Page 45 of The Last to Let Go
“It’s okay,” I tell him, stepping closer, trying to act casual. “What’s... uh... going on?”
No one says anything.
Mark shrugs. Aaron takes a sip of beer. When he looks up at me, I see a flash of something. I recognize it immediately. It’s one of Dad’s favorite looks, a gaze designed to make its object feel infinitesimally small and scared and useless.
“Nothin’, little sis,” he answers. “What’s goin’ on with you?” There’s some kind of weird, under-the-surface antagonism exchanged between us. I think Mark must pick up on it too, because he stubs out his cigarette and stands, stretching his arms over his head like he’s been sitting for too long.
“I’m takin’ off, man,” Mark says to Aaron, and then reaches out to do that dude-handshake thing.
“You don’t have to leave,” Aaron says, standing up now too.
“Yeah, it’s getting late. But listen—think about it, right? What we talked about. It’s no problem, dude. No problem at all.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“See ya, Brooke,” Mark calls out as he climbs back over the wall and down the metal steps that creak, one by one, under his weight.
“Sorry to break up the party,” I tell Aaron, but he doesn’t answer. “What was Mark talking about just now—what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. He might have a job for me, that’s all.”
“Well, what about the job with Ray?” I ask. “What about getting your GED and everything?” I add, though something tells me I shouldn’t go there right now.
“That’s... uh... not happening,” he mumbles, scoffing.
“Why not?”
He doesn’t say anything to me as he gathers up the empties and tosses them into the plastic garbage can in the corner, the glass bottles making a racket as they fall against each other one by one.
“I’m just saying—” I start, but he interrupts me.
“Yeah, whatareyou saying?” he snaps.
“I thought that was the plan, right?” I ask, feeling my patience slipping away with each crack of glass against glass. “What, are you mad at me now? For coming up here, ruining your good time?”
“No,” he answers. “I’m not mad you came up here. It’s just so obvious you’re standing there judging me. Which, by the way, you have no right to do, especially after the way you came home last night. So if you have something to say, say it.”
“I’m not judging. I was worried that something happened!” I yell over the glass clinking. “I always worry when you’re up here,” I add, except I don’t think he hears me.
“Well, don’t!” he says, turning around to face me. “Don’t worry about me so much. I feel like you’re always watching me, waiting for me to fuck things up. Guess what? I fuck up sometimes, okay? I already feel bad enough about it, and it makes me feel ten times worse when you look at me”—he points at my face—“like that.”
I wish I could see how I’m looking at him, because then I could try not to do it anymore. “What are we even talking about? I’m not judging anything!” Although that’s not completely true. “The only thing I’m ever trying to do is keep everything from falling apart.”
“How, though?” he snarls. “It’s already apart, Brooke! Why can’t you see that? It’s broken, okay? There’s no saving this.” He throws his arms open and turns in all directions, as if he’s trying to gather up everything around us—the air, the roof, the building, the street below—all ofthis. Part of me wonders if he’s talking about our family or Mom or maybe just himself.
“If you really believe that, then what are you even doing here—why did you agree to come back?”
Something settles inside of him as he looks at me, his anger suddenly transformed into sadness, weighing him down. He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to find the answer. “Because you asked me to,” he says.
We stand here, silent, on opposite sides of an invisible line. There are so many things I want to say, but so little I think he’ll hear.
“What’s going on with us?” I finally ask. “Why are we all fighting so much?”
He shrugs and shakes his head and smiles sadly as he looks up at the sky. “Maybe it’s just in our blood.”
He starts walking toward the fire escape, and I know I have to say something—I know we can’t leave things like this. “Aaron. Wait, okay?” He stops and turns to look at me. “I disagree. It’s not broken. I think it can be saved. I really do.” I’m not sure if I’m talking about our family as whole, or our mom, or him, or all of it.
“I know you do.” Something in his voice, in the way he says those words, makes me suddenly doubt myself. He swings his leg over the wall, then disappears, his footsteps fading as he descends the stairs.
