Page 95 of After We Fall

I drop my head into my hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come live with you, Jason. Your offer was generous.”

Jason clears his throat, his words thick. “It’s always been the two of us, Penelope. You and me against the world.”

I sit up and wrap my hands around the smart speaker, talking to it as if he can see me. “I’m still with you, Jason. I’m just not physically next to you.”

“Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

His pained voice is almost too much for me to take. I close my eyes, and this time I’m the one who is silent.

He’s right. It’s been the two of us for a long time. We watched each other’s backs at the group foster home, then we endured life in the public eye with the politically motivated Nelson family. Even into adulthood, Jason and I stayed close. But something changed. And somehow I missed when his feelings showed up for me.

Or maybe it’s not that anything changed. It’s that we never fit the way a normal brother and sister would. The edges of our puzzle pieces could be jammed together to work, but they didn’t slide smoothly to complete the picture. If I had gone with him to recuperate in Denver, I think I would have lost pieces of myself.

The Penelope who Luke sees, who Luke draws out, who Luke celebrates, is not the Penelope who Jason knows. She’s not the Penelope who got us through our early years. And she’s not the Penelope he’s going to understand.

I swallow before I whisper words I know will hurt him deeply. “I need you to let me go.”

I’m not sure if the sound I hear is his heart cracking or mine, but I continue. “It feels like you’re trying so hard to fix something for me, but what you don’t seem to understand is that I don’t need fixing.”

“You had an accident.” His defensive tone blurts through the phone.

“I did. But that’s not the only thing you want to fix.”

“I just want to help you—”

“If you had your way, I’d be working a different job, living close to you. I don’t want either of those things. And I’m tired of talking about it. It’s not worth any more discussions. I’m on my own path. And I think I belong here.”

For years we’ve skirted around this conflict. I’ve never been this direct with him, never wanted to hurt him. I still don’t want to hurt him.

He clears his throat, but it’s gruff. Deep. “I guess that means you’re not coming home for Christmas this year.”

I study the opposite wall where Luke hung a hunter-green felt-fabric Christmas tree.

Last week, I voiced my disappointment that this year I wouldn’t be able to put up a real Christmas tree. The bright lights would likely cause a migraine. The next day while I was at treatment, he snuck into my room and tacked the felt tree to my wall. I thought that was the only piece of the surprise, but on one of our fabulous dates, he brought felt ornaments. We decorated the tree while drinking hot chocolate, soft music playing in the background.

He declared we would exchange gifts under this tree.

“No,” I say, my gaze locked on a reindeer ornament. “I won’t be going home for Christmas.”

“Agh.” The sound coming from the speaker is painful.

“But I’ll see you at the New Year’s Eve party.”

“Yeah.” After a long pause, he says, “I’ll look forward to that.”

“Jason,” I whisper, aching to fix this, begging him to bridge the gap.

“I’m okay, Penelope. I’ll talk to you later.”

I sit, shoulders slumped, staring at the carpet, as the numbers rise in my head.

Luke steps in but stops abruptly. “Everything okay?”

I rub the spot over my heart. “I think I’m an eight. No, maybe a nine.”

“Your head?” He makes it to me in two long strides and kneels in front of me.

“No. Sorry. Sad scale. Or conflicted scale? Darn it. I can’t even find the correct word.”