“No, I know it’s because you care.” Her hand slips out from under mine and creeps up to my shoulder. My hand stills and merely cups the back of her head. She begins a small exploration, feeling my clavicle and then down over the ridges of my biceps and back up again. Goosebumps freckle my skin at her touch, and I wonder if she knows what effect she has on me. Nah, because if she did, she wouldn’t be lying here so angelic next to me.
Or maybe she would. Maybe all those times she was challenging me to do something.
“I do care,” I say, pulling her head closer to mine. “Did you know I was the first one outside of your family to hold you? Nick was still a baby, so Mom was holding him, and Dad was getting cigars out for everyone. Your mom had the nurse place you in my lap.”
“How do you remember these things? You were like two.”
“I just do.” I shrug and the motion makes her hand fall away. It slips under my arm and then finds its way to my chest. I wonder if she can feel the thunderous beat of my heart. I don’t think she’s ever touched me this much, this closely, with this kind of attention. My loose sweatpants are suddenly too confining as every part of me strains toward her feather-light caresses.
“I can’t remember anything.”
The back of her head has a surgical scar, and under her skin lies a shunt, a tube that drains out any excess fluid. Charlotte thinks her head is too big in the back, but it feels okay to me. I’m surprised she is allowing me to touch her there, but I don’t question it nor do I fiddle with her scar, knowing that if I pay too much attention to what she thinks are flaws our little moment will be over.
“I remember when you turned two. You got cupcakes instead of a birthday cake and none of us could eat until you’d take a bite, but you were confused by the paper around the cupcake. Nick got impatient and stuck his fingers in your frosting and made you cry.”
“I don’t remember that either.”
“I do,” I say curtly. I remember all of it. I clench her hand tighter to me as a flood of images march in front of my eyes. Charlotte at five, running from the clown that had been hired, straight into my arms. Me at nine, holding her hand when we were at the Navy Pier riding a carousel. Her at twelve dancing in her room to a Taylor Swift song pretending her hairbrush was a microphone, singing that she was Juliet and I was Romeo. I sat through the whole horrible thing. She is not a good singer. Me at seventeen watching her lift a swimsuit coverup over her head and realizing she turned from child into a smoking hot girl. So yeah, I remember everything. She’s mine. I was born for you and you were born for me. “Don’t go. Stay here with us.” I say us because it’s safer.
“I’m going because it’s better for all of us,” she responds and then tugs on my shoulder until our faces are so close together I can count the individual lashes that veil her eyes. “But, Nate, before I go, I want—” she stops and then ducks her head into my chest. I feel her say something against my shirt, but I can’t make it out.
“Want what?”
“Iwantyoutokissme.”
10
Charlotte
My request for a kiss doesn’t result in Nate rolling me over and pinning me down on the bed. Oh no, he jumps off the mattress like I’ve stuck a burning iron into his side. His athletic instincts kick in, and he’s halfway across the room before another breath is taken by either of us.
“What the fuck?” he almost yells at me and then, tossing a worried glance toward the door as if my dad will bust through any minute, he lowers his voice and repeats the question sans profanity. “What did you just ask me?”
Scowling, I answer, “I asked for you to kiss me, not kill me.”
He places one hand on his hip and another he scrubs through his hair, looking exasperated, but his irritation is nothing compared to my mounting annoyance. My earlier shyness is chased away by my frustration. This is classic Jackson brother behavior. Because I’m a girl, I can’t possibly want the same things that they do.
“Charlotte, I—” he begins, but I cut him off. I don’t even want to hear what he has to say. I roll over on my side so I’m not facing him.
“Forget it. I’m not going to beg you.” I would if I thought it would do any good. It’s just . . . since I’ve been sick Nate’s been different to me. He’s been nicer, and he’s held me closer. His behavior is not so brotherly. I catch him looking at me with a gleam in his eye, and it makes me feel warm all over. At this moment, though, he’s looking everywhere but me and so I turn away.