"Do I?"
"You're thirty-five, right?" I tease.
He shakes his head. "Eighty."
"Really?"
He laughs. "Maybe."
"You have to tell me your skin care routine. You look amazing."
"Not a day over forty?"
"Yeah." I reach up to run my fingers through his hair. "You look twenty-five."
"That a good thing?"
"It suits you." I rise to my tiptoes and press my lips to his. "I should get your present."
He nods to the back room. "It wasn't that?"
My smile spreads over my lips. "Better."
"Unless it's a tape of you fucking yourself, it's not."
"A tape?"
"Any format."
"Okay. It's almost as good." I squeeze his hand as I step backward. This gift really is perfect.
The bell rings. Heeled footsteps move through the door.
Conversations drop to a murmur.
The room gets quiet.
Too quiet.
No…
Walker's sister is here.
She spots me and folds her arms. Her eyes fill with something. Regret or threat or offense. I don't know. But I don't like it.
I swallow hard.
Walker looks to me. "Give me a minute."
“Of course.” I nod, but the steadiness in my voice is bullshit.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Walker
Sunset streaks the sky orange.
Waves crash half a dozen blocks to the east.
The beach breeze blows over my arms.
But that isn't why I'm cold.
It's the serious look in my sister's dark eyes. The one that usually precedes I'm sorry I slipped again. Please rescue me. Please justify my bad decisions.
"Hey." My sister pulls her arms over her chest. She plays with her black tank top. "I, uh, Dean mentioned the party. I wasn't sure if you'd want me here."
Fuck, that's a difficult question. "You okay?"
"Same old, same old." She stares at her dark nails. "Mom keeps dropping hints that I should go back to rehab."
Sounds like Mom. She's yet to set a date for Bree's not exactly an intervention. According to Mom, Bree hasn't slipped up again, so she's not in need of an intervention.
I don't know what to believe.
I never do.
"It's for the best," I say.
Bree shakes her head. She presses her red lips together. She always looks put together. Even when she's high. "I… I'm not here about that." She pulls a small envelope from her pocket. "Can we have one day of normal?"
"That's up to you."
She offers me the envelope. "No, Walker. It doesn't matter what I do. You look at me as a pathetic screwup. I don't blame you. I know I've made your life hard. I know you don't believe I care about getting better. But I do." Her eyes turn down. "Just take it, okay?"
I do. "Thanks."
"You can open it. Or do it later. It's up to you."
"You want me to open it now?"
Her nod is sad.
Am I this much of an asshole?
I can't deny any of her claims. Bree is a pathetic screwup. It's a dick thing to say, but it's the truth.
She grinds my heart to dust every chance she gets.
Maybe she isn't doing it on purpose.
But she certainly isn't doing anything to stop herself.
The envelope is royal blue. Like my room at home—our parents never really let our rooms grow with us. Hers is all princesses and ballerinas. Mine is baseball and surfboards.
"I do care, Walker. I love you. I want you to be proud of me." She twirls a dark strand around her finger. "I just…" Her voice cracks. It's heavy. Like she's about to burst into tears. "Open it, okay?"
It's like we're kids again. Like we're the only two people who have a fucking clue our parents aren't perfect. Like we're gearing up to watch a marathon of 80s movies—half sci-fi, half romance, all with enough candy to make us sick.
Bree never was good with moderation.
I unpeel the envelope and pull out the card. There's a cartoon picture of two bears hugging—one is wearing a baseball cap, the other is wearing a tutu.
I know you're my brother…
But sometimes you're unBEARable.
Happy Birthday
Her neat handwriting is all over the bottom half of the card.
Happy Birthday, Walker. I know it's been a long time since I've been the older sister you deserve. I'm sorry I've been so "unBEARable." And sorry for the silly pun. It made me think of that trip we took to Big Bear, the one where Mom and Dad locked themselves in the cabin.
Love,
Bree
"There's something else." She unfurls her palms to show off a small, round token. "I know you think I'm not trying. But you're wrong." She holds out her hands.
It's her two-month chip.
"I'm going to meetings. And therapy. I want to be better. I want to feel like a real adult, and not some screwup who's still living with her parents when she's pushing thirty. I know I had those slip ups… I know I let you down. But I really am trying." She blinks back a tear. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to—"
"No, it's okay." I pull my sister into a hug. Two months sober. Fuck, I can't believe it.
My shoulders feel lighter. My chest feels looser. Everything feels warmer. Brighter.
Maybe she's telling the truth.
Maybe this is going to be okay.
Maybe there's no dramatic left turn in Bree's story. Maybe rehab stint five was enough.
I stare back at my sister. "What changed?"
"Well." She bites her fingernail. "I guess I realized that you might forgive me one day."
Huh? "You thought I wouldn't?"
"Of course… And I'd understand. I deserved it. But when I saw you with Iris."
What the fuck? "What's she have to do with it?"
Bree's eyes fill with surprise. "She hasn't told you?"
"Hasn't told me what?"
"Oh. I… forget I said anything." She presses her lips together. "Please. Forget it."
"Forget what?"
She shakes her head. "I can tell I'm getting glares from your friends. I owe a lot of them apologies, but I'm not going to hijack your birthday—"
"Bree, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"Iris."
"What about Iris?"
She swallows hard. "Never mind."
What the hell could Bree possibly know about Iris? My fingers curl into fists. "Tell me."
She presses her lips together. Something fills her eyes, something I haven't seen from her in a long, long time.
Pity.
I blink. It's still there.
My sister pities me?
What the fuck?
This doesn't make any sense.
She's met Iris once. What could she possibly know?
"Bree. What the fuck?"
"I shouldn't say anything."
"What the hell does that mean?" I stare back into her eyes.