Chapter 15: It Starts with Us: Chapter 15

When I was in the military, I was stationed with a friend who had family from Boston. His aunt and uncle were getting ready to retire and wanted to sell their restaurant. It was called Milla’s, and when I visited it on leave one year, I absolutely fell in love with the place. I can say it was the food, or the fact that it was located in Boston, but the truth is, I fell in love with it because of the preserved tree growing in the center of the main dining room.

The tree reminded me of Lily.

If anything is going to remind someone of their first love, trees are probably the last thing you want as a reminder. They’re everywhere. Which is probably why I’ve thought about Lily every day since I was eighteen, but that could also be because I still, to this day, feel like I owe her my life.

I’m not sure if it was the tree, or the fact that the restaurant came almost fully stocked and staffed, but I felt a pull to buy it when it became available. It wasn’t my goal to own a restaurant right out of the military. I had planned to work as a chef to gain experience, but when this opportunity presented itself, I couldn’t walk away from the prospect. I used the money I saved up from my time as a Marine, and I secured a business loan, bought the restaurant, changed the name, and created a whole new menu.

Sometimes I feel guilty for the success Bib’s has had—like I haven’t paid my dues. I didn’t just inherit the staff, who already knew what they were doing, but I inherited customers as well. I didn’t build it from the ground up, which is why I feel a heavy amount of imposter syndrome when people congratulate me on the success of Bib’s.

That’s why I opened Corrigan’s. I don’t know that I was trying to prove anything to anyone other than myself, but I wanted to know that I could do it. I wanted the challenge of creating something from nothing and watching it flourish and grow. Like what Lily wrote in her journal about why she liked growing things in her garden when we were teenagers.

Maybe that’s why I feel more protective of Corrigan’s than I do over Bib’s, because I created it from nothing. That might also be the reason I put more effort into protecting it. Corrigan’s has a working security system and is a hell of a lot harder to break into than Bib’s.

Which is why I chose to spend tonight at Bib’s, even though Corrigan’s is due to be broken into if we’re going by the rotating schedule this kid has developed. The first night was Bib’s, the second night was Corrigan’s, he took a few days off, and then the third and fourth incidents were at Bib’s. I may be wrong, but I have a feeling he’ll show up here again before going back to Corrigan’s, simply because he’s had more success getting into the less secure of the two places. I just hope tonight isn’t one of the nights he decides not to show up.

He’ll definitely show up here if he’s hungry. Bib’s is his better bet for food, which is why I’m hiding on the far side of the dumpster, waiting. I pulled over one of the tattered chairs the smokers use on their breaks, and I’ve been passing time by reading. Lily’s words have kept me company. A little too well, because there have been several times I’ve been so engrossed in this journal, I forget that I’m supposed to be on alert.

I don’t know for certain if the kid who has been vandalizing my restaurants is the same kid who shares a mother with me, but the timing makes sense. And the targeted insults that he’s been spray painting make sense if they’re coming from a kid who despises me. I can’t think of anyone else who would have a good reason to be angry with me more than a little boy who feels abandoned by his older brother.

It’s almost two in the morning. I check the security app on my phone for Corrigan’s, but there’s nothing new happening over there, either.

I go back to reading the journal, even though the last couple of entries have been painful to read. I didn’t realize how much my leaving for Boston impacted Lily when she was younger. In my mind at that age, I felt like an inconvenience in her life. I had no idea how much she felt I brought to her life. Reading the letters she wrote back then has been a lot more difficult than I expected it to be. I thought it would be fun to read her thoughts, but when I started reading them, I remembered how cruel our childhoods were to us. I don’t think about it much anymore because I’m so far removed from the life I lived back then, but I’m being thrown back into those moments from every angle this week, it seems. The information in the journal entries, my mother, finding out I have a brother—it all feels like everything I’ve tried running from has formed a slow leak that’s threatening to sink me.

But then there’s Lily and her impeccable timing being back in my life. She always seems to show up when I need a lifeline.

I flip through the rest of the journal and see that I’m already halfway through the last entry she made. I have very little recollection of that night because of the dreadful way it ended. Part of me doesn’t even want to experience it from her point of view, but I can’t not know how I left her feeling for all those years.

I open the last entry and pick up where I left off.

I close the journal after reading the last page.

I don’t know what to feel because I feel everything. Rage, love, sadness, happiness.

I’ve always hated that I couldn’t remember most of that night no matter how hard I tried to think back on every word that was said between us. The fact that Lily wrote it all down is a gift—albeit a sad one.

There were so many things about that time in my life that I was afraid she was too fragile to hear. I only wanted to protect her from the negative stuff going on in my life, but reading her words has shown me that she didn’t need protecting from it. If anything, she could have helped me through it.

It makes me want to write her another letter, but even more, it makes me want to be in her presence, talking about these things face-to-face. I know we’re taking things slow, but the more I’m around her, the more impatient I am to be around her again.

I stand up to take the journal inside and to grab something to drink for the wait, but I pause as soon as I come to a stand. There’s a streetlight at the other end of the alley creating a spotlight on the building, and there’s a shadow moving across the light. The shadow travels across the building in the other direction, as if whatever is casting the shadow is coming my way. I back up a step so that I can remain hidden.

Someone eventually comes into view. A kid closes in on the back door.

I don’t know if this kid is my brother, but it’s definitely the same person I saw on the security footage at Corrigan’s. The same clothes, the same hoodie tightened around their face.

I remain hidden and watch them, becoming more and more convinced by the second that it’s exactly who I think it is. He’s built like me. He even moves like me. I’m filled with anxious energy because I want to meet him. I want to tell him that I’m not angry and that I know what he’s going through.

I’m not sure I was even angry at whoever was doing this before I knew it could potentially be my brother. It’s hard to be angry at a kid, but it’s especially hard to be angry at one who was raised by the same woman who attempted to raise me. I know what it’s like to have to do what you can to survive. I also know what it’s like when you’d do anything to get someone’s attention. Anyone’s. There were times in my childhood I just wanted to be noticed, and I have a feeling that’s exactly what’s going on here.

He’s hoping to be caught. This is more a cry for attention than anything.

He walks right up to the back door of the restaurant without an ounce of hesitation. This place has become familiar to him. He checks the back door to see if it’s locked. When it doesn’t open, he pulls a new can of spray paint out of his hoodie. I wait for him to lift it, and that’s when I decide to make my presence known.

“You’re holding it wrong.” My voice startles him. When he spins around and looks up at me and I see how young he really is, my heartstrings stretch so tight, it feels like they’re about to pop. I try to imagine Theo out here alone in the middle of the night like this.

There’s still a youthfulness to the fear in his eyes. When I start walking toward him, he backs up a step, looking around for a quick escape. But he doesn’t attempt to run.

I’m sure he’s curious about what’s going to happen. Isn’t this why he’s been showing up here night after night?

I hold out my hand for the can of spray paint. He hesitates, but then hands it to me. I demonstrate how to hold it the proper way. “If you do it like this, it won’t drip. You hold it too close.”

Every emotion is running across his face as he studies me, from anger to fascination to betrayal. The two of us are quiet as we take in just how much we look alike. We both took after our mother. Same jawline, same light eyes, same mouths, down to the unintentional frown. It’s a lot for me to take in. I’ve been resigned to the idea that I had no family, yet here he is in the flesh. It makes me wonder what he’s feeling while he looks back at me. Anger, obviously. Disappointment.

I lean a shoulder against the building, looking down at him with complete transparency. “I didn’t know you existed, Josh. Not until a few hours ago.”

The kid shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and looks at his feet. “Bullshit,” he mutters.

The hardness in him at such a young age makes me sad. I ignore the anger in his response and pull my keys out to unlock the back door to the restaurant. “You hungry?” I hold the door open for him.

He looks like he wants to run, but after a moment of indecision, he ducks his head and walks inside.

I flip on the lights and make my way into the kitchen. I grab the ingredients to make him a grilled cheese and I start cooking while he walks around slowly, taking everything in. He touches things, opens drawers, cabinets. Maybe he’s taking inventory for the next time he decides to break in. Or maybe his curiosity is a cover for his fear.

I’m plating his food when he finally speaks up. “How do you know who I am if you didn’t know I existed?”

This feels like it could lead to a lengthy conversation, and I’d rather have it while he’s more comfortable. There isn’t a table back here with seating, so I motion toward the doors that lead into the dining room. There’s enough light from the exit signs that I don’t have to power up the dining room lights.

“Sit here.” I point to table eight and he takes a seat in the exact spot our mother sat in earlier tonight. He starts eating as soon as I set his food down. “What do you want to drink?”

He swallows, and then shrugs. “Whatever.”

I go back to the kitchen and pour him a glass of ice water and then slide into the booth across from him. He drinks half of it in one gulp.

“Your mother showed up here tonight,” I say. “She’s looking for you.”

He makes a face that indicates he doesn’t care, and then he continues eating.

“Where have you been staying?”

“Places,” he says with a mouthful.

“Are you in school?”

“Not lately.”

I let him get in a few more bites before I continue. The last thing I want to do is run him off with too many questions. “Why did you run away?” I ask. “Because of her?”

“Sutton?”

I nod. I wonder what kind of relationship they have if he doesn’t even call her “Mom.”

“Yeah, we got in a fight. We always fight over the stupidest shit.” He eats his last bite, then downs the rest of his water.

“And your dad? Tim?”

“He left when I was little.” His eyes roam around the room, landing on the tree. When he looks back at me, he tilts his head. “Are you rich?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you. You’ve tried to rob me several times now.”

I can see a smirk playing across his lips, but he refuses to release it. He relaxes into the booth more, pulling his hoodie away from his face. Strands of greasy brown hair fall forward, and he pushes them back. His hair holds the shape of a cut that’s long overdue, with sides that have grown out too long and uneven to be intentional.

“She told me you left because of me. She said you didn’t want a brother.”

I have to hold back my irritation. I pull his empty plate of food and his glass toward me, and I stand up. “I didn’t know about you until today, Josh. I swear. I would have been around if I had.”

He eyes me from his seat, studying me. Wondering if he can trust me. “You know about me now.” He says that like it’s a challenge to do better. To prove his low expectations of the world wrong.

I nudge my head toward the doors to the kitchen. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t immediately get out of the booth. “Where to?”

“My house. I have a room for you as long as you stop cussing so much.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What are you, some kind of religious nutjob?”

I motion for him to stand up. “An eleven-year-old muttering cuss words all the time seems desperate. It’s not cool until you’re at least fourteen.”

“I’m not eleven, I’m twelve.”

“Oh. She said you were eleven. Still. Too young to be cool.”

Josh stands up and starts to follow me through the kitchen.

I spin and face him as I push back through the doors. “And for future reference, you spelled asshole wrong. There’s no w.”

He looks surprised. “I thought that looked funny after I wrote it.”

I put his dishes in the sink, but it’s almost three in the morning and I’m not in the mood to wash them. I flip out the lights and have Josh lead the way out the back door. When I’m locking it, he says, “Are you going to tell Sutton where I am?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet,” I admit. I start walking down the alley, and he rushes to catch up with me.

“I’m thinking of going to Chicago, anyway,” he says. “I probably won’t stay more than one night at your place.”

I laugh at the idea that this kid thinks I’m going to allow him to run off to another city now that I know he exists. What am I getting myself into? I have a feeling my day-to-day responsibilities have just doubled. “Do we have any other siblings I don’t know about?” I ask him.

“Just the twins, but they’re only eight.”

I stop in my tracks and look at him.

He grins. “I’m kidding. It’s just the two of us.”

I shake my head and grab the back of his hoodie, pulling it down over his head. “You’re something.”

He’s smiling when we make it to my car. I’m smiling, too, until I feel a sharp stab of worry in the center of my gut.

I’ve known him for half an hour. I’ve known of him for a fraction of a day. Yet I suddenly feel like I’ll be protective of him for a lifetime.