Chapter 20

When I arrive at her house, Hope asks me about Liam, and I answer, “We’re great! He’s great! I’m great!” and then cheerily ignore her doubtful look. I’m going to have to ease into this conversation slowly, it seems.

“There’s something I want to show you,” she says after a pause. “I wasn’t going to tell you at first but I was worried that you’d just see it somewhere else. My cousin in Missoula sent me this old video of a prank her classmates played on Liam back in the ninth grade—”

“Yeah, I know all about that,” I interrupt. I place my hand over the screen on her phone. “And I’m not watching it. I promised him.”

She seems relieved. “Oh, good. It’s pretty embarrassing. If it makes you feel better, I don’t think anyone else at our school has seen it. I just thought you should be prepared. They made Liam cry at the end—”

“I don’t want to watch it, and I don’t want to hear about it,” I tell her. “Every view that video gets is an extra point for bullies.”

“You’re right. You’re right. I’m deleting the message right now. I shouldn’t have brought it up. And I’m really glad you guys are doing so well.”

“We are. Liam and I are doing great.”

I’m surprised at my own lie. I’d been planning to be honest with her. That was why I’d come, to share my worries with her. Normally I would tell her everything, and we’d dissect it all together. But lately I’ve felt kind of awkward around Hope. I didn’t even realize how awkward I’ve felt until I got here. Another side effect of her dating my twin, I guess. It’s not that I’m worried she’ll blab to Ethan. It’s just that she’s dating my brother. I’d been so wrapped up in worrying about Ethan that the everyday weirdness of that situation was only just dawning on me. Sharing things with her felt different now.

And until I got used to it, I needed to keep my dating problems to myself.

So we watch a movie and talk about Ethan’s trip to the surgery ward. I get a blow-by-blow account of the whole adventure from Hope as my brother texts her updates every fifteen minutes. She’s very excited by the first few, but after the tenth text she seems a little reluctant to check her phone. The idea of her boyfriend attending an operation is one thing; the gruesome details he keeps sending her are quite another.

My mom messages me halfway through the movie. “Come and get me as soon as you can. They said I can go home.”

I return home to pick up the car and am at the hospital within the hour. The whole checkout process takes longer than either of us anticipated (so many papers and instructions), and we pull into our driveway at half past ten.

My mom shuffles upstairs, hauling her hospital bag after her. I pull some dough out of the freezer to defrost for tomorrow’s dessert (I’m experimenting with eggnog pumpkin pie—Christmas and Thanksgiving in one dish!) and then walk into the living room only to discover Ethan stretched out on the living room floor in a yoga pose. It’s the position I’ve taught him to use when I’m not around to help him with the Rain burrito. He’s humming to himself in rhythmic one note beats, the droning noise drowning out the world around him. I sit down on the sofa and wait for him to rise.

When he does, he appears startled to see me there watching him.

“Hello, Rain.”

“Hey, there. I just brought Mom home.”

He nods silently.

“Do you want me to get your weight blanket?” I ask him.

He shakes his head and swallows loudly.

“So the surgery thing didn’t go well?”

He shakes his head again. “It went very well. The surgeon said that I had a lot of promise. Liam told me he never says that about anyone.”

“That’s fantastic!” I smile. “Then why the yoga?”

He sighs and slowly gets to his feet. “I feel better now,” he says, ignoring my question. “I’m going to my room to study.”

“Okay. Are you sure you don’t need anything—”

“I’m fine,” he retorts. “Good night, Rain.”

“Good night.”

I drag my book bag to the coffee table and pull out my textbooks. Normally I study in my bedroom, but today I’m waiting for Ethan to change his mind. He seemed so fragile just now, and I’m sure that he’ll come stumbling out into the hallway at any moment.

It was such a big week for him. He’d gone to his first party, seen his mother through a hospitalization, and started on his path to becoming a doctor. Until recently, any one of those things would have caused a violent short circuit. How was he handling all three together? He should need me right now; I should be holding him, wrapped tightly in the safe embrace of his weight blanket.

But his bedroom door stays closed, and the landing is quiet.

An hour passes, and there’s no sound to break my loneliness. Finally, I shuffle off to my room and swing my door shut with a bang. I want him to know that I’m awake if he needs to talk. But he doesn’t. There’s no tap at the door, no restless movement on the other side of my wall. He’s okay.

He’s okay without me. And I know the thought should make me happy. It’s what I’ve worked for, isn’t it? Then why am I wishing I hadn’t taught him the yoga pose, all those breathing exercises to calm himself? It’s a horrible, selfish thought, and I know I would never admit it to anyone. I’m supposed to be the perfect sister. My mother is always bragging about my competence and caring; Hope even thinks my relationship with Ethan is impressive. But what would they think if they knew the real me? I used to believe everything I did for Ethan was out of love. But what if that isn’t true? What if my love is a messy, twisted thing? Maybe I’m just a charming imposter who’s managed to fool everyone, including myself. I can’t keep pretending to be a good and loving sister, if deep down I’m dreading the day he breaks from me. It isn’t real love if I need Ethan to need me.

This quiet feels so unnatural; I can almost hear my brother breathing on the other side of the wall. My phone is lying next to me on the pillow. I scroll through my friends’ names and tap out a greeting to our WhatsApp group, then quickly delete it. What’s the point in chatting? I can’t say what I’m really thinking. Might as well just go to sleep. I slide over to the edge of my bed and tap the wall between us, count out five sharp knocks.

Like I do every night.

There’s a short pause, and for the first time in my life, I’m terrified he’s not going to respond. That he’s fallen asleep without waiting for my good night.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Let it out, in a slow, cleansing exhale, just as I’ve taught Ethan to do. I focus on each breath, concentrate on the rise and fall of my chest. Ten beats pass.

And then his voice comes through the wall.

“Good night, Rain.”

He says it like he always does, in his clipped, low monotone, but to me the words sound almost musical, like a child’s bedtime story. I feel my heart rate slow, my muscles relax. It’s going to be okay, I tell myself. I can go to sleep now. My brother’s still there.