Page 78 of Past Tents

My fault for not telling him, but he was my younger brother, and it wasn’t his job to look out for me. He was the one with symbrachydactyly. Not me. He was the one who had no choice but to have his disability thrust into the spotlight every time he shook hands with someone new.

I was the one who had it easy because my issue was something I could hide from the world.Iwas the one who looked out forhim.

“It’s managed,” I said.

“I’m not talking about the depression,” he corrected. “I’m talking about how they minimized its existence. They didn’t understand it.”

We’d never talked about it. I dealt with my shit on my own. It wasn’t his problem to solve.

“I get it, feeling like a stranger in your own body sucks.” He held up his hand, something he rarely drew attention to—that’s how evolved and fine he’d become with his disability. “I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be fighting against your brain.”

There were so many things I’d thought about saying to my parents and my brother over the years, desperate explanations of how I felt. But I never said anything. That wasn’t their fault. I needed to own it.

And I could do better. I could talk to them now. Let them in. Stop resenting them for not understanding when I didn’t understand it myself.

“Thank you.” I looked at Shane for a sign of what else he needed to hear from me, worried I’d let him down as an older brother.

He nodded and came over and put an arm around me. He knew when it was best to stop talking and give me space.

Shane and Jefferson cleared the plates and sauce bottles off the table, and I picked up the coffee cups. We carried everything to the kitchen and dumped it in the sink. Dishes could be dealt with later.

Shane glanced up at the clock on my wall, drawing my attention to the time. I was right—it was early in the morning, but it was later than I thought. Half past nine.

“You are still going to the carnival tomorrow, right?” Shane asked.

Right. That.

“I should talk to Ally first. I don’t want to just show up there without clearing the air.”

Jefferson pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. A single pink ticket. “Yeah, or you could just show up there and figure it out.”

No. I wasn’t ready for that. I needed to think some more, make sure I could really do what Ally had urged me to do before I pushed her away. And hell, maybe she wouldn’t even want me now.

No, that was wrong. She said I could trust her and I did. I just needed to prove it.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

ALLY

Lucy didn’t need a CPR refresher, even though she swore up and down that physician’s assistants needed regular training just like everyone else. I didn’t doubt that, but I assumed she’d have been able to fit in a quick course at the hospital, rather than signing up for a Saturday session at the community center with half the babysitters and teachers of Green Valley.

But Lucy was the kind of friend who’d pretend she needed a CPR refresher and spend half a day pumping on the chests of plastic dummies if it would keep me company on a day when I needed re-certification. And more than that, when I needed to figure my life out next to a willing friend.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to stay in? I can make us breakfast,” I offered.

Lucy looked around my small rustic kitchen, peeked at all the take-out containers in my fridge, and shook her head. “We need to get you out of the house before you become one with the furniture.”

“I’ve been out. I go out every day to work,” I protested. It was a half-truth. I’d been to work, but I’d pretty much come and gone without lingering or chatting with my colleagues. Most of them probably just thought I was busy working on signage for the carnival and didn’t give it a second thought. Only Witty had reached out to make sure I was okay, either because he’d caught wind of potential drama or because he missed having me as his dutiful audience in the teachers’ lounge. Likely both.

Meanwhile, Lucy called my bluff on breakfast. “If you can show me where you have an egg or some fresh cheese, I’ll let you make me breakfast. Otherwise, we’re getting out of here.”

I mentally tabulated the contents of my fridge, then admitted, “Fine. You win.”

I’d signed up for the class months ago as part of my recipe for self-sufficiency, and this morning, I’d called Lucy to back out.

Fifteen minutes later, she showed up at my house with a vanilla latte. The creamy delicious drink made me think of Clay, which she knew it would, and before I’d finished half of it, I’d told her everything. Somehow, in the process, Lucy had managed to get me out of my yellow plaid pajamas and into a pair of equally comfortable sweatpants.

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