It takes time, but I’ve got all night. My hands turn gray with charcoal as I smudge and erase and redraw again and again and again. I want to draw her like she was tonight. When she came. Soft and open and surrendered. Surrendered to me.

She didn’t realize she was crying until I wiped away a tear. It’s the strangest feeling, I have no word for it and I don’t want to forget that, not ever. Memory is so fucking fragile.

When I finish with the eyes, I sit back and look at my work. I breathe from high in my chest, I’ve been holding my breath and didn’t realize it. My hand reaches to find my glass but it’s empty, so I drag my gaze away, stand to reach for the bottle, refill, splashing a few drops onto the family tree. I wipe them away with my sleeve and drink the burning liquid in one swallow. I wish it numbed me like it used to, but it takes a lot these days.

I push the sketch aside and look back at my box on the family tree, look at the line I started to draw to add a box, to link it to mine, and for one moment, I let myself imagine. I let myself dream the impossible.

And then I sit and I make myself remember.

Make myself count.

Make myself say aloud the name of every person here where a date had to be written in. Something that wouldn’t be erased again. A box. A life. Another, different, sort of box. I count each one.

I do this every time I take this sheet out. Every time I feel sorry for myself because I have no right to. I’m not a good person. Salvatore, he has a conscience. I know his struggle. Dominic, not so much. He’s a mean son of a bitch. But so am I. The only difference between my little brother and me is that I’m going to get everything I want and he’s going to get nothing. That’s my saving grace.

Although I’m not sure the word grace should be uttered by someone like me.

I sit. I run my thumb softly over the edge of Natalie’s eye. Smudge it. I smear charcoal across the sheet of paper, like I smeared the teardrop across her cheek earlier.

I reach in my pocket for my cell phone and maybe I am a little drunk when my brother’s groggy voice comes on the line and I look at the time. It’s almost four in the morning.

“Sergio?” Salvatore asks, then with more urgency, “Is everything okay?” He must just realize the time.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.”

Pause. “You sure?”

I grunt. I can’t drag my eyes from hers as I reach for the bottle and drink straight from it.