I choke on her sense of denial, wondering if she even believes what she’s saying.

Still, as she continues to pour soup, I resist the urge to remind her that she did nothing when Connor really needed her to keep my father from kicking him out of the house. Maybe she tried, and Dad shot her down too. Maybe she’s made the same pact with the devil that I have, and silence is her security blanket. Her safety net.

Connor is huddled on the couch under 142 blankets.

You really do look like crap, I say.

He pulls the blankets aside, and I see he’s wearing mismatched pajamas. I didn’t know he owned pajamas, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in anything mismatched. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he winces whenever he swallows.

What happened to Destiny, anyhow? I ask.

You know, stairs, he croaks out. And, well…Greg.

Okay, so why isn’t Greg here taking care of you?

It isn’t that kind of thing, Connor says.

And your four thousand friends?

Connor sighs. I didn’t want them to see me like this. No offense, but I don’t really care what you think I look like at the moment.

I avoid offering a comeback only because his voice is weak, and I can still hear his raspy breathing as I step over to rummage around the small kitchen. I reach into a cabinet and pull out a stuffed Dalmatian, a saddle shoe with MAURICE printed across the bottom, a huge bag of weed.

Eventually, I find an empty pot in the oven, heat Mom’s soup, and take it to him.

While he’s sipping it out of a mug that says GAG ME WITH A SPOON, Connor says, I always thought I’d be the kind of big brother who could teach you stuff. You know, how to be a man and all that shit.

I stare at him. I can’t even think of Connor as an adult, much less a man. And also, he must be feverish. This isn’t the type of stuff my brother and I talk about.

Well, you know, I still have Dad, I say, and we both crack up.

I wash out my mom’s Tupperware in the tiny kitchen sink, leave a stack of quarters on the table for laundry, and ask Connor, Do you think Dad kicked you out for being gay or for embarrassing him in public?

Connor blows on his soup and rakes a hand through his uncharacteristically unwashed hair. What? he asks, suddenly angry. You think you can finesse this? You think you can go home and tell him you’re screwing some guy in a way that will make him pat you on the back and offer you a beer?

No, I answer, I just… I don’t know.

Michael. He pauses and shakes his head. Don’t be an idiot.

Music has always been my sanctuary. But now it’s only a loud voice in my head.

When are you going to play a show, Michael? A gig? Music in front of real people instead of the dusty photos that sit on the bookcase?