mom—she’s in denial. Your dad can barely speak. Every time I visited you in the hospital, I wished it were me instead.
“Fuck off,” he said. “Put a meatball in my mouth.”
I laughed, pressing my hands to my eyes. And then, because I fucking loved him, because he was my brother or the closest thing I’d ever have to one, I did. And then, after that, we watched an hour of some superhero movie, and then he talk-to-texted Ingridlove sonnets for a good twenty minutes, and then, all of a sudden, he tipped his head back against his headboard and winced.
