Page 73 of The Story of You

My heart fluttered.

He waited for me to pull it around him and position it around his waist. I watched him flit about the living room as I decided where the fuck to begin with finding our brother.

* * *

Silas

Amultitude of “coincidences” led to me finding Darius, which is why I don’t believe in coincidence, but I can’t help—even all these years later—the anxiety in thinking, what if just one of those coincidences never happened?

The first was cinnamon buns.

It’s a good thing I liked cinnamon buns. One of the things I did with Oliver during the day, was driving to the coffee shop in the town over and sharing a cinnamon bun with him. Too many people in the town closest to where we lived knew us. I wanted to be anonymous. I drank coffee and watched his little fingers get sticky. I was apathetic and would zone out sometimes while staring at him but would return to the present at the slightest indication he needed me.

“Mmmmm, good,” he said, pulling a half smile from me. “Baba, try.”

I let him feed me his tiny square of cinnamon bun coated with his baby slobber.

I was only seventeen, but the new haircut and the hardened expression I’d adopted made me look older than I was. Everyone thought Oliver was my son and I didn’t correct them. I might not have made him, but he was mine. The woman who worked in the shop approached us with napkins.

“Cinnamon buns are sticky business,” she said to Oliver while handing me the extra napkins. Oliver leaned his head back to stare up at her with his large blue eyes.

The woman had hair a light shade of brown with enough natural highlights to suggest that she spent a lot of time in the sun. Her skin said the same, a golden tan complexion. Her eyes were brown and her lashes long. Her coyness suggested she might have been interested in me.

Oliver pointed for me to look at her. “Baba,” he said.

“Say, hi,” I instructed him.

“Hi,” he said and then reached for me so he could curl into my shoulder.

“He’s shy,” I told her as I settled him against me. “Thank you for the napkins.”

They were useless against cream cheese icing, which is why I had baby wipes in the diaper bag, but the gesture was kind.

“Isn’t he darling? You must be a proud daddy.”

“I am,” I said. I squeezed him tighter. I only cared about two things in the whole world, Darius, and Oliver. I didn’t have Darius. Oliver was all I had left. I wished I had some way to ensure I never had to let him go. Even then, the thought that he would one day grow up and not be within an arm’s reach from me drove me crazy. It summoned wild anxiety. How was I going to learn to let go of him?

Oliver peeked at her and then hid his eyes in my shoulder again when she smiled at him. “Does your wife work during the day?”

“My husband does, yes,” I said. It was better for her to think I was married and know I wasn’tthatinto women.

“Apologies. I shouldn’t have assumed you have a wife. I know better—my brother has a husband. He just looks so much like you … but I guess that’s possible too.”

“Ballabina,” Oliver said, warming up, intent on making a new friend.

“Baller what?” she said.

“He’s a ballerina, or well, a dancer. He likes the pretty ballerinas and would rather be like them than the boy dancers.” More information than I’d ever share with anyone now, but I was still young and naïve.

“That’s adorable. I think you’re going to be the prettiest ballerina there is,” she said. “Would you like me to refresh your coffee?”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was two hours to get back home. I had to start dinner soon. “No thank you. We have to leave.”

“But you haven’t even eaten your half—could I at least pack it up for you?”

I didn’t want there to be any evidence of my secret haunt—I couldn’t bring it home—but maybe I could eat it in the car. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

“Thankyou,” she said. “It’s selfish, but I’m the one who makes these, and I hate seeing them wasted.”