Page 89 of We Drank the Dawn

Sarah loved to backpack. We had gone on multi-day hikes and backpacked in the woods more times than I could count. We loved having campfires under the stars and waking up damp and tangled in each other’s arms. Those late mornings on the trail were nothing short of magic.

And I had always set up our tent.

The first time we backpacked together flitted across my memory like bitter herbs on my tongue.

She crawled on her hands and knees into the tent, flopping down on the bare canvas like a starfish. “It’s so tiny. Are you sure we can sleep comfortably in here?”

“Considering you basically sleep on top of me, I think we will be fine.”

She pursed her lips, playing with me. “I’m not convinced.”

I reached down, scooping her into my arms as my shoulder hit the ground. Like programmed robots, we folded into our default—her back to my chest, my knees behind hers, her curls tickling my nose, and the crook of my elbow squeezing beneath her chin.

Her voice muffled against my arm as a contented sigh lifted from her lips. “You win. We fit.”

The stark contrast between my then and now weighed on me until I thought I would collapse. And, running out of options, I picked up the phone and asked Siri to Facetime the one person who could do this in his sleep. My brother.

“No freaking way, man!” Ben answered the phone practically roaring. “I haven’t seen that face in ages. Bro, you look so pale!”

“Hey, Ben.” I tried to smile, wondering if his face had changed or aged at all. He’d be a decrepit old man yet immortalized in my memory as a Greek god with rippling muscles, bright white teeth, and commercial-worthy hair. “How are you?”

“No, no. No questions yet. I need to relish in the fact that my big brother called me.”

Ben wasn’t one to send people on a guilt trip, but shame niggled at the back of my mind. I had gone too long without acknowledging the fact that I had a little brother. It was easier to isolate than draw people into my darkness. It was easier to shut people out than try to find a new normal with them. I didn’t know how to be real when everything felt so heavy and dark. And pretending had never been my forte.

Ben was ten years younger than me, but we’d been good friends. We biked, boxed, hiked, and played racquetball. When our siblings met at my parents’ house for our traditional Sunday lunch, we would shoot baskets in the driveway. He said Sarah and I had the perfect relationship, and I offered advice as he cycled through girlfriends. When he dropped out of college the fall before my accident, I talked him through it and helped him move all his stuff from his dorm to home then eventually to the Fire Academy.

He was one hell of a guy. And I missed him.

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

“A while? Dude, it’s been months. You must be allergic to your phone.”

I huffed a fake laugh. “There’s just been a lot going on.”

“Well, update me. How are you?”

“Well…” I took a deep breath, dreading to reveal the fact that I called because I needed something. “I’m trying to put up a tent right now, and I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh.” The animation in his voice dropped. “I guess you need me to help?”

“Do you mind?”

Whatever negative feelings he had, he threw off, infusing the usual humor back into his voice. “Of course not. Tents just happen to be my speciality.”

“I know.” I flipped the camera around and Ben clicked his tongue a few times. I gave him a quick tour, showing him where I got hung up and he gave me a few ideas to try. Twenty minutes later, the tent was standing and I drove the pegs into the ground.

We made small talk, but it felt strained and empty. Like two strangers trying to keep conversation going at a party. Not brothers catching up on life. Bitterness swirled in my chest as I remembered the day of the accident. How had one day stolen everything from me? Even my relationships. There wasn't one single person on earth who felt like home anymore. Not my siblings. Not my parents.

Not even my own wife.

After long minutes of stilted conversation, I finally had the tarp on.

And we were both relieved to say goodbye.

THIRTY-ONE

Cooper