The Truth

Hellie

We don't talk until the following Saturday when I send the customary text ten minutes before we're to meet at the diner.

It's the same ol' routine except it isn't. Even Brent knows it isn't.

"Your girlfriend wasn't there," I say, ripping off the band aid and a few stray hairs right along with it.

"Why were you?" he volleys back.

"I told you. A friend invited me. The one with basket of plants.” I wait a beat until I can tell my answer satisfies him.

"Can I meet her some time?" I broach, attempting to put into practice what I've learned about communication and whatnot.

“Who?”

“Your friend...who’s a girl.”

He studies everything on the table like he's willing to become a part of it. "Sure," he says.

I imagine the heavens are exploding with rejoicing.

We eat, and I tell him I'm going to hang back and work on my book a bit. He looks relieved that I won't be impeding on him and Fogerty. But he does something odd. He shuffles over and offers me his arm. I realize he's indicating he'd like a hug, so I stand up and gently embrace him. Something melts away in me no matter how much I strive to hold on to it. And then it's just me holding my brother, loving him like it's not hard to do.

Once he's gone, I open up my laptop. I go to the file on my desktop that holds my "precious" novel but instead, I click open a fresh Word document.

I write like I'm pouring paint onto the page – all the things I've let blister over and fester through the years.

I'm deep at it, not even noticing when our regular waitress shows up to refill my coffee.

"The Great American Novel?" she asks.

"No," I say. "The truth."