7. Seven
Seven
Cassidy
I’ve always been curious about genetics. For example, I’ve thought a good deal about how and why two people who love each other could have two kids, and one of those kids could end up completely healthy while the other one is forced to navigate a different kind of terrain their entire life.
I don’t envy my brother, August.
But I do sometimes feel responsible.
Maybe I took all the good genes when my parents had me, and he was left with whatever was left over.
Now, I know that’s not logical, but I’ve had a very, very long time to think about my brother’s health issues, and the musings of a twelve-year-old girl were not always logical.
Old wooden steps terrorize my thigh muscles as I ascend the apartment steps in the breezeway of the complex. Cigarette butts litter the concrete at the bottom of the stairs, and I’m certain some kind of animal has been chewing a hole through the wooden railing because chunks seem to be missing.
I stop at the landing, switching the box I’m carrying to the other arm.
Before I can even knock, the door swings open, and Gus appears.
His dark hair can’t decide which direction to reach for at the top of his head.
While I tend to help my blonde strands with hair dye every few months, there’s no denying the contrast between us—just one more reminder that he got a different combination from our parents.
And while my brother is in no way ugly, exuding an awkward clumsiness in the long, skinny limbs, and a rich kindness in warm brown eyes, I’m always reminded of the way his liver has never worked right. The yellow color that sometimes overtook the whites of his eyes, growing up.
It gives me a bit of anxiety with him living on his own now, but I try not to let that show.
Gus is proud of what he’s accomplished, and it took him so long to get my mother to let him do anything.
I don’t want to be another person to throw his weaknesses in his face.
That’s not me, and that’s not him.
To me, he’s just Gus.
“Are you ready for the best takeout you’ve ever had in your entire life?” he asks, smiling so big all of his teeth show, even the crooked one on the bottom he’s always hated.
I push past him, setting the box down on the table. “Considering we don’t have the same taste in literally anything save for the show we are about to watch, no.” I chuckle, carefully peeling the top of the box off. “What did you order?”
“Your favorite,” he answers, moving to the galley kitchen of his apartment. Cabinets open and close, followed by the running of the sink. “I got pizza, but made sure it’s sat for at least an hour, just like you like it.”
I make a small gagging sound. “Gus, you better be joking because you know I won’t eat pizza once it’s cold. It has an expiration date.”
Gus appears by the kitchen table and hands me a glass of water, one eyebrow raised. “Technically, everything has an expiration date.”
I shove down the urge to contradict him as some kind of reassurance.
“Don’t look so sad. It’s General Tso’s, Cass. Relax.”
One corner of my lip pulls upward as Gus throws his awkward limbs onto the couch, leaning forward to pluck the remote from the coffee table.
Aside from the couch, the kitchen table, the coffee table, and the TV complete with a TV stand, his apartment is bare—clinical.
“So listen,” I start, my thumb tracing the outside of the box. “This apartment is ugly, and if you’re ever to get a girlfriend, I figured I could add some pizzazz.”
Gus squints at the TV despite the dark-framed glasses resting on his nose. “I can tell you right now, I’m not interested. I don’t think it needs pizzazz. In fact, using the word pizzazz tells me everything I want to know. I don’t want it.”
My shoulders slump, and I smile. “Oh, come on. You’ll love it.”
I shove the open box toward him, and he fumbles the remote, looking at the pile of carefully looped yarn inside.
He pulls out crocheted vines—lots of them with little daisies attached.
“Cassidy.” Gus frowns, holding my creation aloft. “I asked for a blanket.”
I sit on the couch next to him, feeling no remorse.
Okay… a little remorse.
“You could say thank you,” I say, pointing to the large sliding door that leads to a too-small balcony.
Any luxury of a balcony is eradicated by the presence of the ugliest blinds anyone’s ever seen in any apartment.
They’re white, plastic, and would be put to far better use in the trash. “I think they’d go nicely right there.”
“If you think this is going to get me a girlfriend, I am deeply concerned for your love life.”
I laugh, leaning my head back on the couch. “Okay, fine. The blanket will just take forever. This was faster, and to be honest, I don’t have any need for them.”
“Wow,” his tone is flat. “This is worse than regifting.”
Another chuckle, and Gus has set the box aside, crocheted vines and all. The streaming app comes alive, and he’s quickly navigating to our tried and true seven-season show we started over three weeks ago.
“Looking awful over there,” Gus says when I haven’t spoken. My head still rests on the back of the couch. “How was your second day?”
“Believe it or not,” I start, “really good. Though I think I was sexually harassed this morning.”
A look of horror washes over his face. “What the fuck, Cassidy. You need to report that shit.”
“I just walked in on my boss’s sister topless. It was my bad. I should have knocked or something.”
Gus stands abruptly, scrambling to the kitchen table where he gets two bowls and a bag of take-out containers. He brings them over to the table, his brow furrowed. “Not sure that makes it any better, but I trust you, I guess.”
The bare, white walls surround us, reminding me of hours spent in hospitals and the beeping of monitors. “Trust me enough to be my new roommate?” I ask. “I get a nice house at the end of the driveway as part of the gig.”
Gus’s frown turns a touch sour—angry, even. “I do not need a roommate.”
“I never said need!” I defend, smiling to soften the slip-up.
I know exactly what he’s thinking, and I never should have brought it up. He’s spent his entire life fighting for independence, and I know he’s thinking that I don’t believe he will be fine on his own.
He can do this on his own. He has been doing it on his own. I just want him to know he never has to.
“Still,” he says, refusing to meet my eyes. Gus pulls two containers from the bag and begins dishing up our meal. My stomach growls in response, but he doesn’t acknowledge it or make fun of me like he normally would.
“You don’t need to take care of me, Cassidy. I am fine.”
Embarrassment flushes my cheeks. It’s natural to worry—worrying is normal. The only problem is with Gus; everyone surrounding him worries all the time. I need to be a non-worrier. No worrying here.
“No, I know you are,” I say, my voice wobbling just slightly.
His jaw tenses, his teeth grinding together. It contradicts the way he’s plating up my dinner with such careful concentration. “Don’t suffocate me like, Mom, okay?”
My mouth snaps shut. Anything else I wanted to say suddenly flees at the insinuation that I’d be anything like our mother, the mother I hardly know.
Feelings worm their way from my stomach to my throat, leaking out when I talk. They’re bitter like black coffee, and wholly unpleasant. “Has she called you recently?”
I wish I were better at hiding my emotions. The years of practice certainly haven't served me well. I feel like an open book, most times.
“Only every day,” Gus says, and a deep well of sadness digs its way deeper into my chest.
It’s been three weeks since either of my parents has talked to me—just busy. In addition to that, I’ve always been the one they didn’t need to worry about.
And they don’t need to worry about me, but I sometimes wish they would.
Gus’s features smooth out, his voice softening. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I blink rapidly. “I can talk to them. Mom should reach out more. She always talks about how much she misses you.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. I wipe a small amount of moisture from the corner of my eye, smearing it on the back of my hand.
Gus is right there with a napkin, caring for me in only the way that he can.
He’s had the most difficult life out of all of us, but nothing could rip the compassion out of my brother—that’s for sure.
“I really am sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“It’s okay.”
Gus hands me my bowl, and we descend into laughter as we watch an episode we’ve seen no less than twenty times.
I talk about the farm, and Gus tells me about his job at the bank. I greatly appreciate the detailed descriptions of forbidden romance happening in the office.
When my eyes start drooping, I force myself to stand from my curled-up position on the couch. “I should get going,” I say.
Gus starts cleaning up our mess and pulls out his phone. Sending a text before retreating to the kitchen.
I intentionally leave the box of crocheted decor on the floor—hoping he will at least look at it and think of me fondly.
“Cass?”
I turn from my spot at the door, one hand pausing on the handle to find Gus leaning against the wall by the kitchen.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Thanks for not asking,” he says, his arms folded as he looks down at the floor, avoiding my gaze.
I shake my head. “Asking what?”
Gus sighs. “For not asking about doctors or appointments or how things are.” He runs a hand down his face. “I have a procedure in a couple of months to put new stents in or whatever. Which you should obviously know, but just… thank you.”
Something tugs at my chest.
“You’re one of the only people who makes me feel normal, and I appreciate that. I shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier.”
I move from the door, smiling as I pinch his cheeks. “Awe!” I say, overemphasizing the word. “Gus, Gus.”
He swats me and my baby talk away with pink cheeks. Trying, and failing, not to smile. “Stop it.”
Gus’s phone rings, and he snatches it out of his pocket faster than I’ve seen him move in my life.
My eyes widen. “Who is it?” I ask, moving closer to look at the name.
He pulls the phone higher, but fails to keep my eyes off the woman’s name on his screen. “Megan!” I say, reaching for the device. “It’s a girl! Gus! You didn’t need my crocheted vines all along.”
“Shut up,” he says, shooing me to the door. “Now get out of here! You’re no longer welcome.”
I giggle when I stumble out into the breezeway, turning around to hold the door open as best I can. Gus is adamant about getting me out. “Ew, Gus!” I say between a whisper and a shout. “Are you about to have phone sex?”
He pushes harder. “Go. Away.”
The door slams in my face, and my nose wrinkles in disgust.
“Gross,” I whisper, walking on wobbling and sore legs all the way back to my car.