Page 97 of Crew
If I became the dutiful sister/daughter, their expectations would rise.
I knew the end, because it's the end most families had in mind for their children: he would want me to be normal.
I couldn't do normal. That meant leaving the crew, and all the things we did as a crew.
There was no option.
"Just because you got stuck with the guardianship doesn't mean you get to parent me," I told him. Pain sliced through me, but I raised my chin defiantly. "You never had that privilege, and you certainly lost it when you were absent from my life for five years."
"I've been here for the last two."
"Not really," I shot back. "You've been fighting. You've been managing a bar and a girlfriend." I was tempted to name the other thing I knew had happened between him and Heather, but that wasn't talked about. She'd never said it. He never had either. So I wouldn't, but I ached inside too.
Cross closed the door quietly, and Channing came forward. When he saw him, he shook his head.
"Fuck. Now I get it." He looked at me, sorrow in his eyes. "I get why Mom was so frustrated." He gestured to Cross. "It sucks being on the other side."
"Bullshit." I couldn't hold it in any longer. My voice rose. "You were gone, all the goddamn time--when she had to go to the hospital, when someone had to stay with her in there, when someone had to hold her hand, hold her hair back when she puked. Shit. Do you know how many blankets I got for her? How many times I cleaned her face, or moved her heating pad? Do you know I have vomit permanently burned into my nostrils? And that smell. Cancer has a smell. Did you know that?" No. I shook my head. "You were doing what I'm doing now. You were gone."
He rubbed his forehead. "Bren."
I shook my head. "You don't get to say sorry now. She's dead. I needed you then, not now. I'm good now."
"You're not good."
"Oh, yes, I am."
I was shaking. I didn't realize until Cross touched my arm to stop the trembling.
I strained forward, all of my muscles tense, rigid. I was ready to attack, or be attacked.
"I'm sorry, Bren." My brother's voice dropped to a murmur. "I really am."
"You missed my birthday."
"What?" He dropped his hands from his forehead, trying to figure out what I was talking about.
"My birthdays. You missed them. All of them."
His forehead wrinkled, and he cursed under his breath, "Shit."
"I turned thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I invited you to all of them. You didn't come to one."
"God, Bren. I'm sor--"
"I'm aware," I cut him off. "Saying you're sorry and being sorry are two totally different things. I'm immune by now."
He stared at me, long and hard. I felt like I'd pulled off a layer and showed him the underside of me, and he wasn't sure if he liked it or not--if he liked me or not. Finally, his shoulders lowered.
"I've been thinking this is normal teenage stuff, but it's not, is it?"
I pressed my lips together. And even though everything in me suddenly hurt, my eyes were dry. I wouldn't shed a tear, not for him, not for--I swallowed over a lump--not for what happened.
"Bren." He moved toward me, reaching out.
I evaded him, backing away toward my room, but Cross moved in front of me. I blinked, and he appeared. He was protecting me against my own brother. No, that wasn't totally right. He was shielding me.
His back was to me, and he held his hands up. "Stop."
