There we are.
Only to lose it again.
BEFORE
Mid-July
Caleb is bleary-eyed when he comes down for breakfast on Monday morning. With the exception of Mom’s short-lived family movie nights, our paths haven’t crossed much this summer. Instead of celebrating the end of high school, making plans for the rest of his life, he’s been holed up in his room. Today he’s wearing sweatpants and a crusty-looking shirt, but the most offensive thing about his appearance is the dusting of dark facial hair on his chin.
“New look?” I ask, unable to hide my disapproval.
Without looking up at me, my brother pats his chin. “Just something I’m trying.”
“I don’t think it’s working,” I say. He doesn’t answer, just chews his Lucky Charms silently, obnoxiously. Most of Caleb’s friends hightailed it out of Lyndale the second they were done, the way I plan to. I look at him and wonder if he feels lonely, if he secretly hates that he’s staying. I want to ask himwhyhe is.
I doubt he’ll tell me, though.
We never confide in each other.
I remember being fourteen and wanting so much to be included in everything my brother was doing. One afternoon after Caleb had just gotten his license and inherited Mom’s old car, I saw him getting ready to go out and I asked to go with him, but he refused. He was so set on whatever he was doing—his jaw stiff, his eyes determined. He was gone for hours, and when he came back, he went straight upstairs. I tiptoed after him, curious.
I found him in the bathroom, his shirt raised, looking in the mirror and flinching like he’d been stung. I moved closer, quietly, so he wouldn’t see me through the glass, and I saw him touching his rib gingerly. He looked like he was about to cry.
I stepped into the bathroom before he had time to pull down his shirt.
R.That was all his tattoo said.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “You got a tattoo?”
His face contorted. I was sure he was going to tell me to get lost, threaten me to breathe a word and it would be my last, but to my surprise, he only seemed terrified.
“Please don’t tell Mom,” he begged me. “Or Dad. Please.”
“Okay,” I said. I was shocked at what he’d done and, most of all, at his response. I liked the idea of a secret between us, but I wanted to feel fully included.
“Who is she, anyway?” I asked. “R?”
Caleb didn’t answer.
“Rachel? Rebekah? Rrrrrrandy,” I said. Admittedly, I was jealous. I wished I could’ve thought of something or someone I cared about enough to mark my skin, my body, with their name.
“Addie, please,” was all Caleb said. The lack of disdain in his voice surprised me again. I promised not to say anything.
When I broke a couple of weeks later and told Mom, it was payback for something stupid like Caleb taking too long in the shower. As soon as I saw his face and Mom’s, though, I wished I hadn’t done it. She was furious with him and, inexplicably, with me.
“I’m sorry,” I told Caleb after he and Mom had finished a yelling match behind the closed door of her room. “Is it because you’re underage? It’s not a big deal. Lots of people have tattoos. I’m sorry.”
He stalked into his room and banged the door shut.
“I’m sorry,” I called from the other side, but he didn’t answer. I knew somehow I’d crossed a line, done something I couldn’t take back, no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I caught him on his way into the bathroom the next morning. “Caleb, I’m sorry. It’s just a tattoo. Mom will get over it. Should I talk to her or something?”
“Just leave it, Addie,” he said with such finality and coldness that it scared me. “Leave it.”
I thought of the way I’d found him in the bathroom, running his hand over the curve of theRlike it was either precious or painful. Maybe both.
Who’s R?I wanted to ask him when he was finally speaking to me again, weeks later, but I couldn’t. Everything between us felt fragile, tentative.
