Page 16 of All Our Nevers

“Is that the main one?”

“Yeah.”

“Capricorn.”

I nod. “That tracks.”

“What does that mean?” He signals a lane change, checks his mirrors, then his blind spot, then moves over. The sun shines hotly along my right side through the passenger window, the car AC overcompensating with frigid jets along my legs.

“Well, Capricorns are usually ambitious and achievement-oriented, Mr. Ivy League.”

He shakes his head in a feeble play at humility, but I can see the edges of that cocky smile creeping up.

“Bit of a workaholic,” I continue, “that’s very Capricorn. And they’re loyal, which, to be honest, seems very unlikely given your history with Andy. Though now that you live in Boston and are actually spending time with him I guess the jury’s still out.”

“Thanks for translating it to lawyer-speak for me.” It’s a joking response, but a muscle ticks in his jaw all the same. Guess the loyalty thing hit a bit of a nerve. “And what do you know about my relationship with my brother, anyway?”

“I know a lot,” I reply bluntly. “Because I was there all the years you weren’t.”

I picture nineteen-year-old Andy, all long limbs and downcast eyes and overwhelming fear of rejection. The way Owen’s silence sliced through every aspect of Andy’s life, the safety he found in inaction and solitude, waiting for others to come to him, never brave enough to put himself out there first.

How, in the years after college, Andy was so nervous to go home for Christmas because he would have to find something to say to Owen. How he responded to texts that read “happy birthday” with a simple “thanks.” Then finally, when Owen moved back to Boston two years ago, how Andy had to fight to work up the courage to invite him out with us. His brother. Older than him by only two years. How does a relationship fracture that badly?

I can think of only a few ways, and they’re all unforgivable.

I skip through a few more songs on the phone, placing it back in the holder once I’ve found one I like. The silence aches until I say, “Not that you asked, but I’m a Virgo.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Well, Virgo suns are usually very smart and hardworking and just overall perfectionists.”

A huff of air leaves his nose. “Congratulations.”

“We can also be overly critical.”

This time he responds with a real, resonant laugh before saying, “Well in that case, yup, hit the nail on the head.”

I shove his shoulder with both hands, barely hard enough to have an effect, but he immediately barks, “Hey! Don’t shove me while I’m driving, harpy.”

“Don’t mock me, toad.”

He turns left onto Route 9 and I stare out the window, watching the clear blue of the Brookline Reservoir move past. Our silence swells over the music again.

“Right,” he says. “Back to big talk then.”

He’s the opposite of Andy in so many ways and clearly this is one: his inability to let a conversation just die.

“How about this,” I offer. “Is there a God?”

I expect a joke, a sly quip, but he flatly responds, “No.”

I’m momentarily taken aback. “You seem pretty sure about that.”

“Yup.”

He’s staring determinedly at the road, and I decide I don’t want to touch whatever that’s about with a ten-foot pole, so I just say, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Chunky or creamy peanut butter?” he pivots.