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“I hope so.” Miles takes a delicate bite of his burger. “They’re going to be glad you’re back. Really.”
“So glad they couldn’t be bothered to pick me up.”
“It’s hard for them. You know that.”
Max is quiet for a moment, absently toying with a straw wrapper. “I know.”
Miles reaches across the table and lays a hand on his brother’s arm. “I’m really happy you’re here. I’m—I’m proud of you.”
My heart swells to the point where I’m no longer sure what’s keeping it inside my chest.
“That means a lot. It hasn’t been easy, and that just… thank you.” Then Max clears his throat, aiming a mischievous grin at me. “Who wants more fries?”
When we finish eating, Miles drives us to their house, a deep blue Tudor on a quaint residential street in West Seattle.
Gingerly, I follow Miles inside. The house is about twice the size of mine and even roomier on the inside, with polished hardwood floors and large windows that let in natural light. It beautifully reflects both sides of his family, with a gorgeous Japanese silk painting on one wall and next to it, a silver plaque reading TIKKUN OLAM in Hebrew and engraved with a tree of life.
Miles stares straight ahead at a framed family photo that must have been taken about five years ago. It’s one of those photos I’ve always thought were kind of corny, with everyone wearing the same thing—in this case, jeans and buttoned white shirts. They’re posed on Alki Beach, and Dr. Okamoto’s hair is longer, past her shoulders, the wind lifting it off her neck. She’s holding hands with Miles’s dad. An awkward preteen Miles with ears that are too big for the rest of him is gazing up adoringly at his brother, who’s looking out into Puget Sound. Somehow, it doesn’t seem corny at all.
Max is in the kitchen, opening up the fridge and taking out a can of Sprite. When he holds one up to me, I shake my head.
“How long were you—” I break off, unsure how to talk about it.
“In rehab? It’s okay to say it.” He opens up the Sprite and leans against the marble island. “Ninety days. Missed all of Seattle’s summer weather,” he adds. “And damn if I didn’t miss Mom’s terrible physics puns and Dad’s cooking.” And then, as Miles joins us: “And Miles’s outdated taste in movies, but I guess his roommate will have to deal with that now.”
“I’m sure you’re devastated,” Miles deadpans.
Max clutches his heart. “Deeply.”
Miles glances around the kitchen, stretching his arms. There’s a slight waver in his voice as he says, “So… this is it.”
I can tell he’s anxious about leaving Max alone, and I can’t imagine what it feels like to need to decide whether to do this again tomorrow.
The decision he’s been making every day for nearly three months.
“Dad’s on his way,” Max says. “He just texted me. I’m about ready to crash, so you can head out if you need to. You don’t have to babysit me.”
“You sure?”
Max waves this off. “And we’re all doing dinner together this weekend, right?”
“Right.” Miles is back to fiddling with the collar of his plaid flannel. It’s a wonder his clothes aren’t all helplessly wrinkled. “I can’t wait.”
Max slings an arm around Miles’s neck, and this clear brotherly affection does that thing to my heart again. “Hey. Miles to Go Before I Sleep. It’s going to be okay.”
At that, Miles chuffs out a laugh. “I don’t think that one works as well. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.”
“It doesn’t, does it? I was trying something new. Really got into poetry while I was away.”
“Keep working on it, Maximum Capacity.”
Max turns on his brightest grin so far. The nicknames are absolutely killing me.
“You two have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Max looks over at me. “I’ve been wondering this whole time—is that a dick tattooed on your arm?”
“Yes,” I say at the same time Miles says, “No.”
“Cool.” Then, before he shuts the door: “Oh, and in case I don’t see you tomorrow—happy birthday.”
