“Hey, Jeffrey.” I didn’t have to wait long to hear my twin brother laugh over the phone.
“Fucker.”
Even though we were attending two different colleges in two different states hundreds of miles apart, I knew he had a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked as I walked across campus to my next class.
“Just chillin’.”
I crested the snow-covered berm between the lower and upper campus, and the main international studies office came into view. Since I claimed international affairs as my degree, the majority of my classes were housed in a small wing of the psychology building, which seemed as random as the addition. The building looked like the bricks had been set in the sun before they were paved into place, their faded color making the three-story structure look older than it was. The additional tower attached to it looked like an afterthought, though the overall structure seemed rushed compared to the rest of the campus, which was built in the 1930s and felt collegiate.
Jefferson Heights University was a private college in Cleveland that catered to what my mom called “old money.” The campus was filled with bronze statues of famous dead white guys and chapel-like structures that loomed over the grounds as if God himself was going to strike me down for my college sins. One-night stands truly had it rough when they walked back to their dorms.
“Don’t you have class?” I said to my twin, who I would forever be parenting. Ever since we were young, I felt like I had to be the man of the house because I was the oldest, if only by a minute. Therefore, I was responsible for Branson.
“Nah, no classes today. I worked, and it was fucking freezing outside.”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re the dick who ruins people’s days,” I said.
“Sad ticket issuer—that’s me,” Branson said with another laugh.
My cell chimed, and I glanced at the screen. “N-n-n-n-news.” It was my daily update. I quickly checked the headlines. “Hey, did you hear that famous golf pro that Dad liked so much recently died.”
“Yeah.”
“He died of pneumonia,” I said.
“So he suffered.”
“Shut up, dude. That’s fucked up.” Branson’s chuckle sounded more like a wheeze.
“I bet all those fires in California started with one cigarette not being put out,” I continued.
“Where are you getting this shit?” Branson said.
“I get all my news from Snapchat.” I reached the building and saw a girl with long brown hair and a body with curves in all the right spots. She was a few steps ahead of me. I took the stairs two at a time to grab the door before she could and hold it open. When she smiled in my direction, I grinned. Wow. Beautiful.
“I hate Fox News. They suck,” Branson said in my ear. “I’m not saying CNN is any better, but they are.”
That time I laughed, and she slightly turned. I raised an eyebrow, and her face flushed. I walked behind her as she headed toward the main tower. She nervously glanced over her shoulder.
“I swear I’m not following you,” I said, pulling the phone away from my ear.
She giggled, and her hair bounced on her shoulders. Total dime.
“Snapchat has all the news,” I said while I watched her ass sway in a pair of black yoga pants that stretched tight across her heart-shaped ass.
“But Snapchat, really?” Branson actually seemed interested in something other than Pokémon Go.
“Yeah, bro. When they report on the Middle East, they don’t refer to everyone as Muslims. They refer to them as Arabs.”
“Oh, that’s right. ‘I’m Aaron Kovac. I went to Jordan and studied abroad for a semester.’”
Again, I didn’t have to be there to visualize my brother rolling his eyes. His tone said it all.
“Hey, bro, don’t forget that October is breast cancer awareness month,” he said.
That made me laugh. “Little brother, it’s kind of hard to miss with all the pink crap all over campus.”
“None of the sororities do anything for breast cancer on our campus. But my buddy told me they hold events at Albany County Community College.”
“And?” My twin took forever to get to the point.
“And I think it’d be really cool if we supported the sorority or whatever group on campus and pitch in some money for breast cancer awareness,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s not my thing.”
“Now who’s being a dick? Aaron, it might not be your thing, but it is Mom’s.”
Branson paused long enough to piss me off, as if I needed time to reflect. What the fuck?
“Hey, when’s the last time you called Mom?” he asked.
No matter how many times we spoke—which was almost daily—my brother always asked about our mom, as if her cancer diagnosis was news to me. The more I saw pink ribbons around campus, the more I wanted to rip every single one down. The groups and sororities didn’t care if it was breast cancer or foot fungus; they had their do-good quota to fill so they could go back to being assholes and idiots. No thanks.
I sighed. “Listen, Bran, I call her about every week. I think I spoke to her yesterday. Don’t worry, I’m still checking in on her.”
“Dude, it’s not about checking in on her.” Branson’s tone was as agitated as I felt. “It’s about making sure she knows you care.”
“I do care!” I snapped. “I gotta go, bro.”
“Hey.”
His voice stopped me from ending the call.
“What?” I exhaled.
“Do you like me, Bert?”
Despite my anger, I smiled. When we were little, our go-to show was Sesame Street and our favorite characters were Bert and Ernie. I was Bert, the boring, serious, smart one with the unibrow, and Branson was Ernie, the shorter, funnier, oblivious one with the harebrained ideas that always backfired on poor Bert. We watched certain episodes over and over, but our favorite one was about friendship. We memorized the lines before we even knew our alphabet.
“So… do you like me, Bert?” he said again, and I knew I’d never get off the phone until I played along.
“You know people think they’re gay, right?” I said.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said and then jumped right back into character. “Do you like me, Bert?”
I shook my head. “Do I like you? Of course I like you, Ernie. You’re my best friend.”
“You’re mine too.”
No one could piss me off more quickly or make me happier faster than Branson. He really was my best friend.
“Okay, little brother, I’ve gotta go.”
I ended the call and walked to my class, where I took my regular seat in the back of the room. My mind jumped back to our conversation and bounced from thought to thought.
They think I don’t care? I’m trying. This distance shit is hard. They never check on me and tell me they care. I just know they do. I don’t need confirmation. And I don’t need to go to some cancer fundraiser to remind me that my mom’s dying.
Professor Whitman assumed her post in the lecture hall. From my seat in the last row, I stared at her. She always wore black, which matched her wiry hair and made her skinny, pale frame seem even thinner. Her large Harry Potter-like glasses didn’t help her look at all. If it wasn’t for her bright personality, she could get mistaken for a witch.
When her PowerPoint presentation on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict began, my focus shifted off her and to the slides. Better still, thoughts of my conversation with Branson disappeared.