The front door slams and I spring up from the sofa. I know my mom is staying out tonight with a work thing, so I’m not expecting anyone.
“Caden,” Tarrant’s unmistakable growl carries through the empty, open plan, lower floor of the house.
“Hey,” I reply taking a few steps, bringing me closer to him. “What are you doing here?”
He chuckles. “Am I not allowed to come back to my house, or to visit my brother?” He’s teasing, and I shake my head smirking.
“Douche.”
“Probably.” He grins.
“Ice cream?” I ask him. He nods, and we move toward the kitchen. Ice cream’s been our thing for as long as I can remember. We were kids living with a dad who always seemed angry, and a mom in constant fear. Our childhood was fraught with obstacles and emotions our young minds couldn’t process. Whenever we needed a moment, we had ice cream—ice cream and each other. Sometimes we talked, sometimes silence was required. But no matter what, two things had to be exactly the same. Always ice cream and always each other.
I pull two bowls from the cupboard as Tarrant pulls the ice cream from the freezer. He places the tubs in front of me, so I load up my bowl with mint choc chip and his with lemon meringue. We sit on the bar stools and quietly eat the cold, creamy, medicine.
“You good?” he rumbles between spoonfuls.
“Yeah,” my reply is accompanied by my frown. “Why would you ask that?”
“I heard some talk about a couple of guys on the football team.” My mind flashes an image of Tim and Den, and I wince. Tarrant’s eyes narrow on me.
“Nah, I’m good, honestly,” I tell him. I know I’ll face this for the rest of my life and like Whitney said, ‘It’s not right, but it’s okay.’ I’d rather live forever within my own fight than exist in someone else’s peace.
“You haven’t called Laura for a few days…” it’s an accusation on behalf of his girl, “… she’s worried.” He’s ticked, but his annoyance only makes me smile. “That’s funny?” he snaps.
I shake my head. “It’s not that it’s funny. It’s just you’re so different.” He stares at me, waiting for an explanation. “She makes you care.”
He smiles. “You’re wrong.”
My head jerks back. “I am?”
Tarrant finish’s off the last of his ice cream, licking the spoon clean, then he drops it with a clatter into the bowl. “She doesn’t make me care, she just makes me better. I don’t care about everyone. Don’t do shit for others. Not really. I care about her, you, Mom, maybe a couple of friends, but that’s it.”
“Okay.” Confusion clouds my head, and I can’t quite understand his logic.
“It’s simple,” he says without me asking. “She doesn’t make me care, but the love I feel for her has helped me understand how important it is to show the people you love they mean shit to you.”
“She’s it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Do you remember the green robot I had when we were kids? I got it from Grandad for our seventh birthday?” he asks, confusing me slightly with his sudden topic change.
I remember the robot clearly. He had wanted one for months and months. Dad said no every time he asked. Grandad gave it to him as a present for our birthday, and I got a remote control car. Tarrant treasured that robot. It was called Granville, and he carried it everywhere. I lost count of how many times he got in trouble for bringing it to school. Dad took it away once, and I found Tarrant crying in the corner of our garden. It was the first and last time I’ve seen him cry.
“Granville,” I murmur with a grin.
He nods but doesn’t smile. “You remember when Disco died?” he asks and a stab of pain shoots through me. The anguish must play out on my face because he says, “You remember.”
Disco was my rabbit. I’d asked my parents for a rabbit for three years before, finally, my mom bought me one secretly. My dad was so angry, but I guess he allowed me to keep him because the neighbors had seen us arrive home with him. Every day before and after school I’d play with Disco. He had fluffy gray fur and big floppy ears. He was scared of everyone, but not me. He’d climb into my lap and snuggle. I honestly thought I’d have him forever.
One day I came home from school. We were ten and Tarrant still had that robot, it was his prized possession. Mom was baking, and I ran through the house and into the backyard. Disco wouldn’t come when I called. I panicked that he’d gotten out of the cage, but when I pulled the lid off his little house in the corner of the rabbit run, he was there, lying still. He’d died during the day. I remember thinking he’d been all by himself. I cried for hours, and in the end, Dad screamed at Mom, telling her if she didn’t get me to shut up he was going to lose his temper. Mom cradled me in bed, and I cried myself to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, Granville was next to me on the pillow. Tarrant had given me his robot to ease my pain. I know he must have been sad, at ten years old, to have lost his best friend. Even though it was a robot, he’d carried it everywhere for three years. I knew that day, I understood completely, even at ten years old, how much my brother loved me.
Tears spring to my eyes and I wonder how over the years, I’ve managed to forget just how much Tarrant loves me. Dad pitted us
