Today marks my third day back in Port-Christi and in this short time, Johnathan erased all the wear and tear left from my dad's absence.

To celebrate, I invited him and Julie to the Calabash two doors to the left and across from Nielson's Marina and Bar.

The building is shaped like a lighthouse with a sign out front just as worn away by weather and time as the bar across the street. Almost everyone's inside, basking in the circulating air and cooked pork.

Julie, Johnathan, and I sit among the others lunching under umbrella tables while watching people pass through the street.

I lift my glass of Arnold Palmer and they match me with their Coke and lemonade. With a wry smile, I say, "To new beginnings."

They repeat after me while clinking glasses. I bring mine to my lips as the breeze sweeps through my curls. The taste of lemon, sugar, and Lipton brings me to a time when it was just me and my parents. A time before they had Ashton and Isabelle and before Dad's health declined.

When Ashton was born, I cried and pitched conniption fits whenever his wails emitted through his baby monitor and caught their attention. At a point, I took out the batteries but was caught and scolded for it.

It took a while for me to warm up to him, though. It started with little things like adjusting his blanket so it wouldn't smother him, brushing my thumb along his velvety knuckles, to carrying him despite having a stroller and holding him until he went to sleep on my shoulder. I didn't even mind the drool or spit-up on my shirts.

It was the opposite with Isabelle. Ashton pitched fits while I approached her like I was the head of a bomb squad. It's how it felt with her screaming and crying whenever she saw us. After a while, we stopped trying to get along with her, and ever since, she's held that unwarranted contempt for anyone other than Mother and Dad.

"So, Johnathan tells me you're heading back to the big city," Julie says. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath that inflates my chest, not meaning to show my annoyance. I can't help it, really, but small-town gossip always puts a sour taste in my mouth.

"Sorry. Was it not my place to mention it," he asks, his brows raised and his lips apart. I shake my head from left to right, and then with a twitch, I gesture up and down.

"Sorry. Yeah, it's fine." I rake my fingers through the hair over my forehead, brushing my bangs back before dropping my hand with the other on my lap. With a slow nod and blink, I tell her, "Yes, I'm heading back to Chicago today. I only packed a few clothes anyway, so I definitely can't stay long."

"We could've went shopping." She lifts her glass of lemonade to her smiling lips while flitting her gaze from Johnathan to me and back.

"For what? Floral embroidered blouses, cowboy boots, and bell bottoms?" I know she's teasing, but the words come out before I can stop them. Even with a grin, it doesn't soften the blow of my condescending tone. If anything, it worsens it because Johnathan purses his lips and averts his eyes while Julie narrows hers at me.

She stares at me like her mind is reeling with unprintable words. I swallow as she lowers her straightened gaze to her hand as it sets the glass on the table. In a dry, almost sardonic voice, she says, "You really hate the South, huh?" 

"No, I don't hate it. It's just," I trail off, looking around at the uninspiring town of few people and antique-style shops. My eyes land on his though they avoid mine like the plague. Regardless of his discomfort, I tell them, "Being here often made me feel like there was nothing better. If anything, I hated the limited opportunities this place offered. Who wants to be bagging groceries for fifteen years?"

"No one, but we make do." When she began the statement, I started to chime in that my point was proven but opted to close my mouth. Julie leans forward with her elbows on the table and her manicured fingers hovering over her drink. "And bagging groceries is honest work. It's also not the only thing Port-Christi has to offer, but if Chicago makes you feel like Barbara Hutton, then I'm happy if you're happy."

I wanna clarify my intentions more than anything, but it'd be me beating a dead horse. With that in mind, I exhale and run my thumb along my tweed dress' hems.

Julie side-eyes him, shaking her head and scoffing. We sit in silence, passing glances around the table while white birds caw nearby and other tables fill with laughter and positive chatter.

I look to my left when I notice movement in my peripheral. I'm met with my reflection in the restaurant's window. As I turn my head, I catch the reflection of a bird perched on the railing by our table.

Julie and Johnathan force small talk with her asking about life on the water and him asking about her grandmother.

I veer my head to the seagull watching us. It flutters its wings and leans forward like it's preparing to fly. I open my mouth to get their attention, but no words come out in time. The bird swoops toward us and I squint while tossing my hands up to block my face.

Julie yelps and Johnathan curses under his breath while jolting to his feet. Our chairs scrape the patio as we scoot back from the table where the bird landed.

Expecting it to grab our scraps and flee, we watch with bated breaths. It waddles toward the center and stares down the gap between the planted umbrella and the metal frame.

I look toward Julie whose jaw and neck are tense. She's so pale that I can see the micro hairs along her cheeks standing on end.

The seagull darts its beak down into the space and wriggles something loose. Sidestepping and fluttering its wings, it doesn't lose its grip on whatever has its interest.

It stands upright with a black and yellow grasshopper that I instantly recognize as an Eastern lubber.

It lifts off its feet and flies away. I tuck my askew hair behind my ears while Johnathan reclaims his seat and Julie scoots hers closer to the table. She stares at the surface -- either her food or the raised cabochons -- before closing her mouth and looking at him.

Ever since we watched the movie The Birds, she's had an irrational fear of them. My phobia was sharks after watching Jaws, but it was short-lived when my dad told me we didn't have sharks in South Carolina. 

Now, as an adult, I know he was lying.

"Is that your brother?" I follow Julie's gaze to the bar across the street, and Johnathan turns at the hips to look. Sure enough, Ashton staggers down the steps in a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and brown sandals.

I push my chair back and stand with their eyes briefly on me. Not looking away from him, I snatch my coin purse off the table and stroll across the patio. Cars and trucks pass us left and right, but they don't break my line of sight.

As I near the curb, my hands quiver. When the road is clear, I sprint across with my kitten heels stabbing my Achilles.

"Ashton," I yell when I reach his side of the street. I call him again and again while closing in on him. He whips around so quickly that he, for a second, loses his footing before stumbling to correct his misstep.

"Well, if it isn't little-miss-big-city," he says, slurring his words. His breath reeks of hard liquor that, though he's legally allowed to drink, we know Mother wouldn't approve of. His cheeks puff and deflate like a frog.

I would slap him back to his senses if I thought it would work. Instead, I stare at my little brother like a parent watching their child spiral out of control.

When he asks if I plan to rat him out, I shake my head and say, "I'm taking you to go sober up."

𓆉︎𓆉︎𓆉︎

Though my lunch was cut short, they completely understood and encouraged me to tend to him.

He and I didn't speak during the car ride to Bristol Bay. We didn't even play music or leave the top down for long because he was feeling queasy. Every now and then, I caught him eyeing the upholstery and his reflection in the side mirror.

I didn't know if he'd been in the car before and was overwhelmed with jealousy, or if it was as new to him as it was to me.

Then when we made it to the beach house, what he must've held in came out like a volcanic explosion.

"Why the fuck do you constantly get shit handed to you for doing nothing," he yelled, his voice no longer dragging with the heaviness of liquor. Even his stride was firm. "When he was alive, you got his love and attention. Now, you get his car and his house?"

I didn't interrupt him nor attempt to defend myself or scold him for disrespecting me. I was more in shock than anything else, it came out of nowhere.

I let him rant and storm through the house, watching the anger turn his face red.

He broke down on the sofa, weeping like a baby but didn't say anything. I sat with him and rubbed his back while struggling to find comforting words.

Eventually, he laid down and I prepared a pillow and blanket for him to sleep on the couch.

I pull the wool blanket up past his shoulders until the frayed ends nearly graze his chin.

His ivy-green eyes never leave mine, and without moving his lips much, he tells me, "You don't realize how lucky you are -- were. I wished that I was older or younger; everyone forgets the middle child."

His words land like a punch to the stomach. Breathlessly, I say, "I didn't forget you," and he lets out a weary scoff.

"Sure felt like it. Kinda still does," Ashton mumbles. My heart skips and sinks at his words and the grief behind them. At first, I don't say anything. I lower my head and my hair sweeps down my face. "I'm sure you'll be back in Chicago soon, though."

I wanna deny it, but I could never lie to him. On the other hand, I know that telling him the truth would cause him to sink further and further into depression.

"Chicago isn't on my mind right now; You are," I say, rubbing the blanket's hem between two fingers. My racing heart drowns out the sea rushing to shore and birds squawking. I wait for a smile or a verbal response, but all I see is the corners of his mouth twitching and his eyes fluttering closed.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟