Page 225 of Five Brothers
It wasn’t because I was a Saint. It was because I was me. Part of her. He’d look at me and see her hair. Her nose.
A tear spills over, dripping down my face. He couldn’t stand the sight of me.
I lock my fingers together and bow my head into my hands, shaking with cries I won’t let out.
He must’ve thought I was a real piece of work, playing at his house like it was some kind of fucking theme park.
But when he did look at me …
When I found him racked with pain and saw the tears.
When he held on to me at night and then quickly let me go when he’d wake up and realize.
And then go right back to wrapping himself around me the next night. And the next. And the next.
When he finally started talking to me, and wanted only me near him. Only me.
He tried not to see me. Tried not to get close. Tried not to look at me or talk to me.
He didn’t want revenge.
He didn’t want me to find out and knew I would at some point. He knew I’d hurt him when I did.
I never deserved him.
Lifting my head, I watch my curtains blow in the breeze pouring into my dark room. It can’t be much past noon, but the clouds hang low outside, making the light on my walls gray with hues of blue.
I follow the light past the fabric hanging from my four-post bed and over the keepsakes—a carousel, stuffed animals, and pictures of parties, trips, and ceremonies. Past the displays of medals and ribbons I got for every swim meet or spelling bee I participated in.
Because every artifact was like another addition to the résumé of my life that proved I was alive. That I did things. That I was accomplished, and that made me valuable.
Proving I was living my best life distracted me from the realization that this room could never fit the proof of all my failures.
And knowing now that only one matters.
Rising to my feet, I wipe a tear from under my eye and cross the room. I rip the bulletin board off the wall, followed by my rack of karate belts from when I was eight. The last five are missing, because I quit, but I still display them like it was some big deal.
I throw the carousel onto my bed, scoop up every stuffed animal, and throw any picture that doesn’t have someone I love in it into the pile. I grab hold of my sheer bed curtains and start yanking, tearing them away, balling them up, and adding them to the junk. Gathering up the four corners of my blanket, I pull the sack off my bed and stuff it in my closet. Some of it will get disposed ofin the garbage, and some things I’m not sure if I ever want to see again. I just want them out of sight right now.
I stare in the mirror, seeing myself for the first time all morning. His mark is on my neck, and my lips are puffy. I fold them between my teeth, noticing how sore they are. I didn’t notice when I woke up with him this morning. I pull my phone out of my back pocket—no calls or texts.
Clutching it in my hand, I leave the room, tucking my tangled hair behind my ear as I head downstairs. My mother hasn’t come back to my room, but I know she’s in the house. Macon won’t be able to tell her and me apart in a few years.Fifteen-hundred-dollar heels, married to a banker or a lawyer …
I do the math in my head real quick, remembering that my father doesn’t think Mars is his son, but Mars was born long before Macon’s parents died. Macon was off in the military. I didn’t think it was him anyway. Thank God.
A blender whirs in the kitchen, and I head in, leaning against the doorframe and folding my arms over my chest.
My mom holds down the lid as the yellow slush spins like a whirlpool inside the machine, and I can smell the tequila and the citrus.
She stops the blender, glances up briefly, and pours a glass without missing a beat. Walking it over, she hands it to me and I take it.
Strangely enough, I feel no anger toward her. None at all.
I hold the drink to my nose, smelling the Cointreau and agave syrup. My mother makes the best margaritas. “You always were a wonderful mixologist.”
“It’s good to have a skill.”
Mine has yet to present itself.