Chapter 37
37
Tatum
We arrive in New York very early in the morning, with our luggage intact.
“This is a good sign,” I tell Carson, who carries their bag like they never expected to lose it.
“Let’s not make any decisions about how good this is going until we know for sure that we’re going to be well-received guests,” Carson replies.
“I happen to know that the woman I’m here to see wants to see me,” I say, halfway between a brag and a temperature check. It’s hard to believe it’s real.
Carson tosses my bag into the trunk. “What if she’s changed her mind since the last time you saw her?”
“Fuck off,” I reply.
“Everything okay?” our driver asks, worried by my tone.
“She’s my sister,” Carson tells them.
“I am,” I confirm. “And I want the best for you, even if you’re a shithead.”
“Name one time I’ve been bad to you.”
“Let’s start with when you came into the cottage and turned the thermostat up way too high.”
“You keep it freezing cold in there,” Carson says.
“What does the temperature of my home matter to you ?”
“It matters to me energetically, because they say younger siblings carry a piece of their older siblings’ DNA in them, so a piece of me is feeling what you feel, and that piece doesn’t like it.”
“That’s disgusting. Don’t ever tell me you feel what I feel ever again.”
Carson nods. “You’re right. I’m erasing that from the record.” They lean over the seat to bring our driver back into the conversation. “Promise you didn’t hear that.”
“I promise,” the driver says.
···
Getting dropped off in front of Eleanor’s building is even more surreal the second time. The trees are browner, the air is colder, but the lingering sense of rightness, of being where I belong, has remained. There’s a way I hold myself in this place that’s unlike the way I am in any other place I’ve ever been. I’m taller. More assured.
I like who I am when I’m here.
“Wait,” Carson says, grabbing my shoulder.
“Cut it out.”
“I’m serious.” They’re a shade paler than they were a minute ago, and a thin layer of sweat has sprouted on their face.
“Are you gonna be sick? Please don’t throw up on me.”
“Shut up,” they say, still holding my shoulder. “I’m nervous, okay?”
The sisterly urge to say that this must be impossible rears up, but I press it down. They are genuinely nervous. I am too, but we’ve chosen to go to Eleanor’s place first, so I get to play the role of interested bystander before it’s my time to shine.
“It can only get worse from here. If it does, at least then you know,” I say.
Carson’s forced to breathe, letting out a hissing laugh. “I should’ve brought Brother Ben for this.”
“What the hell would he have done? Hugged you?”
“I kind of think he would’ve sung a song,” Carson says. “I don’t know why.”
“If Laney finds out you think of Ben as a vocalist before our literal Nashville-living, country-singing sister, you’re going to fast-track your journey to somewhere worse.”
This conversation carries us to the doorman in the lobby, who remembers me from my time here in July, greeting me with an enthusiastic wave that touches my heart.
“We’re here to see Eleanor Chapman,” I say.
“I bet you are.” He lets us through, and we head up the elevator to Dawn and Eleanor’s floor.
When the doors open, I charge ahead, down the hall toward Eleanor’s door. In so many places in my life, as much as I’ve never wanted to admit it to them out loud, Carson really has been the one to lead. The firstborn, even with the addition of our bonus brother, Carson got to everything ahead of me. They came out as queer first. They moved out first. They have taught me how the world works through living their own life, and while I tease them all the time, I’m still holding my breath as we make our way to Eleanor’s door, needing them to once again be the brave one first, showing me that it’s okay to want to be loved out loud.
Carson knocks, then steps back, bouncing on their toes in anticipation. Thirty seconds pass. Nothing happens.
“Knock again,” I say. “Maybe she’s in her office.”
Carson does.
Still nothing.
The knocking turns to pounding. Carson starts to say Eleanor’s name. There’s a tentativeness at first, and then a desperation. “Eleanor, it’s me. I came to see you.”
“Don’t give too much away,” I whisper. “I want to see her face when you say some of the stuff we planned.”
Dawn pokes her head out. When she realizes it’s us, her expression shifts into delight. She disappears back inside, then pops out again. “I’m just about to head out. But I have a key,” she tells us conspiratorially. “She told me I could use it in case of an emergency. I’d say this counts.”
When we open Eleanor’s door, I remind everyone to be mindful of the cats. Occasionally they get delusions of grandeur and try to run outside. But it only takes one quick pass through the apartment to learn for sure what I already know—the cats aren’t here.
And neither is Eleanor.