Sure, I’ll call my brother, I think. Either it will take him two weeks to call me back because he’s out with his friends, or he’ll make plans with me and stand me up anyhow.

Of course, I say to her. Nothing to worry about.

I take more soup to Connor’s as a ruse for having a quiet place to make a call and figure that he’ll at least have something to eat in the apartment.

Can I use your phone?

What are you up to? he croaks from the couch, shielding his eyes from the sunlight I’ve invited into the room by committing the cardinal sin of opening the curtains.

Can I use your phone or not?

He waves at the wall in the kitchen. Yeah, whatever.

I wait for the apartment’s radiator to stop clanging and then dial, counting the rings that tell me Gabriel isn’t going to answer.

But just as I’m getting ready to hang up, he comes on the line, voice groggy.

I glance at the clock. Half past two.

Did I wake you? I ask. Hard night?

Then I blush when I hear him stretch and say, It would have been if you’d been here.

I want to ask what he did to still be sleeping. And who he was doing it with. But those aren’t questions he ever answers, so I swallow them and clear my throat. Listening for any sign that Connor has moved from his perch of pillows to eavesdrop.

My parents are going out of town this weekend, I say into the phone. And I owe you dinner.

Dinner?

Well, you took me out and all, I remind him. And, I mean, we’d have the house to ourselves.

Well, then… Gabriel lets the sentence fade into a smile I can hear over the line.

Yes, I answer. Well, then.

In the living room, Connor is curled up on the couch, flipping through an old copy of TV Guide. From the cover, the cast of M*A*S*H wave goodbye. Smiling as if the war was some game, which I guess it was to them. They’re only actors, after all.

Are you sure you aren’t sick? I ask. I mean, he must be if he wasn’t putting a glass up against the room divider to try to listen to my call or even giving me a hard time about it.

Nah, too much to drink last night. Destiny had a show.

Destiny? I ask. The one who can’t be bothered to walk upstairs?

Don’t judge. Would you want to walk up five flights of stairs in six-inch stilettos?

I stare at him, relieved that everything is back to normal. Kind of.

Seriously, Michael, I’m good, he says weakly.

Sure you are, tough guy. Remember that the next time you want me to schlep Mom’s soup from the Upper West Side.

In an odd surge of brotherly camaraderie, I pull out the photo of me and Gabriel from my bag and pass it to Connor.