Page 88 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

A soft smile grew on my face.

“He wanted you to find a true friend,” Alex said. “And, I guess it didn’t work.”

I was suddenly frowning again.

“You found a brother instead,” Alex reached over and jabbed me in the side.

My smile was back and my eyes were suddenly brimming with unshed tears.

“Don’t get all emotional and shit,” Alex said. “You just need to know, right now, that I’m Peter’s friend. And I’m your brother. I can be both. That’s all.”

Alex laid back, his head resting in the scratchy late-summer grass, and stared up at the stars once again. I turned my head so that I could wipe my eyes without him seeing. Not for my benefit, but for his.

“You were probably depressed.” Alex’s voice rang out again. “You probably still are. But that’s probably just a pebble on the pile.”

“Meaning what?”

I didn’t turned to look at him.

“Well, why wouldn’t you be depressed after what you went through with your family, yeah?” he asked. “Depression is obvious.”

“Sure.”

“But why would you feel you deserved the life you built after they were gone?”

I turn to frown at him.

“Survivor’s guilt,” he said. “All of your family members are dead. They were fucked over by…whoever you think is up there.”

Alex pointed lazily up at the night sky. I followed his finger to stare at the inky blackness.

“But there you were,” he continued. “Pulling yourself together against all odds, scratching and clawing and doing everything you could to make a life for yourself. And you found it. You found happiness. With someone you love. Someone who was good to you. You built a life when everyone in your family had been denied that privilege. Why would you feel worthy of it?”

Caught in my throat, my breath threatened to strangle me.

How had it not been obvious to me?

Pushing Peter away during our marriage because of depression was plausible. However, when one considers they also felt guilty for surviving what their family could not—and they were going through a difficult time with their health—how could one not act in such a way?

“When someone experiences trauma—no—when trauma becomes the default,” Alex said, “they go a little batshit crazy when life turns out okay. They don’t know how to live if they are not constantly facing trauma.”

How could one respond to that? I continued to stare at him.

“You missed the storm, because it was all you knew, so you created a fucking hurricane,” Alex chuckled, looking up at me.

I took a breath. “My medication was also—”

“People go through health shit all the time,” Alex waved me off. “And they choose to rally the troops—pull those they love in around them for help and protection—or they suffer in silence, pretending no one could possibly understand their plight. You chose to suffer in silence. And Peter had to suffer because of it.”

Swallowing hard, I said, “You must hate me. Peter must hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Frenchie,” he chuckled. “I don’t pity you. I simply understand you.”

That brought me a bit of comfort. It also brought up a million questions I had for Alex—about his life—but I knew I had not been invited to ask them.

“What about Peter? He must hate me.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”