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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Emory

Smoke drifted in the air, carrying the mouthwatering scents of charred meat down the block. Music competed with the squeals of children in the bouncy castle my parents had rented for the annual neighborhood block party.

It was no longer my neighborhood—but that didn’t mean I’d gotten out of face-painting duty. Not that I would have tried. I loved kids wearing my art like a badge of honor. In a way, it wasn’t all that different from the tattoos Gray wore—just far less permanent.

“Okay, you’re all done.” I held a mirror in front of Sadie’s face to let her admire the sparkly unicorn I’d painted in pink and purple.

Her eyes lit up. “It’s perfect! Wow. That’s so cool.”

“Glad you like it.”

She skipped out from under the small tent that gave me some shade. Before I could stretch my legs, Mikey Chestnut from next door came in.

He was ten years old, but my parents had been babysitting him since he was a newborn. “Hey, Emory! I want a creepy zombie. Can you do that?”

“Can I do that? I’ve got skills. Of course I can do that.”

“Cool.” He sat down while I mixed green and black paint to make a sickly color for the zombie. “I want to be an artist too.”

My heart twisted a little. “That’s great, Mikey. I hope it works out.”

I sometimes wondered what my life would be like if I’d pursued a career in art instead of following my father’s footsteps into banking. But I could hardly run off to chase my own dreams. Not when my older brother—who should have taken over the family business—wasn’t here.

Especially when it was my fault he’d died at thirteen years old.

My father needed me to step up—he didn’t have anyone else to do it—and banking was a reliable job, a respectable one. I was lucky to have the opportunity.

I repeated my internal pep talk until the pit in my stomach shrank to a manageable size.

I brushed the paint on Mikey’s face with a small brush, using a sponge to blot it in places and a cloth to wipe off the excess. The zombie took shape on his cheek.

“What do you think?” I asked, holding up the mirror. “Creepy enough?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, you’re all done here.”

I dropped my paintbrush into a bucket of water. Mikey hopped up and ran out of the tent—nearly taking out Allison in the process.

“Whoa!” She spun to the right, two full plates balanced in her hands. “Easy, speed demon!”

“Sorry!” Mikey called without looking back.

She smiled after him, and I could so easily see what a great mom she’d be. Of course, so could my parents, which was why they were campaigning for us just as hard as Allison’s dad was in his bid for re-election.

“Hey, I brought you something to eat,” she said, crossing to the stool where Mikey had been and plopping down. “Two hot dogs since I know how much you dig wieners now.”

I rolled my eyes. “Hilarious.”

She’d piled some potato salad, Doritos, and pickled cucumber salad on my plate as well.

If she kept bringing me plates, people would stop asking when we were going to get engaged and assume we already were. But I was hungry, so I wasn’t about to complain.

I picked up a hot dog and took a big bite, mustard and onion sharp on my tongue. Perfect.

“Wow. Gray is training you up right,” she teased.

I nearly choked. “Shut up. I haven’t even done that yet!”

She tilted her head. “You’ve been pretty skimpy on the details. What did you two get up to?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” I said primly.

She laughed at me. “Come on. Give me something.” I took another bite and chewed while she made puppy-dog eyes at me. “Please? I need to live vicariously through you.”

I scoffed. “You have a boyfriend.”

“Yes, and he’s been busy with family stuff all week. You know his dad is the fire chief. He’s been dragging Matteo to the station and making him scrub firetrucks until he can barely lift his arms.”

“Is that, like, a job?”

Allison scowled. “No. It’s punishment. As if his prison stay wasn’t enough.” She sighed. “Matteo needs to get a real job. It’s required for parole, but not many people want to hire an ex-con, so he’s stuck under his dad’s thumb.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds tough.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “But I’m not letting you change the subject. Tell me something about your date night with Gray.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I murmured.

A little girl came into the tent. Allison waved her off. “Emory’s taking a break. Come back in twenty minutes, okay?”

“Okay!”

“Chasing off children to drool over my sex life. That’s just sad, Ally.”

She grinned. “You need to eat, anyway.”

She wasn’t wrong there. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until she’d brought me a plate. I forked up some potato salad. Allison waited me out while I took a few more bites. Finally, I caved to her unwavering stare.

“Okay, we hooked up.”

“Yes!” She wiggled. “Tell me everything.”

“No way.”

“Tell me it was good, at least.”

“It was good. Really good.” I reached for the bottle of water next to my painting supplies and took a swig.

“I’m so happy for you. When are you seeing him again?”

“Uh, well?—”

My mom stepped into the tent, carrying a bowl full of cherry cobbler. Grandpa was right behind her.

“Seeing who again?” Mom asked.

“Just a work thing,” I said quickly.

At the same time, Allison blurted, “Marty.”

“About the reunion planning,” I said. “We want the bank to sponsor our parade float.”

“Right,” Allison said. “That Marty. He loves a good float!”

Grandpa’s bushy eyebrows rose higher and higher. It was pretty clear he wasn’t buying our rambling.

Mom just smiled brightly. “It’s so lovely to see you two spending time together.”

Allison stood up. “I just popped by to talk reunion plans. I’m off to bouncy house duty!”

“Oh, you don’t have to go—” Mom started, but Grandpa had already taken Allison’s seat.

“I call dibs on the next face-painting,” he said.

“Not until Emory has his cherry cobbler,” Mom insisted, pushing the bowl at me. “It’s his favorite.”

I glanced at the cherry cobbler—my brother’s favorite, not mine—and didn’t have the heart to turn it down.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m really stuffed, though. I just ate two hot dogs.”

“Oh. Well. I’ll just sit it here, and you can eat it when you’re ready.” She beamed at me. “I know how much you love it. I made it just for you.”

The pit in my stomach grew again. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to! I love baking for my boys.” Her smile faded. “For you, I mean. I love baking for you.” She ruffled my hair as if I were ten and not twenty-seven. “Besides, until you tie the knot with Allison, you’re not likely to get many homemade treats, are you?”

“That’s true,” I murmured, forcing myself to grab a spoon and take a small bite. “Thanks.”

Grandpa cleared his throat. “Susan, aren’t they calling the raffle winners soon?”

“Oh, shoot. Yes. I better go!”

Once she’d left the tent, I set aside the cherry cobbler with relief and took another gulp of water to clear the sickly sweet taste of candied cherries away. I’d disliked that flavor ever since I’d gotten sick on too many maraschino cherries when I was ten.

It was only a year before Adam died, so I didn’t really blame Mom for not remembering my change of heart. After he died, dessert had been the last thing on any of our minds. And by the time she got back to baking, she’d forgotten that while I’d once liked cherry cobbler okay, my true love had been her bread pudding. Adam had been the one to adore the cobbler.

But to tell her that was to bring up Adam’s death. Was to remind her of everything she’d lost.

“What do you want me to paint?” I asked Grandpa.

“You can just tell her, Emory.”

“Tell her what?”

“That you don’t like the cherry cobbler anymore. People’s tastes change.”

I shrugged. “She likes making it. It makes her happy.”

“It makes her happy because she thinks it makes you happy. But it doesn’t.”

I picked up my paintbrush and started mixing colors. “How about a smiley face since you’re so concerned with everyone’s happiness?”

He snorted. “Sure. Go to town.”

I started brushing a cheery yellow onto his cheek, selecting a spot above his beard.

“I know it was Adam’s favorite,” he continued, making me pause as his face moved.

“So?”

“So…you’re not him. You don’t have to be him.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” I let out a rough breath and resumed painting. “Now, sit still so I can finish this.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

Grandpa behaved until I’d finished the happy face and handed him the mirror to check it out.

“You’ve always loved art,” he said.

“It’s a smiley face, not the next Picasso.”

He chuckled, but it sounded sad. “Maybe not. But I’d rather have the next work by E. Gold anyhow.”

E. Gold was how I’d signed my works of art when I’d taken classes in high school.

“It’s just a few bites of cherry cobbler,” I told him. “It’s not a big deal.”

Not when I got to live and my brother didn’t.

“It’s not just the cobbler, though,” Grandpa said. “Because all I see you do is try to mold yourself into Adam’s shape. To make up for his absence. But when you do that, when you try to be your brother, you lose yourself.”

“I don’t do that,” I said.

But it felt like a lie.

The block party dragged on, and I painted half a dozen more faces—but I couldn’t really enjoy it. Grandpa’s words kept circling my brain.

Was I living Adam’s life instead of my own?

Yes, I’d gone into banking primarily because it was the family business and I was the only son my dad had to follow in his footsteps. But that didn’t mean I was losing myself , did it?

I was just being a good son, wasn’t I?

I lived for me . I’d hooked up with a man. My parents wouldn’t want that, given all the hopes they’d pinned on Allison, but I’d done it, anyway.

I wasn’t trying to turn myself into my brother.

I wasn’t.

Maybe I hated disappointing them. Maybe I hated that Adam’s absence was a void in our family, a void that I had a duty to fill because he wouldn’t have died if not for me.

But…

Shit.

Was Grandpa right?

The pit in my stomach grew so large it was like a black hole, threatening to suck me in.

It grew dark outside. The party started breaking up.

Dad came by the tent as I packed away my supplies.

“We’ve got a lot of leftovers. Your mom wants you to come over so she can pack up some more cherry cobbler for you.”

My throat closed up.

“Emory?” Dad asked. “You hear me?”

I drew a breath. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve got plans.”

“Oh? With Allison?”

I tensed as I finished closing up the box of painting supplies. “No, something else.” I flashed a smile at him. “Raincheck?”

“Okay, I’ll let her know. I’m sure she can save the cobbler.”

Tell him you don’t want it. Just say the words.

“Okay, great.” No. Not great. I forced out a few more words. “But if you and Grandpa polish it off, it’s okay.”

There. That was closer to being honest, right? I really didn’t care. In fact, please eat it without me.

“Ah, son, we’d never do you dirty like that,” he joked as he slapped my shoulder. “Your favorite dessert is safe with us.”

“Right,” I said. “My favorite.”

Damn it. Why was it so hard to just tell him what I wanted?

Maybe Grandpa was right. Maybe I’d spent so much time trying to make up for Adam’s loss, trying to make my parents happy, that I’d forgotten how to be me.

With one glaring exception, anyway.

Gray.

That was all for me.

The only thing I could remember that had nothing to do with Adam or my parents or even Allison.

And I needed another taste of that freedom.

I got into my car and headed for the edge of town. For Gray’s house. And the farther from my parents’ neighborhood I got, the smaller that pit in my stomach shrank.

Until instead of rocks in my gut, butterflies flapped around, eager and excited.

And all for me.