“I’m not just trying to make you feel better. It’s true.” I leaned back and held on to the console, sitting taller in my seat.

I needed a stiff spine for what I was about to say. I hated even thinking about it.

“Whatever you say, babe,” he mumbled, looking away.

I took in a deep breath, wiped once more at my face to collect any stray tears, then spoke evenly and carefully, making sure I was heard.

“You know my brother died. You know how he died, but you don’t know the part I played in it.”

Brian slowly turned his head. His brows furrowed.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

I felt my spine bend, just the slightest give in my strength, but I gathered it back up before replying.

“Barrett had two choices he was looking at when he graduated,” I said. “UCLA and Boston University. Had scholarships from both, so it was just a matter of where he preferred going. One night I was playing in my room and he came in, carrying the brochures he had from the two schools and laid them out in front of me. He asked me where I thought he should go. Said he was having trouble deciding and wanted my opinion, a twelve-year-old’s opinion, so I gave it to him. I picked up those brochures and studied them for the time I needed to make my decision, which lasted all of three seconds because the brochure for UCLA had pretty palm trees on it and a picture of the Pacific Ocean. I thought it was beautiful so I told him to go there, and he did. Four months later he died.”

Now it was Brian who was turning in his seat a little to face me, his thick shoulder bracing his weight on the backrest.

“You don’t blame yourself for that, do you?” he asked, face tight with worry.

I shook my head and closed my eyes through an exhale.

“No. But I could,” I replied, looking at him. “I could very easily feel guilt over Barrett dying. Let that consume me like your guilt’s consuming you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked. “My brother died because he went to a school that I picked. Maybe if he went somewhere else, it wouldn’t have happened. I was driving that day. It was my fault.”

“Syd—”

“Or,” I interrupted. “My brother died because no matter what school I would’ve chosen, he would’ve gone to UCLA anyway because it was where he really wanted to go. He was just humoring me by letting me pick. It didn’t matter what I said. If I’d chosen Boston, he still would’ve wound up at UCLA.”

I sniffed and pushed my glasses back on my nose. My other hand was being held tight in one of Brian’s.

“Or my brother was never meant to live past his nineteenth birthday,” I continued. “He could’ve gone anywhere and he would’ve died. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what school I picked or where he got scholarships. It didn’t matter if he even went to college at all, he would’ve died anyway.”

Brian stared at me.

I held my breath and my tongue. I wanted him to ask me the question I needed him to ask me. I couldn’t say any more until he did and the words I had to say were so important I wanted to write them down so Brian could hear them while I spoke and read them whenever he needed to and carry them with him always, so he’d never feel this way again.

He leaned closer and held my cheek, and a breath of relief filled my lungs and burst on his wrist as I said a silent prayer because I knew the question was coming.

“You really believe that?” he asked. “You think he’d be dead no matter what? No matter where he would’ve gone?”

I felt my lip tremble.

“Do you think I killed my brother? Do you think he’s dead because of me? Because I chose palm trees and a pretty ocean for his place to die?”

“No,” he answered quickly and firmly and on what sounded like a full breath. “No, I don’t fucking think that.”

“I have,” I confessed. “I’ve thought all those things at one point. The last one is just the easiest. I’m not as sad when I believe that one.”

He closed his eyes and lowered his head, whispering my name one time.

He was sad for me. I needed him to feel sad for himself, too, instead of angry, so I kept going.

“What happened wasn’t your fault. It was an accident, and if you hadn’t been driving that night, it would’ve been somebody else. That little boy’s fate was already mapped out, Brian, just like Barrett’s.”

He shook his head once. “Someone else could’ve been driving, fine, but you know what?” He glanced up. “Maybe they wouldn’t have been speeding. Maybe they would’ve been going slow enough to get control of their car and they could’ve avoided—”

“No.” I leaned closer and took his own face in my hands when he let go of mine. “I’ve driven on this road. I’ve gone down that hill, which means I know how steep it is, and I can tell you knowing in my heart that it’s true, it didn’t matter how fast you were going that night. You could’ve been doing the speed limit and you would’ve still lost control when you hit that ice, and given how sharp that drop is, you would’ve sped up, Brian. You would’ve sped up and you still would’ve hit them. Anyone would’ve hit them.”

“I could’ve controlled it.”

“You couldn’t, honey. There was nothing you could’ve done.”