Page 56 of Hard to Handle

The last thing I look at in the room is my brother. I’m petrified almost as much as I am desperate to see him. It’s been several months but it feels way too long since I have, and every part of me misses everything about him in a way I’ve never been able to express or understand.

It’s the twin thing. The connection that’s inherent.

I bite back my gasp when I finally look. He’s withered away to nothing now, the shape of his body beneath the sheets barely noticeable. His lungs rise and fall with the help of the ventilator fastened by the trach tube at his throat, and the sound of the machine fills the room in a steady rhythm. His face is pale and his eyes are closed, but there’s a small smile on his lips in reaction to something my mom has said.

My chest fucking caves in like it does every time I see him. Guilt and sorrow and anger and so many other damn emotions ride a roller coaster through me until they strangle all the words I normally say.

I feel awkward, as if I’m invading his privacy, while at the same time feeling at home and comfortable with the one person I know better than anyone.

Or used to.

“Hi guys,” I say and walk toward them. My mom gasps, her startled smile following right after.

“There you are. You were so busy today I wasn’t sure if we were going to see you before you moved on to the next city.”

“I’d never miss the chance to see him.” I accept the arms she wraps around me, and I fucking hate that I hold her tighter a little longer so I can keep the tears welling in my eyes hidden behind my closed lids. I don’t want him to see how I see him. I don’t want him to know how bad he’s gotten.

And yet, I feel like he already knows. How can he not?

“It’s been too long.” Her words are barely audible.

I breathe her in. She smells of citrus and vanilla, but she feels so very frail and incredibly strong simultaneously. “I missed you too,” I murmur as she pulls away and puts her hands on my cheeks to look at me.

Tears glisten in her eyes but she blinks them away with the sadness that falls momentarily over her countenance.

“Jonah, look who’s here.”

“You don’t need to announce me. I’m not a guest,” I tell her as I step to the bed and meet my brother’s eyes.

He garbles something unintelligible that I know is a greeting, his attempt at pronunciation seeming worse than the sounds he was making last week when I spoke with him. Even with the speaking valve . . . It feels like everything is on a constant decline.

“Yeah, yeah.” I lean down and give him a pseudo hug and rest my forehead against his for a moment, almost as if I’m recharging my twin meter. He’s the same but so very different. “You’re still the better looking one,” I say as I stand back up with my jaw clenched to fight the helplessness I feel.

He gives a partial laugh that ends in a coughing fit. My mom pushes me out of the way as she pulls him up so he doesn’t choke.

“You sanitized?” she asks, her voice going into panic mode over me bringing germs into his room.

“Yes,” I mumble, feeling inept as I step back and let her help him in ways I can’t. Ways that have changed and evolved over the fifteen years he’s been a prisoner in his broken body and mind.

“Just rest, Jonah. You’re fine now,” she says after fixing something on his ventilator. He draws in a deep breath and calms.

“Rrrr,” he says for my name with the next struggle of breath.

“Yeah?” I lean down closer so he doesn’t have to fight so hard to be heard, and grab his hand even when I know he can’t feel it.

But I can.

And I need this connection with him more than anything right now.

“Good.” He takes a second and closes his eyes as if each word is a battle to be won. “Gm.”

My smile is soft and sincere and hides the emotions clogging in my throat. Our eyes hold—one twin to another, two halves of a whole—and I know his is the only praise I need. His is the one who matters the most.

“I miss you, J.”

Tears well in his eyes and slip from the corner to the pillow beneath his head. I hate that he can’t wipe them away. I hate that it’d kill him if I did it for him. He may be paralyzed, but I’m still his little brother by four minutes and two seconds and even like this, he holds tight to that tiny bit of pride.

“He’s exhausted, Hunter,” my mom says as she steps up and adjusts his pillow for him. “His sleeping pills are kicking in and he needs to get to sleep. It’s way past his—”