Chapter 21
Twenty-One
“A song to fall asleep to.”
“Alicia?” Dad’s voice, a sound muffled through the walls, followed by Adam’s laugh behind him. Grocery bags rustling. A key hitting the hallway table. I stayed where I was, standing like a ghost in the hallway, staring at the spot where Paul had stood just minutes ago.
“Alicia, you here?”
I moved, finally, walked to the washroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed water over my face like that could erase what had just happened. Then I opened the door and walked past them both in the hallway with a small, flat smile.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m so happy to see you both.”
Dad gave me a long look, then nodded. Adam was already halfway into the kitchen, carrying the grocery bags and mumbling something about needing a snack before he collapsed from hunger.
I didn’t follow them, walked down the hall, went upstairs to my bedroom, sat at my desk, reached for my earbuds, and pressed play.
To mute the voices in my head, the ringing in my right ear, if only for a second. @PChinaski, New Songs for You.
I knew this one already, from before: Damien Rice.
The one where he sings about being both the thing you crave and the thing you fear. About loving someone even when it feels like a mistake.
This was unbearable. I needed to leave my room; otherwise, my chest would explode once again.
His smell and touch were still in every corner of it, his playlists that weren’t meant for me.
I needed air and a new source of calm. A distraction from my thoughts, and true safety—not the one promised through touch, music, meadows, bad books, or texts. I needed my brother.
I paused by Adam’s door and could only see the faint glow of a screen inside.
A familiar “TUDUM!” sound. Then “Previously on…”.
Then, someone chasing someone else and shouting “Stop! FBI!” I knocked once, then pushed the door open.
He was lying across his bed in sweats and a hoodie, one leg flung off the edge, a bag of popcorn open on his chest. He turned his head but didn’t say anything, so I just crossed the room and flopped down beside him.
For a few seconds, we both stared at the screen like we were actually following the plot of whatever chaotic TV show he was watching.
Some guy in Bangkok, a federal agent, a computer whiz, a botched mission, everyone trying to save America.
Adam reached into the popcorn bag, dug around for a good extra-salty piece greased with artificial butter, and passed it to me without looking. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since last evening.
A beat later, he said, “Want to talk?”
I shook my head. “Just this, this is good,” I said quietly and changed the subject. “I could watch this show. The main guy is fit.”
“Shush, woman, he’s no main guy, he’s a Night Agent, so show some respect,” he replied, and we went back to watching.
A lone piece of popcorn landed in my hair, but none of us cared to remove it. Eventually, without any questions, he rolled off the bed and tossed me a sweatshirt.
“Might come as a surprise, but your brother has feelings and knows grand gestures. Use it in case you cry again and need to wipe your face. Or if you want to smell like deodorant from Dollarama and peanut butter toast. Limited edition fragrance of the King. Pour toi.”
It was oversized, riddled with holes, and smelled exactly like he said. I tugged it on anyway.
“I don’t know what to say yet,” I said, voice scratchy.
“Then don’t,” Adam said. “Just chill. I’m not going anywhere. Except, you know, Stanford.”
I smiled, and it was real. “Thanks, kid.”
We stayed like that for a long time, just eating salty food and binging at least three more episodes before Adam dozed off like a toddler: mouth half-open, popcorn bowl still balancing on his stomach.
I reached over and gently lifted it off him, careful not to wake him, and set it on the nightstand beside his lava lamp that hadn’t worked since last March.
His chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, like nothing in the world could touch him.
I envied him: he was calm, immensely talented, confident, and had a clear path ahead of him, one he’d chosen, at least for a couple of years.
He was messy and hungry all the time, didn’t care about looks, and wore his heart on a sleeve—I just hoped no girl broke it out of spite, or a mountain of half-truths, or simply because she could.
I sat there for another minute, looking at him, watching the screen flicker, my thoughts running from one place to another.
Then I stood and pulled the door half-shut behind me.
My own room was dark, the curtains catching a faint breeze from the cracked window.
I didn’t turn on the light, walked over to the chair in the corner, reached for the soft grey shirt with a David Bowie print from his Let’s Dance album that I hadn’t had the heart to wash.
I slipped it on slowly. The cotton clung to my arms, soft and smooth, and still smelled faintly of him: aftershave and that smoky fragrance I could never name.
My fingers brushed the hem, then moved, automatically, to my phone on the nightstand.
It was stronger than me, a habit of mine for the past few months.
No new messages. I exhaled. Then it buzzed, like it knew.
Paul?:
Song to fall asleep to.
A little jazz. A little rain. Just in case you still can’t sleep.
A link followed. Something slow and instrumental, with a lightly touched piano and rain sounds beneath.
The kind of song you don’t hear so much as feel.
I clicked play and set the phone screen down again.
Curled under the blanket with the music in my ears and the thump in my chest, I forced myself to think this was for me, only for me.
And finally, magic happened: I let myself breathe.