SEVEN

JESSE

I’m not even sure I’m at the right place when I arrive. Claire’s house is nothing like I remember from the summer we turned twelve. The Tyndalls have renovated. The brick painted beige, the shutters replaced, the exterior lighting switched from bulb to gas flame, the entire roof changed to cedar. It gives off more of a European or French Country vibe than it did before.

What hasn’t changed is the knot in the pit of my stomach. The nerves that twist and tug every time I climb the steps of this front porch. I suck in a breath, hold it for three seconds, then exhale.

I’ve barely knocked before Claire is standing in front of me smiling brightly, seeming pleased to see me. “Come on in. Dinner’s just about ready.”

I step into the expansive foyer, also renovated, which is warm with the scent of pot roast and potatoes. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.

“Smells great,” I say.

“We are so glad you could come. Mom put in a roast the second I called.”

“Oh, these are for her,” I say, remembering the small bouquet of daisies I’d picked up from the Fresh Market. “I thought about a bottle of wine, but I know how your dad is, and I didn’t want to pick wrong.”

Claire laughs. “He’s such a wine snob, I know. No, the flowers are perfect. Thank you for thinking of us.”

“Grandma always said never show up empty-handed. Which is why,” I begin, presenting her with a rectangular box wrapped in blue paper, “I got this for Nolan. It’s a Captain America. I hope it’s okay.”

“Absolutely,” she says. “That was sweet of you.”

The shrill notes of what might be “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” carry from another room, and Claire’s eyes widen. “They’re learning to play the recorder at his preschool,” she explains. “It’s like, he can’t even read yet, but everything is color-coded so it doesn’t matter. He has to practice twenty minutes a day.”

“Twenty minutes?” I repeat as the song ends, then immediately begins again.

Another laugh. “Twenty very long, very painful minutes,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Whose brilliant idea was that?”

“Someone who doesn’t have kids. I think it’s safe to interrupt. You ready?”

I shouldn’t be so nervous, meeting a not quite four-year-old, but I find my lungs paralyzed anyway, like they’ve forgotten how to breathe. I swipe my sweaty palms across my jeans and try to calm the thrumming in my chest. If the old saying is true—that kids can smell fear—I’m screwed.

But I manage to follow Claire into the living room, where a little person in khaki shorts and a polo shirt is situated in front of a music stand, a beige plastic recorder at his lips, each hole marked with its own color. “Hey, Nolan, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

He sets the recorder on the stand and walks over to us. The pictures, though helpful, didn’t fully prepare me for this pint-sized vision of my older brother. It’s another quick jab to the gut, this first impact. But the subtle differences slowly appear—the glasses Sean never wore. Nolan’s lighter hair. The resemblance, though, is striking. I might not have made the connection on the street, but I would’ve looked twice.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he repeats. He takes Claire’s hand in his and moves closer to her.

“Nolan,” she begins, crouching to his level. “Remember I told you that your daddy had a brother?” He nods. “Well, this is Jesse. He’s part of our family, too. He’s your uncle.”

“Where have you been?” he asks.

Leave it to a kid to ask straight-up what my problem is—why, if we’re related, I haven’t come around until now.

“Uh, away. At school,” I explain. “But I’m in town for a few weeks and I wanted to meet you, so. . . . It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

“What do you say, Nolan?” Claire asks.

“Nice to meet you,” Nolan repeats.

“I, um, brought this. For you,” I say, handing him the gift. He looks at Claire.

“You can open it,” she assures him.

He tears into the paper, stripping it away in shreds until the action figure comes into view.

“Wow! Captain America! That is so cool!” Claire says. “What do you say to Jesse?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Claire stands. “I think dinner is almost ready, so go wash your hands, okay?”

Nolan runs out of the room, action figure in hand. I exhale the pent-up breath I didn’t realize I was holding. No wonder my lungs weren’t working.

“It’s kind of overwhelming, isn’t it,” Claire says, more statement than question.

“Yeah,” I reply. “But the good kind.”

“Jesse,” a deep voice booms. I turn to find Claire’s father standing in the doorway. Except for a few gray hairs and some extra pounds around the middle, he’s hardly changed.

“Mr. Tyndall,” I say, closing the distance between us to shake his hand.

“Good to see you again,” he replies. “Glad you could join us tonight.”

“Likewise. Glad to be here.”

“I was sent by your mother to let you know that dinner’s on the table,” he tells Claire.

“Nolan is washing up. I’m going to put these in a vase,” she says, referring to the daisies.

The dining room table is set for five. Two candles glow at center, a pot roast surrounded by vegetables steaming on a plate between them.

Mrs. Tyndall enters with a basket of rolls just as Nolan returns from the bathroom.

“Hi, Mrs. Tyndall,” I say.

“Jesse,” she replies coolly.

“Mom, Jesse brought you these beautiful flowers,” Claire says, placing and arranging them in a vase of water at the other end of the table.

Her mother ignores this. “Did you wash your hands and face?” she asks Nolan.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.

“Then your spot is right here beside me, Champ,” Mr. Tyndall says. Nolan climbs into the chair by the head of the table, and his grandpa pushes him closer.

We settle in—Mr. Tyndall at the head of the table, Nolan between his grandparents, and Claire and me across from them.

“Let’s say grace, Nolan,” Mrs. Tyndall says. The little boy folds his hands and sings a quick, quiet prayer in rhyme, thanking God for his many blessings.

“Amen,” she says. “Good boy.” We make our plates, and I take the moment to thank the Tyndalls for inviting me.

“Well, that had more to do with Claire than us,” Mrs. Tyndall says.

“Mom,” Claire says, cutting into her meat with a steak knife.

“Just being honest, sweetheart.”

Claire keeps her voice low. “We talked about this.”

“I know we did, but we’re not doing anyone any favors by pretending the past is all behind us or whatnot.” Mrs. Tyndall cuts the meat on Nolan’s plate into tiny bites.

“Which means your mother is going to take this bitter pill all the way to the grave,” Mr. Tyndall says, matter of fact.

“You have to understand, Jesse,” she begins, “that we didn’t exactly part with your family on the best of terms.”

“That wasn’t Jesse, Mom,” Claire reminds her. “He had nothing to do with anything that happened or was said. He quite literally knew nothing about Nolan until today, and part of that is my fault. As far as I’m concerned, we’re the ones who owe him a huge apology.”

A thick silence falls over the table. I steal a quick glance at Claire, who mouths the word “sorry.” But what I want to do is apologize for my own family—for however they acted and whatever was said the night they sat at this table and learned they were going to be grandparents. Whatever happened, it clearly left a bad impression, and even though Claire is right and I didn’t have anything to do with it, I still feel responsible, somehow. Guilty, if only by association.

Shit. I should’ve brought wine.

An entire case of it, probably.

Claire’s father is the first to break the silence. “So Claire tells us you recently graduated—that you’re back in town to put the house on the market?”

“I did, and I am. I have an internship lined up at Perry, Manchester, and Thomas beginning in July.”

“That’s a great firm,” Mr. Tyndall says, seeming impressed. “We did some consulting work for them a couple of years ago. Howard is a good guy.”

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve heard the company is great to work for, and some of the interns end up with full-time positions, so I feel like it’s a good opportunity.”

“They don’t take on just anyone. The process is highly competitive. You must have done well with your essay and interview.”

“I guess so. Yes, sir.”

“So you expect to stay in Haleford, then,” Mrs. Tyndall says. “Nolan, make sure you’re eating those carrots and not just pushing them around your plate,” she warns.

I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. Yes, ma’am. That’s the plan. I guess I’m going to play it by ear. I’ll know more this fall if they offer me a full-time position.”

“I’m still surprised you didn’t do something computer-related,” Claire says. “The way you and Buzz were into gaming.”

“Claire, the finance industry is all computer-based now,” her dad reminds her.

“I know. I just thought you might be one of those guys who invents this crazy new app or game that takes the world by storm or something,” she says.

“I’m going to be a scientist,” Nolan says.

“You are?” I ask, thankful for the distraction—for the attention to shift away from me and my future. And my past.

“I like animals.”

“Me, too. What kinds of animals do you like?”

“Koalas.”

“Yeah. Koalas are great.”

“They’re marsupials,” he says.

I look at Claire.

“I know,” she replies, picking up on my surprise at this information. “He’s like a sponge.”

“They are marsupials,” I confirm.

“They live in Australia and they eat eucalyptus leaves,” he says, stumbling over the word “eucalyptus.”

“They do. Do you know why they’re called marsupials?” I ask.

“Because the babies live in the mommy’s pouch.”

“That’s right!” Mrs. Tyndall says, ruffling his hair. “You are so smart!”

“Are you eating your carrots?” Claire asks him. He slouches in his seat, frowning. “He really does love animals, though,” she continues. “We have tons of animal books. He goes through these phases where I have to read the same books every night for a week.”

“I like manatees,” Nolan tells me.

“So do I.”

“And Legos.”

“That’s awesome. My brother and I—your dad and I—used to play Legos together when we were little. We liked to build houses.”

I omit the part about how we would build these houses together until a “tornado” would come through in the form of Sean’s fist, taking out my properties but miraculously leaving his standing.

“That reminds me, I was talking to Evelyn the other day, and she mentioned in passing that David mentioned to her in passing that he hadn’t heard from you in a couple of weeks.”

“We were talking about Legos,” Claire says. “How does that remind you of Evelyn?”

“Evelyn—and David, apparently—were wondering if everything was okay.”

“What are you doing right now, Mom?” Claire asks.

“Of course, I told her you’ve been busy with your classes and that Lynette woman works you to death,” Mrs. Tyndall continues, ignoring her.

“I love my job. But yes, I’m busy, and I’m pretty sure I mentioned that the moment the two of you started scheming. I’m pretty sure I told David that, too.”

“David,” I repeat.

“David is the son of a friend of mine. We’ve been trying to get them to agree to dinner. David seems open to the idea. My daughter, on the other hand, is exceedingly busy of late. Or avoidant,” Mrs. Tyndall explains. “It’s so difficult to determine.”

“David is like, thirty-five,” Claire says.

“David is a nice, stable young man with a wonderful job,” her mother reminds her.

“Who is also very, very recently divorced,” Claire points out.

“The marriage was over long before the papers were signed,” Mrs. Tyndall reminds her. “And it had nothing to do with David. His ex-wife left him for a man she worked with. Some vice president of something or other,” she tells me.

“Ah.” I nod, pretending to understand and trying not to visibly react to this news—that Claire might be seeing someone. Pretending the idea doesn’t bother me as much as it did the day I discovered Sean had asked her out and she said yes. So it wasn’t that I was only jealous of my brother. I could feel myself starting to hate this David guy, and I didn’t know the first thing about him.

Great.

“Tell me about Haleford and the university,” Claire says, changing the subject. “What was campus like?”

Thankful, again, for this newest distraction, I talk about the city and the traffic and the architecture on campus. The diner within walking distance that’s open twenty-four hours and serves pancakes the size of pizzas and how no matter what time you went—day or night—there was always at least a fifteen to twenty-minute wait to get a table. I tell her about the open mic nights at the local comedy club. The football games. My roommates. How my macroeconomics professor had a longstanding tradition of offering dinner at a local steakhouse if the entire class passed the final with a ninety percent or higher. How we put in hours at the library as a group. How we were the first class in history to actually pull it off.

“Every entree was thirty bucks or more, times seventeen of us in the class.”

Mr. Tyndall whistles. “I would’ve forwarded a copy of that check to the business office for reimbursement. Charged it to the school expense account.”

“He was so great about it. Most of us were seniors in the program. It was a nice send-off.”

“That sounds like so much fun,” Claire says. But there’s something in her tone—something like regret. Disappointment. Her mom must sense it, too.

“Yes, Claire, but college is about getting your education,” she says. “You’re taking the same classes online, only without the distractions.”

“Sometimes, Mom, college can be about pizza-sized pancakes,” she counters.

“I’ll tell you what. If you ever make it out that way, I’ll take you there. You can experience one for yourself,” I say.

But before she can respond: “Young man,” Mrs. Tyndall says to Nolan. “You cannot leave this table until at least one of those carrots is gone.” Then, to me: “Did you date anyone?” she asks.

“Mom,” Claire says.

“What?”

“That’s so nosy!”

“It’s an honest question.”

“This is not the Inquisition.”

“I went out with a few girls. Nothing serious, though,” I offer.

“Of course it was nothing serious,” Claire’s mother replies. “Girls these days aren’t looking for anything serious at your age. They’re too focused on their careers. Their friends. Being single.”

Beside me, Claire exhales a heavy sigh. “Here it goes,” she mutters under her breath.

“That’s what I keep telling Claire about this job of hers,” Mrs. Tyndall says between bites. “She works all the time. When she’s not working she’s taking care of Nolan. When she’s not taking care of Nolan she’s doing schoolwork. I get up at two in the morning, sometimes, and her light is still on.”

“It’s called priorities,” Claire says.

“It’s called balance,” her mom replies. “And if you’re not careful, you’re going to wake up one day and find that all the good ships have sailed.”

“Are we back to David? Dad, can you make her stop?” Claire begs.

Mr. Tyndall lifts his hands in defeat. “Now that, my dear, is a ship that sailed a long time ago.”

“David is a nice guy, Mom. Okay? But I can’t make anyone else a priority right now. It wouldn’t end well.”

“That’s your fear talking, sweetie.”

“Oh my God. Okay, well, I’m done here, so I’m going to take care of the dishes.” She stands and piles her dirty napkin and silverware on top of her plate.

“Do you want to see my room?” Nolan asks me.

“Sure,” I reply, hurrying to finish my last few carrots, lest Mrs. Tyndall refuse to let me leave.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night,” Claire says. “Thank you, Nolan. You guys can hang out for a few minutes while I get cleaned up.”

“Did you eat that carrot?” Mrs. Tyndall asks her grandson.

Nolan frowns.

“I’ll take care of those carrots, champ,” Mr. Tyndall says, already reaching with his fork. “You go on and play.”

I grab my plate and glass to help. “Leave it,” Claire says. “You’re the guest.”

“Thank you for the dinner, Mrs. Tyndall,” I say. “Everything was delicious.”

“You’re very welcome. We are pleased you could join us,” she replies, but her tone doesn’t match her words.

I follow Nolan down the hall and upstairs to his room.

He goes straight to his bed and brings me the action figure I bought him.

“Can you open this?” he asks.

“Yeah, no problem,” I reply, happy that he seems to like the toy. I peel back the tape and tear into the cardboard packaging. Nolan digs through his toy box, pulling out cars, trucks, and dinosaurs. By the time I get the plastic figurine out, Nolan is standing in front of me, holding one identical to mine.

“Where did that come from?”

“Santa,” he says.

“You already had one of these?”

“They can be brothers,” he says, taking it from me and climbing onto his bed.

“Great,” I mutter. “At this rate, I should’ve brought a cask of wine.”

“What’s a cask?” Nolan asks.

“A great, big barrel,” I reply, stretching my arms to show the size.

While the two captains play fight—the perfect brothers—I tour the room, taking in the matching headboard, dresser, nightstand, and toy box. The red, white, and blue patchwork bedspread and matching curtains and rug—a pattern that screams “all-American boy.”

I pause at the wall above the nightstand, which features some framed photos: Mr. and Mrs. Tyndall, Nolan and Claire, a school photo of Nolan. And then Sean. His senior photo.

“That’s my dad,” Nolan explains. “He’s in heaven.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“He died before I was born.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

“My mom says he was funny.”

“He was very funny,” I agree. “He liked to play jokes on people and make them laugh.” I swallow back the tightness in my throat. It’s still hard, talking about my brother in the past tense.

“What else?”

I struggle, wracking my brain, trying to pick apart the good from the bad. Because yes, people thought he was funny and he loved playing jokes, but those were usually at the expense of someone else—more laughing at other people than with them. “He liked sports. He liked to play them and watch them on TV.”

“Did he like animals?”

“I think so,” I reply. We never had any pets growing up, but it was a safe assumption to make. Who doesn’t like animals?

“Mommy says he watches over me. He loves me all the way from heaven.”

I don’t know what to say to this. I feel like I’m lying all over the place. I don’t even know if I believe in heaven. Or if that’s where Sean is. If that’s where he even deserves to be. And I feel wretched for even thinking these things and sorry for this little kid who only wants to know more about the father he’ll never meet.

And Claire—she’s crafted this perfect story.

It’s so much easier for Sean to be this great dad and person beyond the grave. Because I can’t help but think, if he were here, he would be screwing fatherhood up all over the place.

He was cheating on Claire, for God’s sake.

He’d been with someone else the night before he died.

I knew this. I’d seen it with my own eyes.

The revelation washes over me, sending a spasm of panic through my veins.

Claire can never know this. It would destroy everything. At least right now we can pretend Sean would have stepped up—that he would have taken care of her and Nolan like he was supposed to, even if that doesn’t sound like the brother I knew at all. No. Nothing can ruin this image she has of him, this picture she’s painted. She can’t know the truth. It would ruin both of their lives.

“How’s it going, you guys?” Claire asks, entering the bedroom.

“Good. Captain America has a brother, now.”

She looks at Nolan, who’s playing with both action figures. “Oh, no!”

“I should’ve asked, first.”

“No! It’s great. I mean, I always thought Captain America might get a little lonely, sometimes. God knows I did, growing up.”

“Bath time, Noley!” Mrs. Tyndall calls.

He hops off the bed and runs into the hall as Mrs. Tyndall enters the room.

“I was going to give him one later,” Claire says, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

“It’s okay,” she replies, rustling around his top drawer and pulling out a pair of mini Fruit of the Looms and the Spiderman pajamas I’d seen in the last photo on Claire’s phone. “I’ll take care of it tonight.”

A few moments later I hear bathwater running and the door shut. I sit down on the bed beside Claire.

“Your mom is . . . just about everything I remember.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “You have no idea. I am so ready to finish school so that Nolan and I can have our own space. That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate everything she’s done for us, because we wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for my parents. They’re what kept the two of us off the streets, basically. They’re putting me through school. They babysit. I haven’t had to worry about a thing. But. . . .” she trails off.

“It can be stifling.”

“She does her very best to micromanage my whole life. I’m just . . . I don’t know. I’m ready to get out and do my own thing.”

“What if she doesn’t let the two of you leave?” I ask, only half-serious.

She laughs, grabs one of Nolan’s red pillows and hugs it to her chest. “I know. I’ve been very up-front, though. She’s known for years that once I finish school I’m going to start looking for my own place. I have money saved from my job, so it’s not going to come as a surprise. And it’s not like we’re going anywhere. I mean, for now, I’m planning to keep my job with Lynette, and Nolan has school. We can’t go that far.”

“So you wouldn’t consider moving somewhere else? To another city?”

Her shoulders lift. “I don’t know. I mean, it would have to be right. The right job. The right person. The right location. It’s not about me anymore. It’s me and Nolan against the world, and I want him to have family around. And that means you, too, by the way. More than anything, I want Nolan to have a GiGi and Papa and an ‘Uncle Jesse’ in his life. Thanksgivings. Christmases. Birthdays. I want you to know that you’re welcome to be part of all of them.”

Something in my throat tightens at this—the hurt and the sadness bubbling up inside, ready to explode—old memories pushing their way to the surface.

“I know you think you’ve lost everyone,” she continues, “but Nolan is Sean’s son. He’s your nephew. And that means you still have family. Because you have us.”