The house clears fast; a few stragglers hug their goodbyes before hiking to their parked cars, but mostly everyone flocks beachward.

Autumn, flanked by her girlfriends, asks if I’m ready to head down. She’s still in her yellow two-piece, except she’s slipped back on her shorts; a thin yellow band peeks out over her denim waist. I tell her I’ll meet her, that I wanna enjoy the view a bit longer. She kisses my cheek, whispers in my ear: “Are you okay?”

I nod, kiss her back.

But the truth is, I’m not.

Because despite my best efforts, my brain’s abuzz with what to do about Q.

So, naturally, a moment later, I plow right into him, knocking him to the ground.

“Yo, Q, my bad, man.” I extend a hand, which he ignores. “I mean, Quincy. Sorry.”

He brushes himself off without a word.

“Look, I’m sorry for barreling into you. And for interfering earlier. I was just trying to . . .” I think about what Dr. Ocean’s always saying at therapy, that I can only control what I say and do, but not the response. I can’t force someone to see it my way, to feel as I do. I shake my head. “Actually, you know what? It’s not important. Have a good night, Quincy.”

I start for the beach, but I don’t get far before spinning around. “You’re not hitting the beach?” I call back.

Q tilts his head. “Nah.”

“You should,” I reply too quickly, triggering an awkward silence as we both contemplate how to proceed. I pretend to wring my mostly dry shorts.

Q clears his throat. “It was ginger ale.”

“Huh?”

“I wasn’t chugging beer, man.”

I laugh. “For real?”

“I’m not an idiot. Or did you forget that, too?”

And I stop laughing.

Because yes, I deserve that.

But also, the thing I didn’t forget is this: Q’s refusal to accept his share of the blame.

To own his mistakes.

He swivels back to me. “Actually, I am gonna hit up the beach.”

And I nod, as the moonlight pushes Q’s shadow into the rocks below.

95

For seven years, we were the Best Kind of Brothers.

We’d lie in our blanket forts, or in my backyard, sleeping bags zipped to our chins, staring at stars. Each time, the sky felt new.

We watched 757s punch into clouds, and we’d brag about how special this was.

We were better than blood because we’d chosen our brotherhood.

Because we kept choosing, time and again.

We started three tree houses that never got further than sketches on notebook paper and a few boards nailed into trees.

We were built to last.

We stretched our jokes for days, years.