“On one condition,” he says. “Jedediah stays.”
I put one hand to my chest as if wounded.
“I would never do anything to Jedediah,” I say.
“Good,” Levi says, and reaches for my coffee cup again.I don’t spend that night with him. Instead, he drops me off at my parents’ house and kisses me goodbye, because I really do owe them a detailed, in-person explanation.
They’re still up when I get home, and the three of us sit in the living room and I talk for thirty minutes straight, telling them everything that’s happened since I lost my job and my boyfriend and moved back home a few months ago.
To their credit, they just listen. To their further credit, they don’t seem at all surprised — my mom already knew about Levi, sort of, but she didn’t know the whole story.
When I finish, it’s early morning and I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. Both my parents give me big hugs and tell me exactly what I need to hear: that I’m doing the right thing, that I’ll figure my life out, that quitting a single very bad job isn’t going to somehow doom my future.
They also tell me that they like Levi and have always liked Levi. The words ‘nice young man’ come out of my mother’s mouth more than once.
Finally, they go to bed and I hop into the shower, because I need to wash airports and airplanes and Bluff City and the Herald-Trumpet off myself, and also because I drank a ton of coffee late at night, so I’m wired and jittery.
And I need the quiet space to think, because telling my parents was the easy part. They’re not exactly permissive parents, and they especially weren’t when I was growing up, but as an adult they’ve been content to let me take the reins of my own life.
But I still haven’t talked to Silas.Chapter Forty-FourJuneBehind me, the door of Eggs Over Belgium chimes delicately, and I turn.
It’s a group of women I don’t recognize, not him. He’s now seven minutes late, which isn’t like my brother and I’m starting to wonder if he’s changed his mind and gone off the rails, or… something.
I don’t even know what or something would look like. I don’t think it’s happening. But I also know that my brother hasn’t always been reasonable where I’m concerned, though based on his offer to take me to brunch at the fancy new spot downtown, I think he might feel bad about that.
The door chimes again. This time I make myself sip my coffee, eyes ahead, calmly waiting for my stupid older brother to hurry and get here.
“Sorry,” his voice says, behind me, and now I turn. “They’re fixing the sewer at the other end of town so there was a detour by the river, and it took forever.”
“I didn’t run into traffic,” I tell him as he sits, shedding his jacket.
He’s got a cut on his lip, a dark, scabbed-over line, the flesh under it just barely swollen still. Silas sees me looking and touches it with his hand.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess he told you?”
“His black eye told me,” I say, and Silas at least has the grace to look embarrassed. “Really?”
“He showed up at my house at five o’clock in the morning to tell me that he’d been lying about banging my little sister for the past month,” Silas says defensively.
Two women at the next table glance over.
“So you punched him?”
“June—”
“Your best friend came up to you and said, hey, I’m in a consensual relationship with your adult sister, and your response was to haul off and sock him in the face?” I say, lowering my voice to a hiss.
This is not going as planned. Today is Saturday, and I took yesterday to sleep in, gather my wits after the week I just had, and plan some talking points for this brunch with Silas. The talking points included things like have a reasonable discussion about toxic masculinity and assure him that you don’t want to interfere in their friendship.
Turns out I’m madder than I thought.
“He lied to me,” Silas says.
I lean back and cross my arms.
“I’m trying to protect you, Bug,” he says. “I know you think I’m old-fashioned but you’re my little sister, and I can’t help but—"
“Spare me,” I say.
The other table looks at us again, and I continue to ignore them.
“I thought he’d hurt you,” Silas says. “The day before that you cried in your car and told me that some guy named Logan had broken your heart, and yes, I put it together, I’m not a moron.”
“Not a reason for violence,” I tell him.
“So I’m supposed to just stand by and let you get hurt?” he asks, leaning back, one ankle crossed over his knee.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“I can’t.”
“Would you have given two shits if I were your brother and some girl came to your door?”