The crowd below starts cheering, and all it takes is one quick glance at Matty’s blanched face to confirm my fear.
Em grabs my hand as I watch Charlie swing back to the tree and then out again, like he’s flying, and then he whoops, no words, just a scream of pure joy and raw fury, a heart on the outside for everyone to see, right before the vine snaps and he drops like a rock, plummeting straight down into the dark water.
“Shit!” Matty says.
“Where’d he go?” someone behind me asks.
What if he hit his head what if he broke his neck what if he drowns?
Someone screams, and I realize it’s me as I’m running toward the river, that I’m the one saying “CharlieCharlieCharlie” as I push through the people on the bank and splash into the cold water.
Em yells at me to be careful, and then Matty’s by my side, his face looking as terrified as my insides feel, and we try to get to the spot where Charlie landed, but you can’t run in water, can only push, stumble.
We’re halfway there—the water up to my waist—when my brother surfaces, shirtless and skinny, alive and grinning, spitting water, pumping his fist, and yelling—no, roaring—with glee.
I stop, the relief washing over me so close to the fear I just felt, I can barely tell them apart.
Matty curses under his breath as Em arrives behind us, out of breath.
The crowd behind us begins chanting, “McCull-ough! McCull-ough!”
Charlie takes a few breaststrokes through the water until he can stand, at which point, my just-barely-cleared-of-cancer-for-the-second-time brother thrusts his arms up, like he’s some avenging hero, like he’s back from the dead.
I’m going to kill him.
“Little sister!” he yells at me, taking big clumsy steps forward, almost losing his balance more than once, words slurred.
He pulls me into a wet, sloppy hug, but my arms are flat against my sides, and despite all the river water around us, I can smell the liquor on his breath.
Face flushed, he turns proudly toward Matty. “Dude, did you see that?”
In reply, Matty steps forward and shoves Charlie right in the chest—not hard enough to knock him over, but enough to make my brother stumble a few steps back in the water.
“What the hell, Matty?” Charlie yelps.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Charlie?”
“Matty, he’s pretty far gone,” Em says.
“Which makes what he did just then even more dangerous!” he snaps at Em, turning back to my brother. “I have watched you do increasingly dangerous shit for the past year. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m done.” Matty raises his hands and backs off, shaking his head.
Charlie sneers. “You were done a long time ago.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you don’t seem so bummed to be going to Europe without me. I think you’re relieved you don’t have to be reminded of your own mortality by being around me.”
“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Matty asks.
“Guys, guys,” Em says, holding up her arms and moving between them.
I turn toward Matty, my hand on his elbow. “What are you talking about? What stuff did Charlie do last year?”
Charlie sways in the current, nearly falling over, and Matty winces. Em slings Charlie’s arm around her shoulders, boosting him up.
Matty looks down at me. “I’m sorry, Parker. Now’s not the time. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Charlie’s face twists in a snarl. “I’m not sick anymore. I don’t need any fucking special treatment. Go ahead. Tell her. Parker loves ratting me out. You’ll be in good company.”
“Matty, please,” I say.
Matty looks exhausted. He and Em are usually the ones who diffuse our fights. He’s not used to picking sides. “Well, for starters, cheating on Erin. Smoking anything he can get his hands on. Last week, he was tripping on mushrooms when we were hiking at night at the gorge.”
“Mushrooms? What were you thinking?” I ask.
Charlie lets out an aggrieved sigh, ignoring me. “God, Matty. You’re making me sound like an addict. It’s a little weed. And I tried mushrooms. Once.”
My hand covers my mouth and I look at my brother, at the way his ribs are still showing because he’s so skinny, how there’s hardly any hair on his head to even be wet, the red raised scar from the chemotherapy port.
“You shouldn’t be doing any of that stuff!” Matty hollers.
“He’s right, Charlie,” I add, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.
Charlie scowls, pushing Em off. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you guys.” He makes a crooked path toward the riverbank.
He stops before he reaches dry land, joining a group of guys drinking in the shallows, high-fiving one of them and accepting a plastic cup of beer. He looks back at the three of us, then takes a long drink, finishing with a smirk, a deliberate taunt.
“Jesus,” Matty says, and even though he’s not religious, right then it’s not a curse; it’s a plea.
He doesn’t deserve this from Charlie. None of us do.
My feet start moving, like I’m on autopilot.
“Parker, wait,” Em says from behind me, but I wade toward my brother, unable to stop.
“I can’t believe you,” I say as I get closer.
He pretends not to hear me.
When I reach him, I push against his chest harder than Matty did. “I can’t believe you.”
“Whoa,” he says as he spills his beer.
“Did you hear me? I can’t believe you.” I push again.
Words are building in me like a big wave, the one you watch for—with each second gaining momentum, power, the potential to destroy.
“Oh boy, here we go. Are you ready to go running back to Mom and Dad to tell them how horrible I am? That’s your thing, right? Telling on me? Go for it. Be my guest.”
I shake my head. “Do you know how hard it is to watch you be sick, Charlie? And this is how you take care of yourself?”
“Maybe instead of worrying about my life, you should get one of your own? How about that? Maybe you should try developing a spine.” He laughs, and it’s rusty and sharp, the type that draws blood.
I push forward anyway, pointing my finger at his chest.
“Do you know what Mom and Dad have given up for you? Do you know they’re tens of thousands of dollars in debt and had to take out a second mortgage because of your hospital bills, that neither of them write anymore because they’re too busy taking on extra hours at work?”
Charlie stares at me, his face impenetrable.
My voice wavers, and I realize I’m crying. “Do you know what Dad did when your cancer came back? Do you? He cried. The sound woke me up, and I came downstairs to find him sobbing in Mom’s arms.”
Charlie flinches, but I still don’t stop.
“Do you know how hard it is to let ourselves love you, when we’re terrified we’re going to lose you any moment? You can’t know! You can’t! You wouldn’t be doing stuff like that”—I point at the river—“if you did.”
Charlie is stone-faced now, practically sober. “Go on. Say it, Parker.”
“Say what?”
“It would have been easier if I had just died the first time, right? If you all didn’t have to deal with this? Didn’t have to pay my bills and change your plans and actually love me?”
“That’s not at all what I mean.”
“Sure, okay.”
I look away, folding my arms against my chest.
Charlie leans close, gets right in front of my face, and his face is so hard, so gaunt, he doesn’t even look human. His voice is low, casual. “It’s okay to just admit it, you know. Sometimes I wish you were dead too.”
As soon as he says it, he looks shocked at the words that came out of his mouth.
I can feel them hurtling forward, crashing into the soft spots of me, and I want to curl over, to crawl away on all fours.
“Go away,” I whisper.
“Parker,” he starts. “Come on, you know I didn’t mean—”
But I shake my head, cutting him off, hugging myself tighter, my voice louder. “I don’t want to look at you. Go away.”
For a second I think he’s going to argue with me, that he’s going to try to make it better, but instead he sighs, muttering, “Whatever,” and walks away, toward the group at the keg.