I shake my head, pressing my lips together to muffle a sob.

He closes his eyes. “I fucking hate this.”

With a knot in my throat and the world’s weight on my shoulders, I turn my back on him, slide into my car, and drive off.

Leaving my imaginary bricks and very real heart behind.

SIXTEEN

SIXTEEN

Two weeks after Joe cornered me, Dom surprises me with two tickets to Puerto Rico for a long weekend. It’s sudden but not unwelcome. I’ve worked myself to the bone lately, no doubt to forget the cluster I sometimes affectionately refer to as my life.

With fully estranged father and baby brother, no family to speak of (without casting blame here), a roommate who is a flight risk, and a ghost from the past with the potential to ruin my life, I have a lot to run from.

The universe, naturally, decides to give me a long middle finger in the form of Joe driving us to Logan International Airport. Joe appears comfortable with driving his brother and ex-girlfriend to a romantic getaway. Slunk back lazily in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel like Michelangelo’s Nile river god.

Dom is in the passenger’s seat of the truck. I’m sitting in the back. The brothers seem in good spirits. They talk about their mutual hatred for the Yankees—there’s a specific game they’re referring to—and I can tell, in this moment, that they are heartbreakingly close. More than Renn and I ever were. They have this easy camaraderie, these inside jokes. This confuses me, seeing as Joe seemed determined to get what he wanted from me only weeks ago with little regard for his brother. But I guess relationships are complex, and Joe can both hate his childhood and love the brother who made it unbearable. Just like Dominic can adore Joe and still envy him for being the “healthy” brother.

“Babe Ruth killed my soul before I was even born. How is that fair?” Dom jokes.

“An eighty-six-year championship drought, man. Should’ve been born in New York.”

They both look at each other and grin. “Nah,” they say in unison.

“So . . . were the Yankees to blame for the Red Sox drought?” I ask from the back seat, offering my important contribution to this conversation.

Joe shakes his head. “Not really. But Bostonians never forget.”

“Also, I would like to note that we invented the wave. Legend has it the wave owes its existence to Fenway Park—because the seats are so close together, whenever a fan has to stand up, everyone else in the row has to stand too. And then the people behind them get pissed because they can’t see anything, so they get up too. And that creates the human wave,” Dom explains, eyes sparkling.

“Fun fact,” Joe notes.

“From a not-so-fun stadium,” Dom delivers the punch line, and they both burst out laughing again.