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Over Elliot Smith’s “Between The Bars” playing on his speakers, Seb hears his front door creak open, but doesn’t lift his head off the pillow. Lola and Chewie tramp down the hall, tails wagging delightedly, but Seb stays flopped out on the sofa with Achilles burrowing into his chest. It doesn’t fix anything, but Seb’s little guy needs to feel like he’s doing something about whatever’s thrown His Person off this time.
Meaning to say, “Thank you,” Seb ruffles the fur on Achilles’ back. Achilles paws at the hem of Seb’s long-sleeved t-shirt and whines. They still can’t quite speak each other’s language, but it sounds an awful lot like, “Dad, it’s hot. Take this off.”
“So, Julian and Addie meant it, mon loup?” comes Jeremy’s telltale drawl, as sleepy, slow, and throaty as the August air is suffocatingly humid. “You don’t want your beach-party?”
“Why would I?” Seb says without thinking. “Ruining everybody’s fun again and getting sand in places where there should never be sand? Thanks, I’ll pass.”
As his brain catches up with his mouth, Seb cringes at how whiny and petulant he sounds. He only relaxes when Jeremy peers down at him, furrowing his brow like his fuck-up baby cousin’s a piece of particularly unintelligible art. When staring doesn’t get him answers, Jeremy pauses Seb’s iPod. Scooping up Achilles, he sits on Seb’s coffee-table, beside a hardback copy of Proust’s Sodome et Gomorrhe.
“What’s going on?” he says, frowning maybe-sympathetically. “Julian’s learned his lesson about trying to fuck you on the beach.”
“Sand gets everywhere anyway. I hate it.”
“I hate how one of my favorite people thinks he can lie to me after nearly twenty-five years, but that’s just me.” Jeremy shrugs. “We don’t have to go to the beach, okay? It’s your birthday. Addie and me can change the plans.”
“Can you just cancel them?” Seb forces himself up. Slouching, he tugs both hands through his tangled hair. “I love you, I love my sister, but I’d rather not bother celebrating this year.”
There’s no good way to explain himself, so Seb yanks his sleeves back to the elbows. There’s no way Jeremy can miss his intent. Gnarled, self-inflicted scars cut glaring, not-quite-red lines down the middles of Seb’s vampire-white forearms, drowning out his tattoos’ black ink, the faded marks from razors and lit cigarettes. While Jeremy ghosts his fingers along Seb’s arm, Seb watches his cousin’s face. Nearly six weeks after Max, his eldest brother, interrupted the mess that gave Seb these souvenirs, looking at them still makes Seb want to puke.
“Hate to say it, but that’s kinda why the rest of us want to do something. We’re glad we didn’t lose you.” Jeremy’s wobbly smile is paper-thin, but at least he’s trying. “What if we stay home and keep it simple? Family and close friends only?”
It takes him a moment, but Seb nods. “No liquor ’til Max takes Marie home. My niece doesn’t need to see us get like that.”