It’s mine. My grief, my guilt, all of it—it belongs to me, and it’s mine to go through. I had no idea how possessive I felt over Caleb, even now. Even though Max probably has more claim to that room, if he wants to make the argument. But he doesn’t.
Instead Max seems to remember that he doesn’t look at me anymore, and I remember that I don’t touch him, and we quickly disentangle and look away. I find Julian, sit beside him on the couch, listen to him tell the stories about college, poised and filtered because of the fact his coach is listening, and so is the coach’s wife.
And then he says, “I need to get Jessa home,” and I roll my eyes. He says a thousand goodbyes, all perfect smiles and perfect handshakes. Even his hair, which is the same color and texture as my own, obeys him, while mine inevitably succumbs to chaos by the end of the day, with either static or humidity, depending on the time of year.
On the walk back to his car, he says, “Thanks for the excuse. That was totally painful, right?”
“Totally,” I say.
We go to a movie. We get ice cream after. It’s midnight when we arrive back home, and our parents are asleep, and I sit in the car beside Julian in the driveway as he drums his fingers softly on the steering wheel, like he’s working himself up to something.
“I’m sorry, Jessa,” he says.
I want to tell him to stop, but it’s too late. He’s already said it, and everything comes back in a rush, like a flood. I feel my eyes burn, the hot tears on my face, as I look away.
He sits beside me with the engine off, until the cold from the outside seeps through the steel door, my jacket, the layers of clothing, my skin.
I wipe the side of my face before opening the car door, and he hands me a tissue without saying a word. I take it, ball it up, say, “Of course you have a tissue. Of course.”
“I should’ve come home,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. Mom was right. You needed to stay, get used to college. Acclimate.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Did she really say ‘acclimate’?”
“She really did. I overheard her talking to Dad about it.” I look straight at my brother then. Give him the absolution I so desperately want myself. “There was nothing you could’ve done. Really.” And then I push the door open, step out into the November night.
“No,” he says as he exits the car. “I should’ve been here. She was wrong.”
I turn around, grinning. “Oh my God, don’t tell her that. Never tell her that.”
He smiles as we walk to the front door.
It’s my key that lets us back in, where my parents have left the entryway lights on. I head up the steps, and he lingers near the kitchen. We don’t say goodbye, even though I know I won’t see him tomorrow.
Everyone says I’m so lucky to have Julian as my brother, and I roll my eyes. But I know this. I know I am.
It’s easier to leave before everyone else is up. Before the questions begin. Before the chaos of Julian leaving and the inevitable silence that follows—where we’re all trying to figure out how to be with each other, without ball games to schedule and booster clubs to run, and the fact that it’s always my turn to clear the table.
There are two possible routes between Caleb’s house, in Old Stone Pointe, and my own, in East Arbor. The first is a loop outside the town centers, hooking back in through the other side, closer to the shore. It avoids the traffic lights, but also takes a little longer—closer to twenty minutes instead of fifteen. The other cuts clear across the county, a direct path through the town centers, separated by residential streets, strip malls, and the river.
I decide on coffee. I decide on the river. I haven’t been this way since. But there’s something about being in his room that shakes everything loose.
First come the strip of stores, the gas station, the ice cream place, and the dress shop. The sky is light, but there’s a sense of fog, a blurriness as I approach the sign.
Coats Memorial Bridge. The road narrowing and the trees thickening, and my hands gripping the wheel, my lungs burning with the breath I’m holding.
It never occurred to us to question what this bridge was a memorial for.
The sunlight catches on a new stretch of guardrail in the corner of my vision. And then I’m past it, and my breath releases. The trees thin out again, the stores begin picking up, and I pull into the lot of the coffee shop I used to meet Hailey at on Saturday mornings, setting up in the corner booth with our schoolwork and a chocolate scone and coffee (for me) and hot chocolate (for her).
The clerk doesn’t look up after handing me the cup, steaming hot against my cold hands. It’s not until I have it in my grip that I realize there’s a tremor in my fingers. The guy looks up and smiles. “Sure you haven’t had enough already?”
I take a sip, and it burns the roof of my mouth. “I’m sure.”
On the way back to my car, I see her: Hailey, in the car with her parents, eating something with a paper wrapper. She’s in a dress, like usual, but more modest than her typical flared style, this one with a higher collar and in a shade of navy. Even through the window, I can tell her makeup is toned down. They’re on the way to or from church, I decide.
I don’t knock or wave or anything, but I can tell the moment she sees me. She stops chewing, the food still positioned between her teeth. I raise my hand to her, and she slowly raises hers back, her eyes wide, like she hasn’t seen me in ages. And maybe she hasn’t. I’ve built a nice, dark cocoon for myself these last few months, the sheen of everything around me dulled and filtered. I’ve been to school. I’ve been home. I’ve kept moving.
But I’ve quit the team. And I’ve quit my friends. Or my friends have quit me. I can’t really remember which way it went—my lack of response, or their lack of attempt. All I know is that it felt like relief. Nothing is expected or required of me; there’s nothing to mess up, no actions to undo or words to unsay. My presence or absence affects no one. I am blameless.
I think the last time I spoke to Hailey might’ve been at Caleb’s service, but I can’t remember what she said, or what I said. I do remember her shoes: silver, with straps. I remember wondering if she had anything more appropriate, then thought: probably not. I don’t remember if I voiced that out loud. I probably did. That’s probably part of the problem.
I couldn’t tell you what happened there, because it still struck me as such a ridiculous concept: the service. Up front, there was a montage of pictures of him—some including me. And more: Caleb in his lacrosse uniform, with his teammates. Caleb giving his sister a piggyback ride. Younger versions of Caleb and Max smiling up at the camera, a pile of wood between them, a hammer in Caleb’s hand.