Page 22 of Ablaze

I still remember the night of my eleventh birthday, when I woke up with blood inside my underwear. With my chin wobbling, I padded over to Rohan’s door and woke him up. Within minutes, he had me on the phone with his then-girlfriend while he rushed to the nearest pharmacy to pick up an array of feminine products.

The next day, he handed me a book about reproduction and sat with me to “go over the basics.”

The thought makes me smile as it pinches my heart. How fucking hard must that have been? To have had to play the part of both my mom and my dad when he himself was still reeling from their loss.

He was always Mom’s favorite–not that Mom didn’t love me, because she absolutely did. But while I was Dad’s little girl, always doted on by him, Rohan was the glimmer in Mom’s eyes. No matter what was happening in his life, Mom was always the first to know, the first person he’d run to.

And though I’ve told him I’m here, that I’m not the same kid he had to protect all those years ago, and that he can tell me anything . . . I’m not our mom.

At my core, I know it was an accident.

I know I’m not to blame for the loss of our parents. And coming to terms with that, and the fact that though I survived, I was still a victim, took years of therapy.

But no matter how many times I’ve emerged from under the weight of guilt and despair, it has a way of rearing its ugly head from time to time.

More often than not, though, it’s times like these–the holidays when everyone is taking time off to spend with family–that I miss our parents even more.

If they were still alive, perhaps I wouldn’t just be planning out the café’s pastry menu. Perhaps I’d be chatting with Mom about all the goodies we’d make together in her kitchen during the weekend. Perhaps I’d be talking to Dad about all the movies we’d watch together when Rohan and I visited. Perhaps we’d all snuggle together on the couch while I rested my head on Dad’s shoulder and Rohan held Mom’s hand.

Sometimes my brother reminds me so much of our dad. The way he styles his hair, his warm and steady gaze, his deep voice, and brisk gait.

The way he puts his life on the back burner to spare me from being alone . . .

I won’t stand for it anymore.

“You can totally request more time off, and you know it,” I throw back, tilting my head. “And, anyway, I sort of have plans.” I don’t, but I plan to make some the minute Ro leaves.

His brows pinch. “What plans?”

I shrug, pretending to feel offended, but really, I’m just stalling. “What? You don’t think people want to hang out with me? They totally do. I’m popular like that.” I swipe my tongue over my lips, frantically trying to come up with something believable. “Betty asked me to join her and her granddaughter at her lake house for the break. I was thinking about going.”

A tinge of hurt crosses Rohan’s features. “We’ve always spent Christmas together, munch.”

I walk over to him, blinking back the tears that seem hellbent on brandishing over my cheeks. Grabbing hold of his biceps, I look up at him. “I love you, big bro, more than anyone else in this entire world. But you cannot stop your life and constantly worry about me. I want this for you. I want you to find love. I want you to spend time with your girlfriend. One day, we’ll spend holidays all together, but this time, I want you to spend it with her.”

He stares at me, jaw popping. “Are you lying to me about Betty?”

I shake my head quickly. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know, munch . . . Maybe it’s because you have this way of putting everyone else’s needs ahead of yours or getting it in your head that you’re a burden or something.”

I huff out a laugh. “Clearly, I’m following in my brother’s footsteps that way. But, seriously, no. I’m not lying. I do have plans, and once you’re back from Sacramento, I want to hear all about how things went with Samantha’s family.”

He rolls his eyes, but reluctantly agrees, nodding toward the ovens and stovetop behind me. I know what he’s going to say before he even says it. He can mask his words behind the guise of being a firefighter, but I know the real reason behind them. Fear. Fear of losing me like he lost our parents. “Make sure to double-check that all that shit is turned off before you lock up, you hear me?”

“You know I always do,” I respond, suppressing the twinge of guilt that pops up now and then at the fact that he still doesn’t know about the oven fire from my first weekend back in Tahoe.

He ruffles my hair and I bat at his hand. “Later, munch. Love you.”

“Love you, too, brosky.”

He shakes his head. “No. Come up with something different.”

“I will when you come up with something besides munch. It reminds me of a cow munching grass.”

He shakes his head before grabbing the bags of trash and heading toward the exit. “Remember to–”

“Turn off the lights on the Christmas tree and check the doors twice after I lock up,” I finish for him, giving him a wide grin.

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