No, I was not happy that Adam “surprised” me with his arrival. But am I mad at him for saying he missed his train when he was on the bus? Of course not. I’m thrilled my brother’s here, and I’ve all but forgotten that I lodged my phone in the grass after our texts.
I think it’s sweet that Adam cared enough to want to surprise me. He gets how important this weekend is for us to connect. He made the effort to get here even though it meant figuring out plan B. The love between me and my big brother is deep.
Adam had always been the prince of the family, and my father the king. My mother and I suffered quite a bit of tension, vying for the attention of the same men in some weird familial way, but I’ve rarely dwelled on that since they’ve been gone.
I was born fifteen months after Adam, and the story goes we were inseparable from day one. Best friends and confidants. Not all siblings are this way. Some are jealous of the new person in the family. Not Adam. Some younger siblings feel overshadowed by the older one. Not me.
That’s not to say Adam doesn’t drive me crazy on a regular basis, and he never hesitates to tell me when I’ve aggravated him, which is quite often, since he finds help and guidance “annoying” when it comes from his little sister.
We aren’t immune to the rifts that siblings experience, but our parents died when Adam was nine and I was eight, and after that we fused together like two halves. It wasn’t a choice; it was survival. It’s been that way since the day we moved from our Westchester County home to our Nana’s townhouse in Manhattan.
Prior to that tragic day, Adam and I had been shipped off to Nana’s dozens of times—for our parents’ date nights, or, according to Adam, for them to fight without scarring us. Probably both on the same occasion. But when we arrived the first time after Nana had been granted sole legal custody, Adam insisted we do things differently. Just me and him.
We snuck out the open front door, hidden between movers carrying out King Louis chairs to make space for our stuffed animals and twin-size beds. He held my hand as we tapped down the limestone steps, his chin glued to his chest, my tongue held firmly between my teeth.
A few minutes later we rang the bell like we were strangers. Nana opened the door, annoyed already. She’d been looking for us inside.
“Please, kind ma’am, we are little orphans with no place to go. Could you find it in your heart to take us in?” Adam said. I bowed my head to hide my laughter. Adam punched me in the leg.
“We could help you with the dishes and dusting,” I said to Nana, ad-libbing. “And we have so much love to give.”
Nana stood silent, unmoved by our performance. We expected some laughs, or scolding for tracking dirt into her house. Instead, Nana touched our heads and shook hers. Her eyes glistened. I heard her voice catch in her throat when she told us to get inside and wash our hands, that dinner would be ready soon.
She tried to act normal, but I knew we’d done something wrong. I wrapped my arms around her belly and hugged her hard before running past. Later I could point to that moment as when I first understood that despite my unbearable loss, I would have to spend a lifetime absorbing other people’s discomfort when I told them I was orphaned in the second grade. Adam found new life in dramatizing our stories; I kept it all inside like a good girl.
“I’m so glad Adam made it in time for dinner,” I tell Ted as he emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. I lean my head to the side to loop my earring through the hole.
“Yeah, we got in a quick game of cornhole while you were in the shower,” Ted says, unpacking his suitcase while looking for boxers.
“I can’t wait to hang out with him,” I say, flattening my hair in the back.
“This shirt for dinner?” Ted holds a blue button-down. I nod. “What is an astrology dinner anyway? Are we going to eat things from the zodiac?” he asks.
“Crab for Cancer,” I say.
“Isn’t Pisces fish?”
“That’s me, cold fish.”
“No way,” Ted says, wrapping his arms around me. He hates my negative self-talk. I kiss him on the lips to lighten the mood. I’m not going there. Vacation Margot is fighting her way to the surface.
“Some meat for Taurus?” I joke. “Oh, a gorgeous crystal water pitcher for Aquarius.”
“Are we allowed to have non-ovulating sex?” Ted nuzzles my neck.
“Later tonight, but it’s already after six and I don’t want to miss Adam and Aimee’s compatibility reading.”
“That will be some sort of magic trick,” Ted says.
I lace my hands through Ted’s and we walk downstairs together. I like to arrive fashionably late to social functions. Let guests have a glass of wine and mingle. Everyone’s a little more relaxed; they’re looking for someone new to chat with. It’s all joy, nothing forced or strained.
When we descend the spiral staircase and enter the grand living room, that’s exactly the scene in Stars Harbor. My brother’s leaning on the bar, swirling his red wine. Aimee and Farah are perched on the love seat, a bottle of rosé on a small table in front of them. Eden sits on a swivel chair, sipping a pink drink while rocking left to right with the heel of her boot. Rick stands behind her.
Rini sits in the center of the cream-colored circular couch, her back straight, her two feet planted firmly on the plush rug.
“There they are. Our first couple in the compatibility spotlight,” Rini says.
“I thought my brother was first.”
“I volunteered, but Adam’s in a mood,” Aimee says, glancing back at Adam. “We’ll go tomorrow. Besides, Rini gave me a preview earlier and she is good.”
Ted steps down to the sunken wooden floor and extends a hand so that I can land safely in my heels.
“A preview?” I ask.
“Rini was giving us the house tour and mentioned a few things. It wasn’t a big deal,” Farah says.
“It was so. She said we’re friendship soulmates and our bond will last a lifetime. How can you say that’s not a big deal?”
Rini pats the sofa next to her. Ted and I share an oversize cushion on the left side of the circular couch. A cocktail waiter appears and asks what we’d like to drink.
“Since you’re soulmates, maybe now you’ll stop using her as your lady doctor,” I say. I’m relieved the line lands with some humor, because I feel all sorts of judgy about their relationship and it’s hard to hide.
“Aimee’s not my patient,” Farah says, matter-of-factly. She sounded more defensive about the extra reading.
“I was in the hospital when you delivered Clara,” I say, confused.
“Yes, but once we became best friends postpartum, I suggested she move to another doctor in my practice. I haven’t seen Aimee professionally in over eight years.”
