My fingers scratch along the wall as I make a fist. Fine. Dorien and I are obvious, but he’s wrong that I think he’s just a responsibility. The reason I know he’s wrong is because the ache in my chest is real, and I wouldn’t feel this worried if he were just a box I check.
But the part of me that’s honest, the part that paints things I can’t bring myself to say, knows there’s enough truth in his words to make them impossible to dismiss. How many times have I checked on Aeron and then gone straight back to texting Dorien? How many of those check-ins were a question I asked on autopilot before returning to the thing I actually wanted to be doing?
Instead of saying something raw, I say, “You’re coming to dinner tonight.” Apparently my response to feeling gutted is to grip tighter. “I don’t care if you want to or not, you need to stop hiding away. I mean it.”
I’m still blocking his path with my feet planted. I cross my arms. The older sister stance I’ve perfected since I was five years old.
Aeron’s face twists into the nastiest snarl I’ve ever seen. “I said get out of the way!” He shoves my shoulder. It’s forceful enough that I stumble sideways and my back slams into the wall.
My eyes go wide as we stare at each other.
He makes a fist at his side, arms trembling. All the color has bled from his face, wiped clean like a canvas hit with turpentine. He looks scared and his mouth opens on a word he doesn’t say.
Then the snarl returns and he walks past me. His bedroom door slams shut. The lock clicks. I stay against the wall.
My brother has yelled at me before, slammed doors, gone entire weeks refusing to speak to me.
He has never put his hands on me.
I press my palm flat against the wall and exhale deeply as tears rim my eyes. What’s happening to him? I know he’s upset, but I should knock on his door. Mom went out for groceries, so I should call her and tell her to come home now.
Or… I don’t know. Does he really just need space, like Mom said? I wish I could understand why lecturing him about pot has caused this deep withdrawal.
I walk to his locked door and tap softly. I clear my throat before speaking. “Hey. Um, I know you’re mad at me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lectured you about pot and…”
I don’t know what else to say. I don’t even know if he’s listening.
So I leave and walk down the hallway. I text Cinna that I had a family issue and can’t meet up with her.
Cinna:OMG is everyone okay?
Me:Yeah. Sorry.
Cinna:Don’t apologize. Family comes first.
I send her some heart emojis because I love her so much. She’s like my sister at this point.
When I reach the front door, I consider staying home but I know Aeron won’t come out of his room again.
I seek refuge with Dorien.
Dorien’s dorm is a single on the third floor of the east residence wing. After I knock, he opens the door in a T-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, and his expression shifts the instant he sees me. The smile starts and catches halfway, reading my face before I’ve said a word.
He steps aside.
Late afternoon light comes through the window. His bed is a twin pushed against the far wall, with navy sheets rumpled in a way that says he never makes it. There are four paperbacks, each with a bookmark partway through, stacked on the windowsill by the bed. The mirror on the back of his door has been covered with a towel, like he doesn’t want to look at himself. His desk is only covered with polaroids of his sculptural works-in-progress because he doesn’t seem to do much sculpting in his dorm. It is a messy medium so that makes sense.
“What happened?” he asks once I’m in the middle of the space.
I sit on the edge of his bed and tell him. I describe the fight, the things my brother said that I can’t stop replaying, the shove. Dorien sits next to me with his knee pressed against mine. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens.
“He’s never done that before,” I say. “The yelling is normal for us because we bicker, but he’s never pushed me. And his face… he looked like he scared himself as much as he scared me.”
Dorien takes my hand and his touch is comforting. I’ve noticed he hasn’t been wearing gloves lately. “He’s going through something,” he says carefully. “Don’t we all do that sometimes? Go through shit and shutdown.”
“I guess, but he won’t even talk to me a little. Every time I try he snaps and then I just…” I let the sentence trail off. The ending is too honest: and then I come running to you instead of staying and fighting for my brother’s attention.
Guilt is a familiar companion.
