He doesn’t know it, but Toby’s last meal at home is beautiful heart-shaped pancakes with warmed syrup, powdered sugar, and strawberries, because it happens to be Valentine’s Day. The twins get amped on maple syrup, but the rest of us don’t eat much.
I’ve kept Two Moons a secret for sixty hours, but it feels like sixty years.
When my mom tells Toby to go get ready for a doctor’s appointment, part of me wants to rush upstairs and tell him the truth, tell him I’ll help him escape, that I’m sorry I lied to him. Instead I get Kepler’s leash and call her.
I’m about to open the door when my mom stops me.
“Where are you going, Meals?”
“Out to walk Kepler.”
“We’re going soon. What about Toby? Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your brother?”
“He doesn’t know it’s goodbye.” It sounds snippier than I mean it to and I feel bad.
“He’s going to know soon enough. I know it’s hard, but . . .” She takes Kepler’s leash out of my hand.
I know my mom is right, so I run upstairs and knock on Toby’s door. The Beatles are playing loudly.
“Toby!” I yell over the music. “Can you open your door? For a second.”
He opens the door. “I can’t find my green sweatshirt.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“It was here. I don’t want the gray one.”
“I’m sure you’ll find it.” I try to sound calm, but my heart races. I bet my mom packed it in the duffel that’s in the car.
“I don’t know why I have to go to a doctor on a Saturday.”
“Want to borrow a book?” I ask lamely. “Game of Thrones? It’s taking me forever to read it.”
“I already read that whole series. Reading makes me nauseous anyway.”
“That stinks. Is it the medication?”
“I guess. It makes me so tired. All I want to do is sleep. Ari would never go out with me now. She’d think I was disgusting.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” I say, even though Toby’s hair looks especially greasy today and his skin looks almost gray.
“Toby!” my dad calls. “We need to go, buddy.”
“See you later,” I say, rushing down the stairs and calling for Kepler, who’s still hooked to her leash.
“Meals?” my mom says.
“Kepler needs a walk,” I say.
“Honey.” My mom tries to hug me, but I wiggle out. “I know this is terribly hard.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow morning,” my mom calls. “Grandma’s taking the boys to karate and then out to lunch to tell them the plan.”
“They’ll be back this afternoon. I love you, Amelia.”
I don’t say anything because I’m too busy dragging Kepler out of the house, down the icy driveway, and onto the road as quickly as possible. I need to get out of here; I can’t be here when my brother is driven away. I can’t believe he doesn’t know where he’s going! I hate my parents for not telling him. Why did I have to know? They could have waited until today like they did for the twins. It’s cold and I need to move faster than walking, so out of nowhere I start running. Kepler looks up, like she’s making sure it’s still me, but then she starts running and before I know it, we’re jogging down Parkhurst and onto Main Street, past the little deli, the gas station, and the post office. I should write Toby, I decide. Since I won’t visit him, the least I can do is write. I don’t know if they’ll let him email, and I think there’s a group phone, but they have to give him actual mail. As I run past the hardware store it strikes me that I know absolutely nothing about where my brother is going.
I run even faster, trying not to think about the fact that my brother is schizophrenic and being driven far away, that it’s Valentine’s Day and that Epstein probably hates me. I can’t help but wonder what today would be like if I hadn’t freaked out. In the movie version—
Stop. It’s not about the movie version, you idiot. There’s no point thinking about stuff like this. You can’t do anything to change what’s happened, so just move on. Move! My brain commands my legs. Move, move, move! Stop thinking about movies!
Then I’m moving. Me! Amelia Jane Anderson almost whizzing past the elementary school on the north side of town, then past the YMCA where Toby taught me how to swim, the fire station where we’d get Halloween candy, the bigger grocery store. I’m running past huge piles of snow all around town until sweat—actual sweat—drips off me and I can barely breathe. I’m going to have intense blisters tomorrow, and by the time I run past the Carters’ house again, I’m practically gasping for air.
And then when I finally turn the corner and run up my mountainous driveway, who do I see on the front porch?
Epstein.
Kepler barks and he looks down at me.
I look up at him.
We don’t say anything. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next because my brain is flooded with movie scenes where estranged couples see each other again for the big climactic scene like in The Notebook and Titanic and Gone with the Wind. No movies, I yell at myself as I walk up the driveway where the Honda Fit is parked. Say something!
I look at him, then down at my feet.
He looks at his hands. “You were running?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you ran. I thought you didn’t run.”
“Very random,” I say. Does running make Epstein appear? The last time I ran—or tried to run—was out in Montauk. I wish I could go back to that hot July day when everything wonderful was just about to happen. Without all the terrible stuff that came after.
Epstein walks down the porch and into the driveway, where he opens the trunk of the Fit and takes out Ray’s bag. “I brought this back.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” I try to breathe through my racing heart. “Ray will be happy.” I take the bag and walk up to the porch. Epstein follows.
“You want something to eat?” I ask. There’s a stack of pancakes on the counter.
He shakes his head.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Instead of looking at him, I fill Kepler’s water bowl and put it on the floor.
“I don’t like how weird things got. You disappeared on New Year’s Eve.”
“I’m sorry,” I finally say.
“I was really worried. My parents were worried. I had to beg them not to call your parents. It was really bad, Amelia. And then you break the radio silence just to hang up on me?”
“My phone broke,” I say.
He gives me a look.
“I just got a new one last weekend. My number is the same.”
“I would’ve left that party if you wanted to go. I wouldn’t have cared. I wanted to hang out with you. Sneaking out was shitty.”
“I know.”
“It’s about your brother, right?”
I shrug-nod. I can’t explain to Epstein what it felt like to be at that party, to have Holden be so cavalier about mentalillness, to have his mom know all about Toby. I know Epstein has a right to tell his parents and friends about my brother. I know that his book and podcast recommendations came from a good place, but it makes me feel even more terrible.
“Where is everyone?” he asks after a few moments. “It’s quiet.”
“Out,” I say quickly. If he knows where my parents are taking my brother, he’ll never understand how cool Toby used to be. “How’s Holden and those guys?”
“Chloe is panicking that she might actually get into Berkeley. I don’t think she’s stopped baking in a month. Holden went on a date last weekend. Without an app.”
“Really?”
“Dinner and a movie. How crazy is that?”
“Pretty weird,” I say, trying not to think about Toby. “Holden has a boyfriend?”
“It’s a little early to call it that, but maybe.”
“Wow.”
“Was having a boyfriend that bad?”
I take a deep breath. “No, it wasn’t bad.” I swallow. “It was actually very nice.”
Epstein smiles at me. “I liked having a girlfriend.”
“You did?” I pretend to sound shocked.
“Yup. She was real pretty and nice and smart,” he replies in an exaggerated Southern drawl.
“I should shower,” I say. “I’m sweaty.”
Epstein stands up, comes over to me, and sniffs. “You smell great.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not,” he says, leaning toward me.
And then we have an amazing, Hollywood, chased-bad-guys-all-over-seven-continents-blew-up-a-hundred-buildings-and-rescued-a-dog kind of kiss. It is Valentine’s Day, after all.
We kiss and kiss and after about thirty seconds I stop freaking out about how sweaty I am. I don’t know how we get up the stairs because we’re holding each other the whole time and then we’re in my room and on my bed and my shirt and pants are off and he takes a condom out of his wallet, and puts it on in record time.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod because now that Epstein is here things do feel okay. He puts his penis inside me, which is awkward because I feel so terrible about how terrible I’ve been to him. But it also feels not awkward because it’s Epstein. Smart and curious and kind Epstein who will keep me safe because he’s strong and sane and can protect me from everything bad that might happen. Epstein reads books about gay men for Holden and schizophrenics for me! Epstein does everything right, so how can that be wrong?
“Are you okay?” Epstein whispers.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re crying.”
I touch my face. How can I be crying without even knowing it? “I’m okay,” I tell him just as my cell phone rings.
It’s my brother. Without looking at my phone I absolutely know it’s Toby. He’s calling because he knows. My parents told him. He’s calling me because that’s what we do. Amelia calls Toby and Toby calls Amelia.
“Ignore it,” Epstein pants. “They’ll call back.”
“It might be . . . ,” I say. “I really need to get it.”
Epstein stops. Just like that, the miraculous thing between us is gone. I pick up the phone.
“Help!”
“Toby?”
“They’re taking me away, Amelia! We’re not going to a doctor. It’s like Tuskegee. Instead of syphilis, everyone gets AIDS.”
“That’s not true. Where are you? You can’t be . . .” I look at Epstein and then down at the floor.
“We’re at McDonald’s,” he whispers. “We’re not even in New York anymore. They’re getting me a Big Mac. Dad’s watching me.”
I feel sick. “I’m not sure what I can do,” I say. “It might not be so bad.”
“You’re just like they are. They’re listening to everything I say, you know.”
“I don’t . . .”
“There are spies here. Spies are everywhere. They’re all in on it.”
“Toby.”
“You’re not going to help, are you?” he yells and hangs up.
I close my phone and lie back on the bed. I am just like they are, I think. I knew about this for nearly three days. After a few minutes Epstein takes the condom off, gets off my bed, and puts it in the garbage can. Then he comes over and strokes my cheek and kisses my shoulder. I roll away from him, pick up my underwear and sweaty T-shirt from the floor, and put them back on. Then I roll over onto my side, look at the dust on my windowsill, and listen to Epstein breathe.
“Amelia?” Epstein touches my shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“You can talk about it. You can tell me about Toby.”
“He’s sick,” I say. “He’s very sick.”
“I’m really sorry about that. Did I tell you that my mom’s cousin is severely bipolar—”
“He’s not bipolar.”
“I know you’ve said how cool he is—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I curl myself even tighter into the fetal position.
“There are a lot of really smart, really talented people with schizophrenia, you know. John Nash, the math guy. You’ve probably seen A Beautiful Mind. And Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd and Peter Green, the guitarist for Fleetwood Mac. And Vaslav Nijinsky was a very famous Russian dancer.” Epstein sounds sort of excited by his knowledge.
“Stop,” I tell him.
“Abraham Lincoln’s wife probably had it too,” he says. “And Albert Einstein’s son.”
“I don’t give a shit about Albert Einstein’s son,” I snap. I’ve never talked like this to Epstein, but I don’t want to listen to his stupid list. “I don’t want to hear about the informative books you’ve read or the helpful podcasts you’ve listened to. It doesn’t help.” I sound angry, but I don’t do anything about it.
We sit or, rather, he sits and I lie curled up, not touching, not talking. How is it possible that just a few minutes ago Epstein was this great, safe thing and now, after one phone call from Toby, that feeling is gone? I can’t see it coming back, either. What will happen if Toby calls again? What will happen if he comes back home? It seems impossible to hang out with Epstein normally ever again.
All these thoughts and images feel like they’re reeling around on a never-ending cinematic loop in my brain, so after a while I unfurl myself and look at Epstein and say, “I think you should go.”
He looks surprised. “You want me to leave?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to drive back to the city?”
I nod.
“Now?”
I nod.
“But Amelia—”
“I know,” I say before he can. “We’re broken up.”
Wordlessly, Epstein puts on his clothes, opens the door, and walks down the hall to the stairs and through the foyer. I hear him open the front door and then he’s gone.
“You are so stupid!” I say out loud. “You are the stupidest person in the world.” I want to run after Epstein but I just lie on my bed, crying, until my phone rings.
I’m not going to answer if it’s another unknown number, because I can’t deal with hearing Toby again, but it’s Ray. “‘My uncle Roger said that he once saw an albino polar bear,’” she says.
“I don’t want movies quotes,” I tell her. “I want to get drunk.”
“On my way,” she says.