Connor.

Connor.

A number I don’t recognize.

And finally, Gabriel.

None of them leave messages, so I make up fake ones in my head from Gabriel, like I’m sorry. I was joking, I’d never sleep with random guys “just for sex” when I knew I was going to be seeing you.

Then the me in my head gets mad at the Gabriel in there. You weren’t supposed to turn into my brother, I yell. You should have figured this out before you came up to me at the club. Before you kissed me and asked me out and came to spend the night with me.

And then I get mad at myself, because who am I to tell him to get his shit together when I can’t deal with my own?

My parents aren’t due back for another four hours. I waste two of them watching shit TV and pretending to play guitar.

I wish I was one of those people who could turn pain into art, but I can’t play well when my mind is a mess.

Then there’s a sharp knock on the door.

My mind races. James went to rehearsal. Becky wouldn’t come over knowing that Gabriel was supposed to be here. Maybe it’s Mrs. Wyatt from down the hall, checking to see if my mom can watch her cat.

I try to ignore it, but the pounding continues.

I drag myself up and open the door without even looking through the peephole, almost hoping it’s some deranged killer who can put me out of my misery.

What the hell, dickhead? my brother says. How many freaking times do I need to call before you answer the phone?

I don’t want a lecture, particularly not one from Connor, but before I can slam the door closed, he’s pushed himself into the living room.

Dad isn’t back yet, right? he asks, his eyes shifting as if he’s realizing all of a sudden that this could have gone badly for him.

What do you want? I ask, turning and retreating to my room.

Connor follows and stands blocking the doorway with his outstretched arms. He looks better than he has in weeks. Healthier. Taller, if that’s possible. I realize it’s been actual years since he’s been in the apartment. For all of my comments about him moving home, I’m not sure he even fits here anymore. It’s like he’s too big, too loud, too Connor.

What do you want? I ask again as he scans the room, looking for changes. Or perhaps looking to see what’s stayed the same.

I wanted to keep you from doing something stupid, he says. Did you screw him?

You can leave at any—I start to say, but Connor pushes me up against the back of the door, my hanging robe thankfully cushioning the blow.

I’m not messing around, he yells, face scrunched up, way too close to mine. Answer me, he demands. Did you have sex with him?

I push my brother back as hard as I can and walk under his arm. Man, I say, going for the jugular, you sound just like Dad.