“Hence the swimming for hours on end?”

“I like to swim.”

“I know. But . . .”

“Yes, I always have to be better and do more. I don’t know. . . . I guess I thought if I did the most and did it the best maybe I could make them . . . see me.” I had been competing with my dead brother. No wonder why I hadn’t been crying at his ceremonies. I had started seeing him as the enemy, the competition. Was I seriously just now realizing my motivations for how hard I pushed myself? And in front of Jackson Holt? That was my fear, wasn’t it? The one I couldn’t articulate to Heath Hall the other night. The reason I feared expressing my frustrations to my parents. I feared that if I told my parents how I really felt, they would admit that there was no competition. They would admit that Eric had already won. And if they admitted it, then I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. I couldn’t talk myself out of that truth.

I turned toward the window and wiped at a fresh set of tears that silently slipped down my cheeks. It took a few deep breaths for me to regain my control and turn back again.

Jackson pointed to the padded envelope on the floor. “So you won an award for your parents?”

I laughed, then sniffled. “Yes! And do you want to know the worst part about it? It didn’t matter. They didn’t want to go to the awards ceremony. They still chose him.”

He seemed to analyze my comment. “Was it a choice between an event for him and one for you?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Yes, actually, it was.”

“But that’s not fair. I mean, that would be hard for a parent to have to choose between their kids. You must’ve wanted to support him too because you obviously missed your own awards ceremony if you were just getting that award today.”

“I did miss my awards ceremony. For his charity banquet.”

“I’m sure he appreciated it.”

“He didn’t.”

“Unless he told you that he didn’t, you can’t just assume—”

“He’s dead.”

He cussed under his breath, then his eyebrows shot up. “Well, technically you still can’t assume he didn’t appreciate it.”

I laughed.

“Now you laugh at me?”

“I already cried enough, right?”

“I’m sorry. When did he . . .”

“Die?”

“Yes.”

“Eighteen years ago.”

“So . . .”

“I didn’t know him. He died of cancer before I was born. That truck on our lawn? That’s his truck. It’s been there for eighteen years.” I put my head back against the seat. “If that truck won an award the same night I did, they would go to its ceremony over mine because it belonged to my brother.”