Page 20 of Best Woman
My brother is tall and handsome, all wide shoulders and big hands—traits I somewhat regrettably share. His hair is darker, flat, and straight whereas mine tends to wave and frizz. He’s got scrunchy little eyes that soften him, making him seem friendly and approachable. He’s not as freckly as Mom and me, but with the Florida sun there’s always a constellation dotted across his strong nose. When we were little, he had gigantic ears that he’s since grown into. The twins have the same, and they’ll probably look just like him when they’re grown-up.
Everyone stands to welcome the groom-to-be and I wait my turn. Aiden looks at me for a moment before a smile breaks over his face and he reels me in for a tight hug. “Welcome home, Jules.”
I’m hit with an almost overwhelming rush of affection. IlikeAiden. Sure, he’s my brother and because of that, I love him by default. We grew up together, endured our parents’ divorce and Mom’s remarriage, and suddenly had baby siblings as teenagers, feeling like the odd ones out in our own house. We have the type of shared life experiences that means we just get each other, and even if I hated him I’d still understand him. But I don’t hate him. Aiden is a genuinely nice guy and, even though we’re extremely different people, once we were adults and hadto work to understand each other because we no longer ate dinner together every night and argued over how long one of us (me) took in our shared bathroom, we did the work. We made a healthy, functional, loving adult relationship.
“It’s the man of the hour,” Grandpa crows. “How ya doing, kid? No cold feet, I hope?”
Aiden, playing along, reaches down to rub an ankle. “Nice and toasty, Grandpa.”
Mom starts interrogating Aiden on wedding-week updates, and he dutifully answers even her most insane questions (“Yes, the bar will have Diet Coke on tap. Not cans.”) before heading to the buffet. I join him, filling him in on my trip and the first day back home as we load our plates with prime rib and mashed potatoes. I’m lingering at the carving station, debating the merits of corned beef, when Aiden plops several bright-green half-sour pickles on my plate. I’ve already gotten him a bowl full of black olives, which he used to put on his fingers and chase me around the club with when we were children.
We know each other the way only siblings can. So, as he tugs on my hair the way he has our entire lives and heads back to the table, why am I, left holding my overstuffed plate of food, feeling so damn guilty?
Mom and Dadare fighting again.
It happens almost weekly now. Mom shuts Aiden and me into our room for the night, looking sad and distracted as she kisses our foreheads and turns on the Winnie the Pooh nightlight Aiden can’t sleep without. She’ll tiptoe out on the soft carpet, shutting the door as lightly as possible. I can usually hear Aiden start snoring by the time the door is closed, his soft whirring barely audible from my spot above him on our bunk bed.
Moments later, the yelling starts. They probably think that with two doors and a living room between our rooms we can’t hear them, but they’re so loud. Not loud enough to make out all the words—although reliable phrases like “just like your mother” and “how can you say that to me” are now familiar enough tohear clearly—but the feeling behind the argument all but rattles our small house.
I know how this will go. They’ll scream for an hour. Mom will cry, Dad will go quiet. Then Mom will start yelling again, andDadwill start crying, something I used to think was impossible. The cycle will repeat a few more times until finally they go quiet.
Maybe it’s because they’re louder than normal tonight, or maybe it’s because he’s older than he was when this pattern started six months ago, but suddenly Aiden is standing on the ladder beside my bed, big brown eyes wide with tears.
“Can I sleep with you?” he asks.
I nod into the darkness, moving over to make room.
We lie together in silence listening to our parents scream at each other. I wonder if this is the first time they’ve woken Aiden up, or if it’s happened before and he’s just lain in silence listening the same way I have. The thought of that makes me sadder than the fighting, which at this point is so familiar I’m becoming numb to it.
“Why are they so angry,” Aiden asks, face turned away fromme.
“I dunno.”
“Do you think…” The silence stretches out for a long moment. “Is it our fault?”
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I think they’d be happier without us, if they didn’t have to take care of us and worry about having enough money and had more time to spend together. Sometimes I can’t understand why they even wanted us if they so clearly hate each other, and how we’ve made it impossible for them to escape each other.
“No, of course not.” I draw an arm around his little body and squeeze him in tight. “It’s grown-up stuff. It has nothing to do with us.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say, not believing it but hoping desperately that my sweet little brother does. “Now go to sleep, and don’t hog the covers.”
Mom’s car isfull—her, Randy, the twins, and the mountain of leftovers no one will eat—so Aiden offers to drive me home.
Despite his obsessively neat appearance, Aiden is a huge slob, and his car is littered with empty energy drink cans, tissues, stray gym clothes, and reusable shopping bags. I tease him as we pull out of the club. “Is Rachel not allowed in here?” He grins.
“We usually take her car. The last time she was in here she almost called the wedding off.”
Rachel’s car is probably just as tidy as their little house, where there’s a place for everything and everything is in its place. Rachel is the kind of girl who stocks her guest bathroom full of travel-sized toiletries and absolutely notices if you take them with you. What can I say, I was running low on toothpaste the last time I stayed with them.
Aiden turns the car on, and the speakers immediately start blasting a song from Hannah G’s last album. I can’t help butgiggle. “Aiden, are you a Bananah?” As in a Hannah Bananah, the official name for her biggest fans.
He smiles sheepishly. “Rachel and I are kind of obsessed with her. I still can’t believe you’ve met her.”
“I did poppers with her a few weeks ago.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he yells. “That is so cool. You’re so cool!”
