The Longest Five Years (Completed)

Reagan

We haven't really talked about Luke since we left the hospital yesterday. Or about Emmy. Or Rachel. It's all a very sensitive subject, but I don't expect to avoid it forever. I'm home for a lot of reasons, but rehashing regrets is not one of them. Neither is revenge. And although I will never be able to consider Luke my brother, he will always be family. I can't look back at my teenage years without seeing him, because while he was my whole heart, he was a part of the rest of my family, too. That's what makes this tricky.

"You don't have to hang out with us all day. If you want, you can borrow my car once we get back."

I don't know where she thinks I'll go beside Mom and Dad's, but I guess it's a good thing to have a car in case. I didn't come home to sulk; I came here to do something. To change something in some way.

I'm not just here for Luke. I'm home for me.

"Thanks. I might."

"Luke gave me the keys to his while he's laid up. His motorcycle's trashed, but at least he's got a backup car. Can't exactly tote around a four-and-a-half year old on the back of a Harley."

And there it is. The hurt.

Do I deserve to be jealous of the relationship my sister has with Luke? No. I'm not even sure what they have is any different than it's ever been. I just get a feeling there's something she's not telling me. Are they together?

We finish our meals over easy conversation, and before I know it, I'm agreeing to go with her to pick up Emmy from our parents' house just a few miles down the road. As we pull into the driveway, I feel like a kid again. I remember building snowmen on the front lawn, and playing football in the back with my family on holidays. I remember getting my license and pulling into this driveway for the first time on my own. But mostly, I remember the tears streaming down my face the last time I was here, pulling out of this driveway intent on never coming back.

I'm quiet as we walk up to the front door. When my mother opens the door and I catch the familiar scent of my childhood home, I'm filled with unmistakeable warmth.

"Both my girls home at once," she kisses me on the cheek. I don't take these comments as snide; I completely understand what I did to this family when I left.

"Emmy's around here somewhere. I think she's downstairs playing with Janice," she says. "Excuse me a moment."

I shoot Erin a look of confusion when she's walked away.

"Janice is Mom and Dad's cocker spaniel," she clarifies quietly with a smile. "Empty nesters, you know."

"Ah," I laugh. Strange name for a dog.

"I'm going to try to round her up. I'm sure she probably still has to pack her things," her voice is affectionate, and all too knowing of this child's tendencies.

When I'm left alone, I take the opportunity to walk the hall down to the room that once was mine. It's medium-sized, and still has condensation clouding the window like it did when I left. I flip on the light and see it's been converted into a guest room, with frames of our family dotting the walls.

There are photos of Erin and I as small children from picture day at school and of our high school graduations. Luke in his cap and gown. One of the three of us sitting on one couch watching football. One of my senior prom.

I sit on the bed and try to remember what it was like to be that young. In many ways, it feels like just yesterday, but I don't look like the girl in these photos. My hair is long and wavy now. I've got a nose stud and a few tattoos and I smoke cigarettes like they're going off the market. But it's not just the outside that's changed; I've been working on healing since I left.