Save the Date(23)

Me

He’s going to wreck things. He’s going to make it about HIM

He’s going to derail this whole weekend He wasn’t supposed to be here!

It’s bullshirt

Bullshirt

SHIRT

I give up

Siobhan

But Lin wanted him there

And it’s her wedding

And I’m sure he’s not going to ruin anything He wants Linnie to be happy

Me

Right, that’s Mike. Mr. Selfless.

Siobhan

Anyway, guess what!

My roommate next year is here too

So I get to meet her!

Me

The one who never used exclamation points?

Siobhan

Yes. Correct. That’s the one.

Me

Lol

Let me know how it goes!

Siobhan

Be nice to Mike.

Me

I’m always nice.

“Charlie?”

I glanced up from my phone, and there my brother was, standing in front of me, for the first time in eighteen months.

We just looked at each other. I was sure it was only a few seconds, but it seemed to stretch on longer as I tried to replace the version of him in my head with this one. Mike was the shortest of all the boys, just an inch taller than me, with curly light-brown hair and brown eyes. His hair had been cut short since the last time I’d seen him—and unlike the baggy shirts and cargo shorts he’d seemed to live in then, he was wearing a fitted button-down shirt and dark jeans. It was still Mike—but this seemed like a different version of him, older and more polished somehow.

“Hey,” I said, and then we were in motion at the same time, giving each other the kind of hug we always did—fast, a pat on the back, barely touching.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Mike said, gesturing toward baggage claim. “I was waiting inside.”

“Yeah, I just got here.”

Mike looked down at the iced latte in my hand and raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. Mike was the only person I knew who could be somehow passive-aggressive even while remaining silent.

“So, I guess we should go,” I said, heading around to the driver’s seat.

“No, it’s okay. I can get my own bags,” Mike muttered under his breath.

“Did you want help?”

“I’m fine.” This was classic Mike—he’d mutter something that he wanted you to hear, but if you called him on it, he’d back away.

I rolled my eyes as I got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door probably harder than I needed to. A second later, Mike got into the passenger seat, and I put the car in gear and headed toward the exit.

We drove in silence, Mike hunched over his phone, his eyes fixed on the screen. As I concentrated on getting out of the tangle of streets that led from the airport, I pledged to myself that even though Mike was here, it didn’t mean I was going to let him derail this weekend. I would just have to work harder to make sure that everything went off perfectly, that was all. But he wouldn’t wreck it. I wouldn’t let him.

“What?”

I looked across the car. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.” Mike shook his head, then looked back at his phone, and I rolled my eyes. I’d been around my brother for five minutes, max, and I could already feel my Mike-specific slow-burning anger begin to bubble. I decided that I wasn’t going to speak unless he did. The conversational burden shouldn’t be on me—after all, he hadn’t seen me in eighteen months, not to mention the fact I was currently doing him a favor. But as I drove on, the silence in the car seemed to expand, like it was taking on physical properties.

Mike apparently had no desire to catch up, ask me anything about myself, or even exchange basic pleasantries. And this had always been Mike—even before everything that had gone down last February with our mom. For as long as I could remember, he’d been keeping himself separate, standing slightly outside our family, like he was just visiting for a while and not really part of us. Mike not participating, Mike not playing along, Mike always putting a damper on things when the rest of us were all in, the one person rolling his eyes while we played running charades. I knew my older siblings noticed it, but it had never bothered them like it did me. When everyone else had moved out and it was just me and Mike in the house, I sometimes felt like I was the one holding up the kids’ end of things myself while Mike would be hunched over his phone, headphones on, like he was trying to pretend he was somewhere else entirely.

When we were halfway home, Mike finally looked up from his phone. “Actually,” he said, peering out the windshield, “if you could just take the next turn, that would be great.”

“What?” I asked, even as I took a right into the first street I saw. “Why?”

“Not this one,” Mike said with a sigh. “It’s the next left. Juniper Hill.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that?” I asked as I looked around for a driveway to turn around in. As I did, I realized where we were—Grant Avenue.

It was just a small side street that bordered Stanwich Woods, the gated community that had an actual guard in a gatehouse out front. I’d never been, but I knew Grant Avenue well, entirely because of my older siblings and their reign of terror on the street—specifically, the street sign.