Page 7 of Dreams and Desires

Jacob’s the only one really putting in any effort. He’s been doing little stuff. Stuff that makes it feel like... like I was actually wanted here.

We watchedPractical Magicthe other night. Sat on the couch with popcorn between us, quoting lines without even meaning to. Then we ended up going through the old photo albums. I hadn’t seen those in years. The covers are beat up, a few of the pages stick together, but it still felt kind of good flipping through them. Grams was in a bunch of the photos. Smiling like she always did, in that old wide-brimmed hat she wore even when it wasn’t sunny.

After that, we opened up some of her boxes. The ones Mom shoved into the closet and never touched again. We found one of her scarves. Just holding it felt weird. Like I shouldn’t be, but I did anyway. And somehow, it still smelled like her. That soft perfume she wore, mixed with cedarwood from her dresser. I didn’t expect it to hit me like that.

I sat down with it for a while. Just holding it. It brought back this stupid-clear image of her brushing my hair on the back porch. I must’ve been eight or nine. She always brushed slow, careful. Said rushing made knots worse. I don’t know why that memory came up. It just did.

Those moments... they’re the ones that still feel close.

A cold draft slips in through the window behind me. I forgot to shut it all the way. It hits my neck and makes me flinch. Cody’s pulling one of its early-fall tricks again, even though it’s still August.

Just like that, I’m yanked out of memory lane.

I shove my feet into mismatched socks because yeah, it’s that cold, and start digging through my suitcase for clothes that might pass as “public presentable.” My old wardrobe is gone.Empty. I’d love to believe Mom and Dad donated it somewhere decent, but knowing them? They probably lit a match and watched it burn.

I pull out a crumpled skull tee and a pair of dark jeans. That’s what I get. I shimmy into them, wrestling the last button like it’s a personal insult. It’s always a struggle, even at 2XL. I refuse to buy a 3XL.

Still, once they’re on, my hips look good. Snatched, even. I throw my hair into a messy bun, tug a beanie over it, and reach for my glasses.

I put them on. Look at my reflection. Then take them off again.

No.

Not today.

Today feels like a sunglasses kind of day. The don’t-look-at-me, don’t-ask-me-anything kind. I dig out my old oversized pair and slide them on. The goal is simple: keep low. I’m heading to the hospital with Jacob, and I don’t need anyone recognizing me. Or remembering me. Same thing, really.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror one last time and then slip on my sneakers and leave the room.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Jacob sits at the table holding a chipped mug the size of a planter, steam curling around his cheeks. He looks better today. There’s a hint of color in his face, but his body has melted into Dad’s borrowed flannel. Seeing him that small twists something behind my ribs.

Dad sits opposite himwith a newspaper fortress at full height. I look around and don’t see Mom—nor the grocery tote bags she usually hangs in the kitchen—which means she’s out for groceries.

Thank God. Because I don’t have the patience to deal with two estranged parents today.

“Morning,” I mumble, aiming for neutral, hoping maybe Dad will reply. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gets up and moves to the living room couch with his precious newspaper, ignoring me completely.

Jacob lifts his mug and smiles. “Hey, Juniper.”

“Hey, baby brother. How you holding up?” I ask, filling my own mug with coffee, cream and sugar. I like it that way.

He shrugs, eyes too old. “Like a glow stick a toddler snapped three days ago. Still lit, barely.”

I laugh under my breath and elbow his arm. “We’ll charge you later. Lightning bolt straight to the heart.”

“Promise?” He tries for playful, lands on weary.

“Pinky swear.”

On the stove, I spot a pot of oatmeal, and before I get up to fetch it, Jacob stands and ladles two bowls, loading them with raisins and brown sugar the way we used to before school. He slides one in front of me. “Allow me,” he says, like a true gentleman.

The moment I take the first spoonful, it coats my tongue with cinnamon heat, stirring a flood of memories: homework covering the whole damn table, Grams humming Patsy Cline… everything so normal. God, I miss those days.

Jacob sets the bowl down, steels himself, looking at Dad in the living room. “Dad, can Juniper drive the truck? Hospital is just ten minutes.”

The newspaper lowers an inch. “No.”

Jacob’s brows knit. “A ride-share costs more than gas. We already have bills stacking.”

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