Page 105
As the Labor Day sun begins its slow descent, the warm sand beneath my feet, I watch the Atlantic become a deeper shade of blue. For most, this weekend is about celebrating summer’s last hurrah before autumn’s arrival. But for us, it feels more like we’re picking up the pieces after winning a long-fought battle. Trying to find our footing again. Trying to discover what this new life looks like, and what our role in it will be.
My mother is arranging a centerpiece of white hydrangeas. Aaron is watching his kids play on the beach, but I can tell his mind is somewhere else.
And then there’s Jesse.
My youngest brother sits on the edge of an Adirondack chair in the corner of the veranda, shielded by the shadows of the overhanging eaves.
He looks haunted.
Jesse was a bright kid, always with an infectious grin and reckless, untamed energy. He kept that energy as he grew older, moving through clubs and wild parties. Now his frame is gaunt, his collarbones sharp enough to cut through his linen shirt. His eyes are on the horizon, but I can tell he isn't seeing the view. He’s seeing something much darker in his mind’s eye.
I take a breath and walk toward him. He doesn't look up as I approach.
“Jesse.”
He flinches, as if I startled him. “Hey.”
I settle into the chair next to him, watching my youngest brother for a long moment before speaking again. “You haven't eaten much today.”
“Not hungry.”
“Kiersten’s making the lobster rolls you like.”
He turns and looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot, the hollows beneath them deep and gray. “I don’t think lobster rolls are going to fix this, Sebastian.”
“I know they aren't. I’m not trying to fix things with a sandwich, Jesse. I’m just trying to make sure you’re still standing so we can fix things.”
He lets out a dry laugh that’s anything but happy and looks away again, his fingers twitching against his thighs. He’s vibrating with a low-level anxiety that makes my heart throb with sympathy.
“Jesse, look at me,” I say firmly.
He resists for a beat, then complies. There is so much shame in his eyes that it’s hard to look at him, but I hold my gaze.
“We’ve all been through the wringer,” I tell him. “But you’re drowning. And you’re doing it right in front of us because you think you deserve to. You don’t.”
“You don't know what I've—”
“I don't care,” I interrupt, “not anymore. You’ve faced your consequences. I’m concerned that my brother is disappearing.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I looked into a place in Switzerland. There’s also a private facility in Sedona if you want to stay Stateside. It’s top-tier, with no press, no judgment, just doctors, counselors, and a road back to peace.”
Jesse’s mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out, and he snaps it closed again.
“I care about you,” I say. “I’m asking you to help yourself. I don’t care where it is as long as you get better. We’ve already lost Dad, we don’t want to lose you, too.”
A tear escapes, marking a path through the stubble on his cheek. He looks desperately young and fragile. “Why?”
“Because, even though our relationship has been rocky at times, you’re still my little brother, and I actually like you. And because in March, you’re going to be an uncle again, and I want my kid to know you sober.”
For the first time in weeks, maybe even years, I see a flicker of something other than despair in his eyes. It’s hope. “Just promise me you’ll think about it. And know that if and when you’re ready, I am, too.”
I reach out and squeeze his shoulder. His muscles are taut. He nods, a single, sharp movement. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either.
We gather around the long teak table on the patio for dinner, lanterns flickering in the breeze. Isabella sits beside me, her hand resting briefly on my thigh under the table, a grounding touch that makes me smile.
The conversation is light. We talk about the weather, the arrival of fall just around the corner, the neighbor’s new yacht.
Mom laughs at one of my nephew’s jokes, Kiersten and Maya are talking and giggling, and Jesse actually takes a few bites of food.
