The morning brings with it a headache and the sound of Annie pounding on the walls. "Will, for the love of God, how many times do I have to tell you to take it outside?"
There's no response from Will and John's room across the hall. My youngest brother, Henry, begins to cry. Annie, his mother, tries to quiet him. The sound grows distant as they move away from my door.
I check my phone. 6:50 am. Fuck. Fifty new messages. Some from Instagram, but mainly from the group chat, titled PATTI's EPIC BDAY BASH 2K19.
Feeling more awake than I want to and painfully aware that in a couple of days I'll be forced to be out the door around this time every morning, I flip onto my stomach and scroll through the rest of my messages. I don't bother attempting to keep track of the flow of various overlapping conversations and voices, focusing on the sparse bits of relevant information interjected between gifs and memes. I've already contributed to the fund for booze, which somebody got their older sister to purchase.
A name catches my eye, and beside it is a blue notification. I sit up in bed, legs folding beneath me. Hesitating over her profile picture, I press on the new message. Our last saved conversation is from four months ago.
can i come by later? I need to talk to u.
She uses a period. No buffer emojis or comforting acronyms. The message was received at 3:16 am. Ella's never been one to leave things unsaid, and this summer has been a suspended silence. Like the two of us are staring at each other from across a chasm and waiting for the other to fumble. The impending start of the school year has become added pressure, and I guess she's buckling.
Fine. Come at 12.
My thumbs dash across the keyboard and press send. The swoop of the text being delivered seals my fate. If she wants to talk in person, we can talk in person; I don't hide from anyone. It'll be our first time hanging out with just the two of us in months.
Things just turn to shit sometimes. It happens, even to people who used to tell each other everything. What went down in the spring was a fucking mess, and I can still see the ugly remnants of blame in her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking. I don't feel bad, and I won't be made to.
I let my phone preoccupy me until I believe it's a more reasonable time to leave the cocoon of my bed. My room is almost empty of furniture, with white walls surrounding a bed beside a floor-length mirror, which I now catch myself in and stretch, causing the skin of my lower abdomen to peek out from under my pyjama top. A single, jagged crack runs diagonally across the surface of the mirror, distorting the reflection that stares back at me. These days, I can still feel myself growing taller, although John says I'm imagining it, but I just think he doesn't want to be the shortest.
Charlie must be tall, like Will and I, because that's how I've always thought of him. It's hard to picture the Victor-Annie amalgamation that Henry will one day become, so I just enjoy the round, pudgy thing he is now—at least when he isn't crying or screaming.
Emerging from my room, I keep my gaze forward, ignoring Annie's presence through a cracked doorway in my periphery. She's struggling to change an upset Henry out of his pyjamas. The chemical scent of an air freshener poorly masks the lingering reek of cigarette smoke that comes from the room John and Will share. Anything that annoys Annie delights me. Even though the leniency Will gets for his stupid shit is unfair, considering the treatment I get for my stupid shit.
I'm surprised to hear a sign of life in the kitchen as I approach. It's John's laughter: a light, musical sound that contradicts his imposing figure. He must have today off from work. He's in construction. It exhausts him, but I think he likes the dedication the job demands.
John offers me an easy smile from his position at the table, sitting behind a full plate of food. There's a levity in his expression that I only ever see when—
"Morning, Athena." Darcy wags his eyebrows at me, tipping his cup of coffee in my direction.
When I was young, I had a crush on Darcy. I think everyone who meets him falls partly in love, he's that kind of person. It's hard to pinpoint if it's the booming warmth of his laugh, or liveliness that brightens his chocolate brown gaze. Either way, since the beginning, I've only ever seen him have eyes for John.
John is at his best when Darcy is around, like he can suddenly breathe a little easier. When I imagine John, old and grey, Darcy is there beside him. No question about it.
Wrinkling my nose at the smell of coffee, I look over into the pan Darcy stands beside. Only the burnt edges of fried egg remains. John shrugs at me from over his plate of food and says, "We're all out."
Rolling my eyes, I rip open the fridge and grab the milk, preparing a bowl of cereal. "Real considerate, guys."
Darcy pours himself more coffee. I swear everyone around here would inject it if they could. "Well, early bird, and all that."
"It's, like, 7:30," I protest. "On a Saturday. What time did you even drive over here? John's not that important, nothing is that important."
"Thanks, Athena," John smiles at me, making a show of digging into his food.
Darcy's own characteristic grin is notably absent. He sits down beside John, crossing his legs as he twists to face me. "So, what do you think about this Charlie shit?"
"I guess we're getting right into it." I set the cereal box down on the counter, sighing. "I don't know. I'm almost surprised Dad hasn't ambushed us with this before."
Annie walks in, a laundry basket on her hip. I stiffen as she shuffles past me, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. "John, you better wash that pan. Last time, you people just left it there, and guess who had to clean it?"
John lifts his hands up, palms forward. "Sorry, I'm going to wash it."
I watch closely as Annie sits down at the table, opposite Darcy. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a tired ponytail, and her slender, deft hands begin to pull clothing from the basket and fold them into neat shapes. "What, Athena?" She asks, not quite looking at me. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No, nothing," I reply, turning my attention back to my food. It's too early to be in the same room as her.
Darcy shakes his head, dyed blond hair falling over his forehead. "You don't find it concerning that you can literally draw a line in your childhood between Charlie and Post-Charlie?" He addresses me. "Look, John won't say it, but I will. The guy was an asshole." His eyes narrow at the warning look John shoots his way. "What? I'm not sorry. You don't disappear for six years—"
"Seven," John corrects. "It's been seven years now."
"Fuck," Darcy mutters, deflating slightly. "Either way, you can't just show up again like it never happened. Charlie only ever did what he wanted, even when we were kids. He treated John like—"
"Darcy—" John interrupts once more.
"No." Darcy doesn't back down. "He treated you like shit, you can say it. He only ever cared about himself, no matter what damage he caused to other people."
"He wasn't the only one who left," I add, my voice emerging unintentionally meek.
"Mom was different," John replies, his tone soft.
"Is."
"What?"
"Mom is different," I say. "She isn't dead." My eyes shoot over to Annie before I can control the action. Just as quickly, I look back down, as if my bowl of cereal is the most interesting thing in the world.
The silence is stamped out before it can fully develop into something more unbearable. "All I'm saying," Darcy continues, "is that you all need to be on the same page about this."
"I'd like to hear what you have to say, John," Annie speaks up. "I trust your father, but he bottles things up. I want to know more."
"He didn't say anything about this to you?" I huff. "Didn't ask if you were okay with it?"
"I'm in the dark with the rest of you," Annie admits, still mechanically folding. "Nobody in this house talks to each other." Exasperation tightens her tone. "Obviously, I wasn't around back then, but I'm here now, so is my son, and this affects everyone."
"Well, that's classic fucking Victor for you, isn't it?" I reply.
Annie doesn't look at me.
"It's not like Charlie's dangerous, or a criminal, or something," I continue. "Shit, Mom and Dad used to leave Will and I alone with him for hours. He took care of us."
"Yeah," John replies, "Until he didn't."
I'm scrambling for someway to respond when Will makes his first appearance of the morning. He wears pyjamas, probably John's, that hang loosely off his frame. His shirt's neckline exposes the white, puckered network of scars that form like spiderwebs at the base of his neck, trailing down to his shoulder. The damaged skin never tans, creating a bold contrast during the summer months. His bright irises stand out from the bloodshot whites, and delicate features complete a look of unguarded morning vulnerability that makes my fingers itch to take his photo. He would never let me.
Recently, Will's standard sickly persona has evolved into something more venomous, something unhealthy. The knot of concern I can feel in my stomach when I look at him has become like an invisible rope linking the rest of us together, something that I think he senses, and resents. If I'm being honest, it's a little scary, like my brother has become a ghost without anyone noticing.
He looks like shit. So I tell him, "You look like shit."
He ignores me, wordlessly accepting the mug of coffee that Darcy hands him, giving a light hum in thanks. With the eyes of the room on him, he takes a sip, and waves his hand absently. "Well, carry on. I think I'll be sticking around this time."
"Will," Annie adopts her mother tone. The rapid motion of her hands ceases as she clasps them together on the table. "Are you comfortable with your brother coming home?"
Will chews on his bottom lip, and I try to conjure the twin telepathy I'm sure we've never had. After a moment, he shrugs, looking over to John. "To be honest, no." He hesitates, "I get it, though. I don't think anyone meant for so much time to pass, and it's important to Victor. I don't know, Charlie could have been dead in a fucking ditch somewhere, and we just would have never known." He shrugs again."I don't want to see him, so I won't. The rest of you can do what you want, but if he's here, I'm going to be gone."
"You can't just dip," I say, something like desperation suddenly brewing in my chest.
His eyes meet mine. "Why not? Isn't that how this works? If Victor can make decisions based only on what he wants, then why can't I?"
"Because..." I feel my face growing warm, groping for the right words. Because you're better than that, you just haven't been yourself lately. Because I'm freaked out too, but we started this whole thing together, and we might just need each other. "Because it just makes you more of a coward." There's an edge to my voice that can only be interpreted as hostile. "Anytime something becomes the least bit difficult, you hide, just like last night."
"Athena—" John starts, warning in his voice.
"No." Will interrupts, his eyes never leaving me. "She's not wrong." He doesn't rise to the bait, the asshole. He makes no attempt to conceal the exhaustion in his face as he speaks, and I can't stop looking at the dark bruises sinking beneath his eyes. I still feel like there's something I'm not seeing. "I just don't care," he continues, "Victor owns this house, I just live here. He can bring home whoever he chooses, I won't be bothered. School starts in a week—"
"Two days," John, Annie, and I chime in unison.
"Oh," Will blinks, recovering by taking another sip from his mug. "Either way, Charlie doesn't stop being a non-factor for me just cause Dad's feeling sentimental."
"Will, honey," Annie's eyes are wide and genuine, her voice softening. "I don't want to sound crude, but you're a burn victim." Everyone stiffens. "You don't react the way you did last night without this meaning anything to you."
There's a beat of silence, and when it's clear Will isn't about to respond, I speak up. "No one is denying Charlie made mistakes. It was a long time ago—"
"Don't minimize things, Athena," Darcy cuts me off. "He was destructive. He spent his teenage years high out of his mind, mistake doesn't really cover it." John reaches forward, taking Darcy's hand.
"Both of them," Will speaks, steel replacing any vulnerability in his voice, "Mom and Charlie, they weren't capable of taking care of themselves, much less a couple of ten year olds." The hard edges sound so ugly in him, even as he continues to drink his coffee.
"Yeah, well, being crazy can do that." I don't look at Will, and press my palms flat against the table, framing my bowl of cereal in which I can see crumbling bits of now soggy flakes floating amongst the pool of white.
"Don't say that—" John says, but I'm not listening.
"If we continue to ignore him and run from it, it only gives what happened more power over us," I cut him off. "People can change, he isn't the same kid who left seven years ago. So much is different now. We're not children anymore. You know, forgive and forget, and all that." I almost cringe at how this sounds emerging from my mouth.
"You can appreciate how that isn't so easy for some of us?" John says. "Forgetting is the last thing we should be doing." He retracts his hand from Darcy, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "That was always the tactic when it came to Charlie—cope by avoidance, it was like walking on eggshells. He never faced any consequences, not for any of it."
"Okay, but this isn't about Charlie paying for his sins," I say. "It's about him coming home."
"Is there a difference?"
"I understand. John, Will, I get it, I was there too." I assure them. Do they think I'm completely out of touch? "All I'm saying is that it has to end sometime. Stalemates aren't meant to last forever, and I'm just tired of it." I catch Will rolling his eyes, and a bolt of anger shoots through my centre. "What?" I demand. "You're the only one here who is allowed to feel bad?"
He sneers. "Oh, fuck you, Athena."
My eyes narrow, and I know I shouldn't let it get under my skin, but it does, especially coming from him. "Maybe if you were able to take your head out of your own ass for two seconds, you'd be able to see that it's not always about you, that we can't always be worried you're about to shrivel up and die all the time."
His eyes darken, a green that looks like rain-soaked leaves. "Oh, because I'm the self-absorbed one here?" He places a hand onto his chest. "You've haven't even been here all summer. Your priorities aren't with us."
"Tell me, Will, what priorities are you referring to exactly?" I gesture around the room. "We clearly can't agree on anything, so yes, I'd rather be with my friends than here, watching you mope around. I don't regret shit, so what do you want from me?"
"I don't know, a little empathy might be nice." Will places one finger to his chin, pretending to think. "A soul, maybe?"
"You mean you want me to pity you—"
"You're—"
"No," I move around the counter, leaning towards my brother from across the room. "We—all of us—" the rest of the table has fallen into shocked silence "—have been tip toeing around you for so long. I'll say it: you don't do anything to help yourself, Will. If you want Charlie gone, like you say, all you have to do is speak the fucking word to Victor, okay? Guilt is a funny little thing. Just flash him Mom's doughy eyes, give him your best victim speech, and he's wrapped around your finger." I grip the back of an empty chair. "It's all on you."
The resounding silence that follows my speech seems filled with my own words echoing back to me, pounding through my ears. I don't feel bad, even now that everyone has their eyes on me. It was the truth, and I respect my brother too much to lie to him.
I don't let him be my problem, just like I'm not his. Must have happened when I wasn't paying attention.
Will doesn't flinch at the bite in my words. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe some chest beating or mug throwing; anger, burning and messy. After a long pause, he tosses back, "Truly, it breaks my heart to be such a burden to you." He sips at his coffee, no longer steaming, and his eyes glaze over in what I can recognize as the end of his involvement in the conversation. I don't understand him.
"Hey," John says, "Remember when the two of you used to be twins?" His dark eyes are flashing and the bitterness in his tone, directed at me, leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. John will always take Will's side.
"I'm not picking a fight with you today too," I respond, glowering.
"Colour me grateful." He rubs his face, stretching the grey skin over the rounded curves of his jaw and forehead. "So that's it then? That's what we have to say to each other?"
"It's never too early for a nice, healthy family discussion. Right, Annie?" I flash her my most sickeningly sweet grin. "Are you feeling more confident in your recent life choices?"
She doesn't miss a beat, addressing me with the maternal authority she conjures to seem important. "Just fine from where I'm sitting." Her brown eyes are bright in the morning. "I remember being seventeen, you know. I was just like you, I'd do anything for attention, anything to get a reaction."
I cock one eyebrow, feigning interest. "Anything?" I mock. "Do tell."
She's unfazed. "You'll have to grow out of it sooner than later. Confidence is attractive, not whatever this is."
The anger bubbles up again. "Yeah, because that's my goal in life, to be attractive."
She only stares at me, her certainty in whatever it is she thinks she's seeing makes me want to scream. Instead I grab my cereal bowl and walk it over to the sink, and just to be petty, I leave it out. "I'm going out later," I announce.
I turn around in time to catch sight of the look Annie and John exchange. Annie doesn't say anything, returning her attention to the laundry basket. "What?" I demand.
John seems resigned. He rests his chin in his palm. "What do you want me to tell Victor?"
I shrug. "It's the end of summer, I'm sure he doesn't think I'm at a church group. I'm staying over with friends." It's not a complete lie. If anything, I can credit Victor with not being oblivious, though it only makes the lukewarm, absentee parenting style he's adopted throughout my teenage years more questionable than it already is. We don't step on each other's toes: I don't do anything irreparably stupid and he doesn't waste the energy in dogging me. I believe the scientific term is symbiotic.
"When is Charlie supposed to be getting here, exactly?" Will says, his voice small.
"Sometime next week," John answers. "Victor wasn't the most specific."
"Shocking," I say, my back turned. "I'm so happy this wasn't a waste of time." I turn the corner down the hallway.