This is what makes sense.
What we have to do.
Xavier knocks.
This is it.
"Ready, Celine?" he asks.
She nods. And she waits patiently.
I hold him for a long time. Until my arms are numb.
But even then, I'm not ready to say goodbye.
I slide my nephew into his mother's arms.
I squeeze his tiny hand one more time.
Then I send them away.
The last piece of my brother.
Gone.
Lost to me forever.
But safe.
Alive.
Chapter Forty-Two
VANESSA
My mom notes my puffy eyes, hugs me, asks if I'm okay.
When I say no, she gives me space.
I sit in my bedroom, the one I claimed when we moved into Daddy's massive apartment, and lie on my bed.
Still a twin.
Still covered in red sheets.
Still cozy and warm.
My only safe space, for a long time.
And it's still safe, practically speaking.
But the rest?
I don't know.
I lie in bed, leafing through my copy of The Bell Jar, wondering why it took so long for anyone to realize I had a problem.
And I still do.
The same.
And different.
The day passes. Darkness falls. I find a lighter book. One of Lee's castoffs. A melodramatic teen drama.
Filled with problematic shit.
And a beautiful, brief escape.
Only for a few minutes at a time. The problematic shit pulls me out of the fantasy. But those few minutes—
I need them.
Eventually, Lee knocks on my door.
She doesn't wait, of course. She slips inside. Climbs into bed with me.
"What happened?" she asks.
I don't know where to start, so I wrap my arms around her.
"Are you okay?"
"Better with you here." And I know she's okay. I know she's alive and vibrant and with someone who will never, ever hurt her.
I'll never have to say goodbye to her son or daughter because Harrison is after her.
I'll never have to lose her that way.
A million bad things might happen, but not that.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.
I shake my head.
"Do you want to talk about the new position me and Harrison tried?"
I nod.
"It's that bad?"
"It is."
"Simon?"
"Everything."
"His dick is too big?"
My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders. "Of course."
"And he's a minute man."
I shake my head.
"No technique?"
I shake my head.
"No ability to be gentle with your heart?"
"Can we not talk?"
"Of course, Vee. Whatever you need. I love you."
"I love you, too."
It's easy with her.
It's not easy with anyone else, but it's easy with her.
I'm lucky. My sister is always here for me. She's always ready to protect me.
She's always ready to help me put myself back together.
I've never given her a chance.
I've never let myself show weakness.
This time, I do.
This time, I fall apart.
Lee and I stay up all night.
In the morning, she calls in sick. And then calls in sick for me.
She fixes breakfast poorly, makes tea, streams a comedy known for its obsession with doing the right thing.
We don't talk about Simon or work or the fucked-up state of my life.
Only what we want to eat for lunch—definitely not more of her cooking—and where we want to get tea.
She convinces me to go to a fancy spot in midtown.
It's a beautiful day. Bright but not hot. Vibrant and alive.
And, there, in the air-conditioned cafe, sipping Earl Grey and nibbling on scones, I tell her about my parents.
What I saw.
What I remember.
What she's always known but never heard from me.
She hugs me tightly. So tightly, I think she'll never let go. All maternal softness and gentle love.
Then she snaps back to the Lee I know. "You need to talk to someone. A professional. Deal with this before you go back to the office."
"I know."
"What if this isn't healthy for you? This work?"
"I can't abandon my job."
"You can't save the world if you're drowning."
"Lee—"
"I'll make the appointment." She pulls out her cell, makes a few calls, bam.
I have a session with a therapist who specializes in survivors.
A referral from the therapist who works with us.
A long time coming.
Chapter Forty-Three
SIMON
For a week, I bury myself in work. I push aside the questions that rise to the surface.
I ignore Celine's advice to stop and feel.
I accept Lee's request to give Vanessa time.
Friday, I wake up, shower, dress, eat breakfast, prepare.
But I don't go to work.
I go to our childhood home.
For the entire three-hour drive, I stare out the windshield, listening to Bash's favorite record on repeat.
One of Dad's new wave titles.
Romantic and sexual and energetic.
Everything he was.
I arrive late afternoon.
I step into the big, empty house. Take in the size and feel of the space.
The massive foyer, the winding stairs, the living room, the ballroom behind it.
The backyard where I ran laps with Adam.
The pool where Liam took his friends.
The waves crashing into the cliff.
Every place haunted by memories of Bash.
Teaching him to waltz in the ballroom. Arguing about installing a television in the entertainment room. Debating the merits of fucking in the library.
He didn't read.
For all his romantic impulses, the man never picked up a book.
Trish greets me in the kitchen. The space where Bash snuck bourbon into his coffee. Convinced Trish to teach him how to cook. Covered the counters in messes he promised to clean.