THE NEXT MORNING, I wait until I hear both of my parents get up and leave for the walk I’ve learned they now take every Saturday. After they’re gone, I dress in my own workout clothes so that if Sam’s still here, I can leave under the pretense of going for my own walk. I could use a little moving, breathing, thinking time to myself, anyway. Before I leave, I grab my three pictures and tuck them into the pocket of my hoodie.
As soon as I open my bedroom door, I know without question that Sam’s here still because I smell bacon cooking. Another thing that hasn’t changed. Ever since we were kids—and apparently, still—Sam has bacon for breakfast every Saturday. No eggs, or toast, or even juice. Just bacon. Lots of it.
“Ah,” he says when I walk into the kitchen. “I knew the smell would do the trick. Even made some extra for you. And you have to try it, because you probably don’t remember, but I’ve basically perfected my method.”
I glance at the stovetop, expecting to see the big bacon pan he got for Christmas when he was twelve and I was ten, but it’s not there. His As Seen on TV Microwave Magic Bacon Cooker from the next year isn’t around either. He is, however, wearing an apron that looks like a giant slice of bacon. Apparently from a Christmas I don’t recall.
“Oven bacon,” he says, movie announcer–style. “Allows for the maximum number of strips to be done at one time, uniform cooking, and perfect balance of crispy and chewy. Plus, there’s no mess for Mom to get mad at me about.” He turns on the oven light and peers through the window, then checks the egg timer we’ve had as long as I can remember. “Two more minutes.”
He looks back at me, then notices my workout clothes. “Wait, you’re not leaving before breakfast, are you? It’s Faturday. We eat a ridiculous amount of bacon and then lie around for a while wishing we didn’t. Remember?” The corner of his mouth twitches, and he tries not to smile.
“Actually, I do,” I say. I reach for a banana from the fruit bowl. “But I don’t think I do that anymore. You know, with the whole vegetarian thing?”
He gives me a look. “Stop it with that already.” He reaches over and takes the banana from me. Puts it back in the fruit bowl. “Now you’re just being crazy. You realize you can do what you want to do, right? You don’t just have to do what everybody says you did before.”
“Didn’t you just tell me what I did before?”
Sam thinks about it for a moment. “Well, yeah, technically, but that’s different. I was just reminding you of something you already like and remember. Not telling you something that you don’t. Either way,” he says with a smile, “it is my very strong recommendation that you try the bacon.”
It does smell good, and I am hungry after not eating much dinner last night. And Sam is, well, Sam. He’s hard to say no to.
“Fine. I’ll have a piece,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen island. “Just to see if you really have perfected your method.”
“Oh, I have.” He raises an eyebrow and smiles like he always has, with all the confidence in the world. “Just you wait.”
It’s quiet a moment. I run my fingers over the swirls in the granite of the countertop. He checks his bacon again. The timer ticks away from its spot on the counter between us.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, yeah, of course.” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his bacon apron, trying to look casual, but it makes him look nervous. “Anything. Ask away.”
I hesitate. Find a dark vein in the granite and follow it to its end with my finger, wondering if we kept in touch once he went to school. Or if I told him anything. It’s not inconceivable. Last I remember, we were close enough for me to ask him what he thought about the boy I had a crush on in eighth grade and he actually gave me decent advice. The fact that there’s a chance I still did that sort of thing makes me brave enough to ask.
“Did we . . . did we talk much this last year? I mean, since you went to school?”
He shrugs. “Not too much. We texted sometimes.” He grins. “And there were a few ‘I Love You, Man’ phone calls that I’m pretty sure were wine cooler–fueled.”
I choose to ignore that part, as I still can’t picture drinking, or chancing the trouble I’d get in with our dad for that. “I called you?”
“Not a lot. But sometimes. Because I’m awesome and you love me so much.”
“Did I talk about Matt a lot?”
“Probably. I don’t know, it was pretty late the few times you called. You woke me up, and I just mumbled ‘uh-huh’ until you were done talking and ready to hang up.”
“Did I ever mention anyone else?”
Sam goes still, and there’s a long moment before he answers my question. “You mean like other people besides him? In general? Yeah, probably. I mean, most of us don’t just talk about one person.”
“I mean, did I ever mention any other guys? That kind of someone else.”
“Nope. Not that I remember.” He turns, opens the oven, and pulls the pan of bacon out even though there’s still a minute left on the timer, then makes himself busy fanning the steam away. Not looking at me.
My brother has always been a terrible liar.
“What did I say?” I ask.
He grabs a pair of tongs and starts transferring the slices of bacon to the paper towel–lined plate he has ready on the counter. “Nothing.”
“Sam.”
He looks at me now. “Not much.” He fidgets with the tongs in his hand. “I didn’t even know what you were talking about at first.”
“What do you mean? What did I say?”
Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out in a big sigh.
“Just . . .” He pauses, and I can see he doesn’t want to tell me. “Just that you’d kinda started hanging out with someone. A guy.”
“And?” I have a sinking feeling that there’s more. Maybe a lot more, that I might not want to know about myself.
Sam’s face confirms it. He takes another deep breath. “And that you and Matt were . . . drifting a little.”
“And you didn’t think this was important to tell me? Oh my God, Sam, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I . . . you just mentioned it once. And then the next time we talked, it was all back to Matt again, so I . . .”
He looks helpless standing there in his bacon apron, so helpless that if I wasn’t so angry, I might actually feel sorry for him. But I don’t—not in this moment. All I feel is anger.
“You what? Oh wait, you lied to me, is what.”
“I didn’t lie, I just—”
“Didn’t tell me the truth, which is basically the same thing.” I get up to leave, but I don’t even know where I would go.
“Stop. Liv, c’mon. I was trying to make things easier for you.”
“How does not telling me something like that make things easier?” I’m yelling now and I don’t even care. “How does telling me how much I love my boyfriend I can’t even remember make anything easier? Especially when it’s not even true!”
“But you do love him—or you did. Shit.” He frowns. “It’s complicated. And it just seemed better that way.”
“Lying to me? How was that better?”
“I told you, I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.