Page 65 of Burn Bright

“Thank—” She sneezes again. I keep a protective hand on her shoulder, unsure of what we’re actively walking into. Other than a musty, dingy-looking library.

Weathered texts line floor-to-ceiling, dark oak bookshelves. Globes and old artifacts pile on towering stacks of hardbacks. If someone told me we entered a movie set for an 1800s antique bookshop, I’d believe them.

I touch the top of her head, rounding her body. “Stay behind me, yeah?”

She doesn’t protest. “Scared I might sneeze up a dust storm?”

“More like I’m afraid bats will come flying at us.”

“Bats?” Her light brown brows vault into her uneven bangs. “I donotwant to have to take the rabies vaccine. I don’t care if they’re not as painful as they used to be, it’s aseriesof shots, Ben.”

I slip her a smile. “You’re scared of needles?” It’d be ironic since she’s pre-med, but it’s not that outlandish to me. So many times, I feel like I’m too many conflicting things at once.

“It’s just my pain tolerance…it’s not that high.” Red flush creeps up her neck, like this is an embarrassing trait. I wonder if her parents told her to “suck it up” a lot.

“That’s why I’m taking one for the team. Stay behind me, petit oiseau.”

Harriet tucks herself closer to my back, and I reach behind me and hold her hand. Her grip is much tighter than it’d been earlier tonight in the study room.

We go farther into the disorganized foyer. No one is seated at the ornate wooden podium. I tap a brass bell. It dings.Harriet looks left and right, up and down, and as her fear subsides, I spot her intrigue.

“Okay, this is cool,” she whispers like we’re in a real library.

No one responds to the bell. So we follow muffled voices down a winding footpath. It’s not a hall exactly. Stacks of leather-bound hardbacks on the floor create partitions and leave a twisting, curving space that guides us forward.

The sheer number of books reminds me of a shop in Italy called Libreria Acqua Alta. One hot summer day during a family vacation in Venice, my eldest brother did his typical routine of wandering off.

Charlie was fifteen at the time, and a fleet of bodyguards fanned out to try to locate him in the maze of Venetian streets. I was eleven and hanging around my dad when he had the idea to check Libreria Acqua Alta. We found Charlie inside with one of the bookstore’s tabby cats circling his legs. He’d been flipping throughLa Divina Commediaby Dante Alighieri like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Instead of lecturing Charlie, our dad talked to him about Dante and the Inferno.

It pissed me off. Charlie gets special treatment because he’sCharlie. Because he’s a genius stuck inside a world that will never understand him.

I don’t pretend to understand what torments Charlie. I just hate how the same grace isn’t offered to me.

You feel everything. I feel nothing.

His gutting, mind-fucking words from the apartment ring in my ears as we walk toward the muffled voices and come into a vintage parlor. On instinct, I want to leave. I’d rather play Frogger in city traffic than be in breathing distance from Charlie.

I look down at Harriet. At how her scowl intensifies to “fuck you” levels. At how she keeps her determined gaze forward. At how she’s here for me.

And then I want to stay.

We step into the parlor. Black lacquer walls, ornate gold-framed portraits of revolutionaries on horseback, red velvet Chesterfield sofas, and an oil-painted ceiling of gods in fluffy clouds immerse us in a regal space reminiscent of sitting rooms in Versailles.

Flames flicker in a roaring fireplace, and I feel the heat in the confined space as we arrive.

All four of my brothers go silent and turn their heads. They resemble a still frame. A photograph out of an issue in Vogue, and I’m not sure what’s more magnanimous. Them or the gods illustrated above us.

Beckett brings a lit cigarette to his lips, his lithe movements too compelling. It’s impossible to look away. He has on a black leather jacket and dark jeans, and for as calm as Beckett is, his yellow-green eyes can puncture with unmitigated intensity. He’s assessing Harriet—since he’s only ever heard of her. I bring her up a lot during our breakfasts together. He takes a long drag, then passes the cigarette to Charlie.

Eliot grips a high shelf on a bookcase. He chose a khaki trench coat for the occasion, unsurprisingly on theme. The polished buttons and tailored fit seem expensive enough that I’m positive it’s designer. Tom is sitting on top of a club chair, his Sharpie-doodled Vans on the cushion. He’s in ripped jeans and a black muscle shirt.

Charlie looks the most editorial. Standing near the fireplace in black slacks and an oversized black cardigan with a deep V-neck, clearly not wearing a shirt underneath, he pinches the cigarette and fixates onme.

Harriet releases a tensed breath. She stiffens, then tears her hand out of mine. It’s very clear they notice.

I’m not hurt. She’s crossing her arms as a defensive measure. If I thought she couldn’t handle them, I wouldn’t have invited her here.