No. It’s not fair to him. I can’t do that. I can’t. His life is here. He’s building it in Seafare and will continue to do so even when I’m not.

“It’s just….” I try to articulate, but it seems petty, childish. It seems beneath me that I should have these fears, that I should be feeling this way. It’s not who I am. It’s not the way I want to be. It’s not the way I was raised. I am so much bigger than this. I am so much stronger than this. Bear was better than this, and the stuff he had to go through was harder than anything I’m going through. I know nothing of sacrifice. I know nothing of pain. Not like what he had to do.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t ache with it.

Bear still waits, and he’s going to want an answer sooner rather than later. One of the promises I made when I stopped going to therapy was that I would talk out these moments, that I wouldn’t let them turn into something more. I laughed it off back then, figuring I was cured from my incredible neurosis, as even Bear seemed to have chilled as he got older. I made the promise, though. It was the only way Eddie, Otter, and Bear would agree to stop the weekly sessions.

And I’ve been fine. Mostly.

Puberty blows. I’m moody for no reason. I’m anxious. I’ve got hair growing in the oddest places. My voice cracks every now and then like it’s made of fragile glass. My eyebrows seem to want to make a unibrow. And I expected to shoot up at least another four or five inches, but no. Of course not. I’m a tiny, fretful, hairy dwarf, and I can’t wait until I outgrow this and get on with the rest of my life. Being a teenager is not all it’s cracked up to be. I can’t wait until I hit my midthirties.

And still he waits. Bear never had this much patience six years ago. It’s annoying is what it is. I think about growling at him to go away, but that’ll just make things worse. My hands are tense in his. He can feel it. He has to.

I’m articulate, so why can’t I find the words? Why does it seem like I’ll shatter if I open my mouth?

In. Hold for three seconds.

You can do this.

Out. Hold for three seconds.

Tell him. Just open your mouth and tell him.

“This is it, you know?” I tell him quietly.

“What’s it, Kid?”

I hesitate.

“Kid?” Otter asks. “Do you want me to leave so you and Bear can talk?”

I shake my head at once. “No. I need you here too, okay? You’re Otter. I need you as much as I need Bear.” And that’s true, but I still glance quickly at Bear, just to make sure that doesn’t make him mad. I don’t want him to be mad about something like that. It’s just gotten to the point in my head where they’re a team, they face things together. Bear’s my brother, but Otter’s my… what? Brother? Uncle?