“That would require my mother to ever disagree with my father. In public, at least,” I say.
I’ve known for years that whatever my parents want in a son, I’m lacking it. I know that whatever they didn’t see in me they saw in Matt, their next child, their perfect, shining example of how a son should be. I was never their favorite, never quite good enough, useful and dependable but never really special. I shouldn’t be surprised at what’s happened, not really.
Sadie was one of the golden children, and that’s the real problem. When she fell out of their high esteem she fell fast and hard, and I know that must hurt.
“My offer to tell them to go fuck themselves still stands,” Silas says. “You can consider it a perma-offer, even. Seems like you need it.”
Despite myself, I smile.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Telling them off would be an honor,” he says, and pushes himself out of his chair. “You guys want soup, or what?”
A few hours later, after the potluck is finished and Javier, Wyatt and I are leaving Silas’s house, Javier waves goodbye to Wyatt and turns to me on the street outside.
“Listen, Gideon,” he says, and for someone who’s usually got paint on his shirt and fidgets non-stop, he’s got surprising gravity. “Parents can be really fucked up, and it’s—it’s fucked up how they treat you guys. But, you know, I get it. I still pick up the phone every time my dad calls, even when I swear I won’t.”
It’s dark, past ten, the damp chill of a February night in the mountains. Clouds cover the stars and at the edges of Silas’s street, bare tree branches poke against the sky like barely-visible fingers. Javier’s taller than me, his hair gently lifted in a slight breeze, dark eyes and high cheekbones and a wide mouth that smiles a lot.
“Did he ever apologize?” I ask, because even though he’s talked about it plenty of times, I’ve never thought to ask that question.
Javier snorts and tries to smile, though it doesn’t quite stick. “You think Admiral Raul Lopez apologizes?” he says, the cheer in his voice forced, too. “Nah. He’d have to think he had something to apologize for.”
“There it is,” I say, and sigh. “Thanks. Get home safe, okay?”
Javier rolls his eyes, but now he’s smiling for real as he walks toward his own car.
“You want me to text you when I get there?”
In lieu of an answer, I flip him off.
When I empty out my pockets before bed that night, Elliott’s note is still in there. I still haven’t called, even though Reid’s hounding me, even though I know Elliott is depending on me to contact him.
It feels heavy, that note. It’s been weighing on me, like I’ve forgotten to pull up an anchor before setting sail.
Elliott’s going to ask me to tell our parents. He’s going to ask me, in that careful, slightly hesitant way he has, to invite them if they seem receptive. To tell the rest of our siblings that he doesn’t talk to any more. To see if some of them—any of them—might remember the brother who tucked them in at night and made perfect paper airplanes, and might want him to be their brother again.
And it’ll be down to me to break the bad news to him: they don’t. I tell them—told them, I guess, past tense—how he was doing, sometimes, but they never asked. I wanted them to, just once. Not that I could ask them now, either.
Fuck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ANDI
At the round table in the corner of Debbie’s, the four of us are impressed into silence by the pies. Or maybe we’re overwhelmed. It’s a little hard to tell.
“Is this the amount of pie you were imagining?” Kat finally asks, breaking the silence.
“Of course,” Silas says, and grins at her. “I know what eight slices of pie look like.”
“You do now.”
“I’m just having a moment of silence for my dream coming true at last,” he says, and then kisses her on the cheek, his nose bumping her glasses. “Thanks for making it happen.”
Kat manages to scrunch her face, push up her glasses, and look embarrassed and pleased, all at once. “Well, they were easy dreams,” she says. “What’s first?”
“I feel like we should have labeled them,” Silas says.
“Too late. No one but God can help you now,” I say, already sort of leaning over the table. “I think that one’s key lime? And that one’s chocolate for sure.”
“Just pick a pie and eat it,” Gideon says. “You’ll get to them all eventually.”
Silas leans in, tapping his fork against his lower lip, and examines each slice of pie one by one.
“Oh, for fuck’s—”
“That one! Eat that one.”
Silas listens to neither Gideon nor Kat, reaches all the way over the table, and selects a mystery pie. It’s sort of pale and piled high with what’s either meringue, whipped cream, or possibly cool whip, and it wobbles slightly as he brings it toward himself. I think Kat’s trying not to laugh and Gideon’s still pretending to be grumpy about how long this is taking, but it’s Silas’s birthday—well, his birthday week, which he’s been using to his advantage—so we all tolerate him.
Silas slices a bite. He examines it. Finally, he eats it, chews thoughtfully, and doesn’t seem to mind at all that three people are staring at him while he does it.
“Verdict?” Kat asks as he swallows.
“I think that was banana cream,” he says. “What’s our rating scale? Are we doing out of five or out of ten?”
“Five, it’s easier,” says Gideon, as I reach across the table and swipe a piece of what I’m pretty sure is lemon meringue.
“Three and a half stars, then.”
“If you’re going to give half stars, rate them out of ten,” Kat says.
“Seven and a half stars,” Silas says, scooping up another piece of pie and grinning at her.
Kat opens her mouth, closes it, sighs, and reaches across the table for the chocolate pie.
“You’re impossible,” she says.
“You like it,” Silas says, looking pleased as anything with his mouth full of pie, and Kat laughs and rolls her eyes but doesn’t disagree.
It’s Friday night, and Debbie’s Diner is pretty full, mostly with teenagers who probably have nowhere better to go in Sprucevale. It’s a little loud but in a bright, fun way that makes me think of house parties in the suburbs that I wasn’t supposed to go to when I was that age and did. It’s a far cry from the constant noise and light of Brooklyn, something I loved when I was younger.
I don’t think I miss it, now. Sometimes I feel like I should, though.
Next to me, Gideon frowns, pointing his fork at a pie.
“That’s not strawberry,” he proclaims.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. An abomination,” he says. “It’s—grape, or something?”
Obviously, the rest of us all reach for it at once. It’s sort of red-pink-purple and creamy, and I put it into my mouth while watching Gideon’s face. He looks apprehensive.