Page 81 of The Crush
“Well…not all their children,” Eli says, glancing around the kitchen as if to be sure. “You still have our sister.”
“True.” Gabe replies, smacking me so hard on the back with his free hand that I stumble forward. “Pretty sure he’s keeping her though.”
A few long minutes later, my truck is navigating the dark back country roads, easily evading every uneven patch of dirt and gravel due to how many times I’ve traversed this path.
“This wasfun,” Gabe says with a grin on his face as he sits crammed between me and his brother. The latter fast asleep against the window before I even made it out of the driveway.
“I thought it would be a disaster,” Gabe explains even though I didn’t ask. “I was pretty worried you might try to kill Eli.”
“Not worth the jail time,” I joke, but Gabe nods with the true solemnity of the very drunk.
“What if it had beenAarónthat showed up?”
“Thatmightbe worth it actually.”
Gabe snorts. “Yeah…I don’t blame you.” He looks out the window for a second before turning back to me. “You know, he didn’t always used to be such adick. When Isa and I were little…I think I remember him being fun sometimes. Do you? You’ve known him longest.”
I start to argue before I realize that it’s true. I have known Aarón longer than any of his siblings. Born the same year. Taught in the same class. Held to very different expectations.
“He’s been even worse since the fight,” Gabe continues, and I go still, poised to listen on a tapped line. “Barely talks to anybody. Not a huge change for me though, really.” Gabe shrugs, and I search for something to say as I finally turn down the long drive to the Riveras’ farmhouse. Unable to pull anything from my experience as an only child, I’m still coming up empty when I park, hoping I’m far enough out not to wake the house. However, Gabe makes no immediate move to leave, his fingers restlessly fidgeting on his leg.
Tap. Tap.
“Hey, Danny, can I ask you something?”
I glance at the clock. “Suppose so.”
“Why’d you come back?” Gabe asks, looking at me intently. “Sorry. I mean, I’mgladyou came back. But… Why did you?”
“It was time, I guess.” I hedge, not quite a lie but not quite the truth.
“Yeah, you were gone a long while, but didn’t you get to be…” Gabe stares in the direction of his house. “When you were away, did you get to be who you wanted? You got to decide?”
“No,” I tell him, surprising even myself. “Not like I thought.”
Gabe looks disappointed, opening his mouth to speak again right as Eli stirs next to him. Waking up now that the truck is no longer moving, he looks first at his brother and then at me before straightening. “What’s happening?”
“We’re home,” Gabe says, dependable cheerfulness in place again without missing a beat. “Was waiting for you to climb out.”
“Oh.” Eli frowns, looking at the door next to him. “Sorry.” He pulls the door open and hops out, banking on coordination that’s not currently there and prompting him to quickly grab the rim of the pickup bed for stability.
“He’s okay,” Gabe says, shifting over and lumbering out too. Unlike his brother, Gabe does hit the ground, and I press my forehead into the steering wheel as he pops back up. “I’m okay too!”
My hands flex around the wheel as I use it to anchor myself in place, watching Isabel’s brothers unsteadily weave their way up the front path.Stay in the truck. Just stay in the truck.
They both stop and look at each other once they reach the front stairs. I start to reach for the door handle. Gabe wobbles. I get out.
I actually almost make it. In fact, I’m nearly back to my truck when the door creaks open again after it’s already been safely shut, the sound seeming so incredibly loud on an otherwise quiet night. Somehow it’s not nearly as deafening as the hushed voice that follows.
“Daniel.”
The Doll
Two little girls walked into their first day of school with their hands clasped tight, with kisses on their cheeks from their mamás and with letters in their jackets from their papás. Ribbons in their curls and palms over their hearts as they pledged allegiance to the same flag their mothers feared being handed neatly folded. A new generation dying and a new generation watching yet another attempt at the war to end all wars.
Too young to listen to the radio’s bulletin, too old to miss the way their mothers’ eyes go wide with every knock on the front door. Handwritten news from the postman is better than any that could be received from the serviceman, time moving slowly as he solemnly read out the transcribed and hurriedtap, tap, tapof a telegram.
Stop.
