“I know, I know. But you used to say it. No matter what I did wrong, you'd always forgive me……”
“That was before.” My brother's voice was soft, soft enough to sound like he was talking to himself. “Before, I put my life in your hands. You thought I'd stay that stupid forever?”
Kayla sagged against the doorframe, barely upright. The cake box slid out of her hand and hit the floor, frosting bursting out and smearing everywhere.
“Luke's gone,” she said. “He took my money and ran.”
I didn't say anything.
“I sold the house. I sold the car. I borrowed from every relative I have. It still isn't enough to cover what I owe your brother.”
She looked at me, her eyes nothing but pleading. “Belinda, could you talk to him for me? Give me a few more years? I really can't pay it back……”
“That's your problem.”
“But your brother loved me so much. He can't want to see me like this...”
“He loved you,” I said. “He didn't want you to get him killed either.”
Kayla's mouth opened and closed, closed and opened, and not a single word came out.
I stepped back and shut the door.
The cake was out there. So was she.
In the kitchen, the water on the stove had come to a boil, bubbling away.
I turned off the heat, scooped out the noodles, and carried them upstairs.
“Bruce!” Kayla's voice climbed, thick with crying. “You won't even look at me once?”
My brother sat at his desk, a book open in front of him, unread. He was facing the window. The rain was still falling outside, the glass beaded all over with water.
“Bruce, eat.”
He turned around, looked at the bowl, and smiled. “Egg noodles again?”
“It's the only thing I can make.”
“Then learn something else.”
“No.” I handed him the chopsticks. “It's not like it's your birthday every day.”
He took them, lifted a bite of noodles, blew on it, and put it in his mouth.
“Good?” I asked.
“It'll do.”
I sat across from him and watched him eat the whole bowl, one bite at a time. He drank the soup too.
“Bruce.”
“Mm.”
“If she comes again, I'm not opening the door.”
He set down the bowl, glanced at me, and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Belle, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For protecting me.”
I didn't say anything.
Outside, the rain had eased, tapping against the leaves of the magnolia tree, drip after drip.
There was noise downstairs. The building staff, clearing away the mess.
Kayla and that smashed cake were both gone.
The days went by, one after another. The magnolia blossoms fell and bloomed again.
My brother ate on time, slept on time, went to the hospital for his checkups on time.
The drugs that wrecked his immune system last time never got the chance to reach his lips in this one. His body was fine. His kidneys were fine. His life was fine.
Sometimes he'd stand on the balcony and stare at nothing, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
I'd look at his back and know there was a hole in him, and the hole was named Kayla. But I never pried at it. Some wounds have to close on their own. No one else can do it for you.
I signed up for driving school.
Last time, when my brother was in the hospital, I couldn't drive. Every trip there I had to take a cab, and on the nights I couldn't get one, I stood on the curb and cried like an idiot.
I wasn't going to live like that again. I'd learn to drive, learn to do more, learn to survive in a world without my brother.
Even though, this time, I would never let him go before me.
The instructor at the driving school was a middle-aged man named Whitney, dark and weathered from the sun, with a voice like a thunderclap.
The very first time I tried to back into the space, I sent the pole flying. From the passenger seat, Instructor Whitney clutched his chest and said, “Sweetheart, are you here to learn to drive or to demolish my school?”
"Either's fine," I said.
He shot me a look but let it drop.
During a break between runs, I was sitting in the shade with my water when a young man walked over and held out a bottle of iced tea.
"Hey. You're in Group B too, right?"
I looked up at him.
Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. White T-shirt, jeans, and two little fangs that showed when he smiled.
There was a small tattoo on the back of his hand. A bird, it looked like.
"Mm."
"I'm Claude Delgado." He crouched down so we were eye to eye. "You're Belinda Henson, right? I heard the instructor call your name."
"Hi."
"You've got a pretty unique way of driving."
I caught the teasing in it and didn't bite.
He wasn't fazed. He just sat down next to me like he belonged there, twisted open his own bottle, and took a sip.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not hitting on you. I just think you're interesting. Most people panic when they knock a pole down. You knocked one over and didn't blink. Like nothing happened."
"It's not like the pole feels it," I said.
He blinked, then laughed, his eyes curving up.
"Fair point," he said. "The pole doesn't feel it. The instructor's heart does."
The corner of my mouth tugged up before I could stop it.
Claude Delgado was, how do I put it, like a summer breeze. Not hot, not cold. Just right.
He didn't ask too many questions. He didn't pry into why I always came to practice alone, didn't force a topic when I went quiet.
He just sat there, easy and calm, handing me a bottle of water sometimes, a piece of candy other times, then went back to his own runs.
The day of the maneuvering test, I passed. So did he.
On the way out, he held up a hand for a high five.
"Congrats."
"You too."
He looked at me, hesitated, then said, "Belinda, can I take you to dinner?"
I thought about it. "I have a brother. Can he come?"
He laughed again, bigger than before.
"Sure," he said. "Good chance to meet my brother-in-law."
"What?"
"Nothing. Come on, it's on me."
