"It's ugly and it doesn't suit me anymore, but if I changed it…"
"It would be like erasing the past."
"Exactly." He picks up his drink and takes a long sip. His posture softens as he sits. He's relaxing. Letting his guard down. "My sister… I love her. But she doesn't have her shit together. She's always looking for me to bail her out of trouble."
"Like?"
"Some loser ditching her at a bar. Whatever. Anything. I want to help. But she's at the point…" He shakes his head. "I try to put my foot down, but she always slinks back to our parents, and they let her get away with murder."
"Mine are the same way with me."
"What have you ever done bad enough to deserve that?"
"A lot."
"I don't believe you."
"Well… I have." I'm not going to tell him. But I've done plenty of shitty things. Most of them are a blur, yeah, but a few are fresh enough to sting. "My parents are proud of me for everything. They act like I've never made a mistake. Like this fight between me and Lily will blow over any day now, even though it's been two years that she hasn't spoken to me."
"That must hurt."
"It does. But I deserved it."
"And now?"
"I don't know. I'd understand if she couldn't forgive me."
"For?"
"Lying to her." That's close enough to the truth.
He leans back. Taps the chair with his hand. "It was that bad?"
"Worse."
He raises a brow. "Not sure if I believe you."
"It doesn't matter. It's true. I was miserable after college. I hated my job. I was desperate to go to grad school, but I kept bombing the GRE. I started looking for other things to blame. Or ways to feel better. I lashed out at Lily a lot." When she was trying to help me get sober, but, hey, it's still true. "Said things you can't take back."
"Still. That's your sister."
"You've never considered cutting off your sister?"
His eyes turn down.
"I don't know what she's done. Or any of the details. But whenever you mention her—it's like your whole body goes tense."
"Am I that obvious?"
I nod. "If she makes you that miserable…"
"Yeah." He presses his lips together. "I've considered it." He pushes himself to his feet. "We should go if we want to make the movie."
I nod. "Okay. You know, I'm not trying—"
"I know."
"I just… I do like talking to you. And you can talk to me. If you ever want to talk to someone about things. We are friends."
He nods. "Same goes for you." He offers his hand. "You'll be the first person I discuss this with. I promise."
I believe him.
I'm not sure what he means by this but I believe him.
Chapter Eighteen
Walker
My phone keeps buzzing.
I give up on ignoring it halfway through Blade Runner and check my messages in the bathroom. They're all from Bree. All drunken apologies and pleas for help. Not the kind of help she needs.
The kind of help easily solved by a rideshare app.
Half a dozen voicemail messages in the last two hours. It's late on a Friday. She's probably at some shitty bar with some asshole.
I'm not rescuing her again.
It isn't happening.
I press my back against the beige wall. The bathroom is empty. The two silver stalls are unlocked. The wide sink is clean. Dry. The shiny mirror reflects my inability to cut Bree off back at me.
It's going to be like this until she ODs and doesn't get help fast enough.
Are you going to run to her side until the day you get there and she's a fucking corpse?
Shit. I don't want to do this. But I have to.
I call my parents. First Mom. Her cell goes to voicemail. I try Dad. His message greets me.
Hello, you've reached Robert Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you.
It's all business. Like him.
"Dad, call me. We need to talk about Bree." I hang up.
It's late, nearly two a.m. They're sleeping. This isn't the time for this conversation.
But then it never is.
I shoot my sister a text.
Walker: You want to make it up to me? Take an Uber home.
I set one hand on the counter and stare back at my reflection.
It continues mocking me.
This could be it. I can tell her to get lost right now. I can tell her she's out of my life forever, block her number, and never hear from her again.
It would mean ceasing most communication with my parents.
And all her old friends.
And more or less sentencing her to die with a syringe in her hand.
But it's been a fucking eternity and I haven't been able to do much about that.
It takes a few minutes for her to text back.
Sabrina: You're mad.
No shit, I'm mad.
She's like a child.
Walker: It's nearly two, Bree. Go home. Sleep it off. Call me when you're sober.
That's all I can take tonight.
I turn my cell off, slide it into my pocket, and make my way back to Iris.
Her blue eyes are glued to the screen. She leans back in her seat as she breaks a square from a fancy chocolate bar—this place actually sells good chocolate, though it's still at ridiculous movie theater prices.
She looks to me and offers me the square.
I take it. Nod thank you.
She tilts her head, assessing me, looking for cracks.
Finding them.
She leans in to whisper. "Your sister?"
"Yeah."
I press my palm into my quad. Fuck, it feels weird admitting that. I'm itchy all over. Desperate to get the fuck out of this chair and be somewhere, anywhere, else.
"You want to talk about it?" she whispers.
I shake my head.
"You want more chocolate?"
I laugh. "Yeah."
The guy behind us lets out a loud shush.
It's an obnoxious move. But he's right. Talking during Blade Runner is fucked up.
She breaks off another square and hands it to me.
I nod a thank you and lean back in my seat.
Iris follows suit.
I let my hand find hers. It feels good the way it did in middle school, when holding hands was a big fucking deal. When a kiss was everything. When I actually thought I might love a woman one day.
I try to focus on the futuristic Los Angeles flashing on the screen, but I can't.
This situation with Bree is fucked up.
Usually, I jump straight to denial. Even with the guys at the shop. Even though they all know Bree's an addict.
A long time ago, Brendon, Dean, and I used to party together. Sometimes with Bree. We all drank too much and occasionally dabbled in narcotics.
We grew out of it. Got bored.
She didn't.
It's my fault she's like this.
I should have stopped her then.
Even if she was—is—my older sister.
Even if she was into it first.
I don't want to carry the weight of this myself anymore.