For such a taciturn man, Dom is a talented storyteller. Each memory of Josh he shares is vivid with detail and emotion, to the point I can almost imagine myself living through the experiences with him.
But I didn’t. Because I moved to the other side of the country.
Not for the first time, I wish I hadn’t loved Dominic Perry so much. That affection I built up for him over my life, in those formative years, made his abandonment hurt so much more than if anyone else had done the same.
But I don’t love him anymore, so I can move on from the past.
Right?
As he smiles and tells me about the time Josh challenged the Phillies’ mascot to a dance battle, I start to believe it. That I can move on. Dom is a different person than the young man I fell in love with. And I’m a different woman.
I can be cautious around him, but maybe I can let some of the resentment go?
After sharing a few more anecdotes, our stories naturally trail off as we continue to explore the ghost town. We meander away from each other, then find our way back. The sun beats down, hot and heavy, and I duck into the shade of an old building whenever I can.
Unfortunately, while I planned to keep my skin safe from the sun, I didn’t think about how quickly my water bottle would deplete. I upend it over my mouth, searching out the last drop for my sandpaper tongue.
“Here.” Dom appears at my side, a small blue spout in his hand that connects to a tube. The other end disappears inside his backpack. “It’s a CamelBak. I’ve got plenty of water. Have some.”
After hesitating, I step in close to accept the mouthpiece and wrap my lips around it. When I suck, warm water fills my mouth, and while I’d prefer a tall glass full of ice, this is still nice.
But also, intimate. I have to stand close to Dom to sip the water, and I can smell sweat mixing with his cedar scent and feel the heat radiating off his body. After another long drag I hope will last me for a while, I hand back the spout.
My eyes flick up to meet a dark set, and even though we’re both wearing sunglasses, I can feel Dom watching me as he sets the mouthpiece on his own lips for a drink. One that probably tastes like me.
I turn away fast and continue deeper into the town, Dom following.
A short while later the sound of Dom’s stomach growling is so loud, I can’t help a quick hiccup of laughter. The man tries to scowl at me. Doesn’t work, though, when his lips tick up into a smile.
It’s nice to know that as his hunger was growing, he was able to subdue his dickishness. One more sign he’s not the boy he once was.
I’m about to offer Dom one of the snacks I have in my backpack—it’s only fair when he’s keeping me hydrated—but he’s busy searching his own supplies. The man slips his pack off his back, reaches into a small zipper pocket, and pulls out a granola bar. As he peels back the reflective wrapping, I spot the way his mouth curves in a different direction. No longer suppressing a smile.
Dom gives the slightest involuntary grimace.
Abruptly, I’m flung back in time. My mind cycles through snippets from my younger years when I would watch Dominic Perry. So many times, I saw the guy choose carrots over chips, granola over donuts, peanuts over Sour Patch Kids. And during my Dom observations, I’d watch his mouth tighten in resignation as he masticated the one option while gazing longingly at the other.
I never understood why, only that for some reason he thought he had to deny himself.
The sight of his current distaste brings on an irrational fury, burning away my previous decision to set aside all my resentment.
Right when Dom is about to stick the snack in his mouth, I slap his hand, sending the granola bar flying. The food rockets through the air, eventually landing in the dirt a good distance away, next to a car without wheels. We watch as dirt and dust coat the now-inedible bar.
Dom turns a confused frown on me. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because it needed to be done,” I snap. “And you weren’t about to do it.”
A muscle in Dom’s jaw flexes, and I can see the irritation that normally comes along with his hunger rise to the surface.
Too bad. I got pissed first. I have dibs. “Here’s the thing about you, Dom.”
“What’s the thing about me?” His voice is drier than the desert around us.
Well, he asked for it. So, I’m going to give it to him.
“The thing about you is that you know you eat a lot. You know you get hungry. And so, you pack yourself snacks.” Seems smart, right? Wrong. “Healthy snacks. Gross snacks. Snacks that you don’t want to eat.” I step into his space, crowding him. So close I can see a droplet of sweat tracing down his neck. But I don’t let that distract me. “And so, you don’t eat them. Not until you’re so hungry that your stomach is growling, and you’re on the verge of—or already being—Dom the Dick.” I jab his muscular chest with my finger. “You did it when we were younger, and you’re still doing it now. If I had a dollar for every time I saw you practically gagging as you forced down an oat-based snack, I’d have enough capital to buy this town and turn it into a resort! Why do you do this to yourself?” I’m getting far angrier than this topic deserves, but I can’t stop myself. “If you just packed something delicious and unhealthy, you would eat it the moment you start to feel even the slightest hunger pangs.” I poke him again. “And then you would be happy. Or at least not a miserable sad sack.” I glare into his bewildered gaze, and I soak in that raw emotion he hasn’t hidden away, letting it fuel my righteous ranting. “But over and over again you refuse to pack yourself something that is tasty and not made of ground-up tree bark and dried fruits.” I throw up my arms, as if begging some heavenly being to come down and save me from his frustrating nonsense. “Just admit that you don’t like healthy food! Admit that you crave tasty things covered in salt and made of cheese. And then eat them. Stop making yourself hungry and just eat!”
I’m breathing hard now, bellowing breaths. But I don’t feel an asthma attack coming on. My exhales are hot and powerful.
“That’s the thing about you, Dom. That is your thing. You don’t make choices based on what is going to make you happy. You choose the responsible thing. Then you’re miserable while you’re doing it. But it’s not responsible to make yourself hungry because you don’t like the food that you brought. It’s responsible to be honest with yourself and to keep yourself well-fed.” I yank off my backpack, plunge a hand into the side pocket, and pull out a familiar red bag. “So, eat the fucking Cheez-Its and be fucking happy for once in your responsible goddamn life!”
He catches the bag I chuck at him out of reflex, and I leave him standing there with the food he should have brought for himself while I go pick up the pathetically abandoned granola bar. Because even though this town isn’t inhabited anymore, that doesn’t mean I’m about to start littering here. Once it’s tucked in my bag, I stomp toward the edge of town, realizing we’ve reached the end. And I try to ignore how I’m thirsty again, because I’m not about to ask Dom for a sip from his little backpack hose.
As I linger on the edge of a ghost town, gazing out at the desert, my temper transforms into embarrassment. Then regret.
My rant started about food but ended with too much of my inner pain revealed.
What was I even saying at the end there? Do I think I’m the Cheez-Its?
But that would mean I’m the one who would make Dom happy. Doubt that’s the case when I spend half our time together insulting him. I’ve turned the man into my grief punching bag because he hurt me a long time ago. I’m supposed to be past this.
I’m supposed to be a lot of things.
Dom’s unescapable presence appears at my side. I don’t look up at him or acknowledge him in any way, too mixed up in my unmanageable emotions to speak.
Still, I hear the crunching.
We stand side by side, me brooding and him eating.
Eventually, Dom finishes his snack. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him neatly fold up the empty bag and tuck it into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he says.
I grunt.
He releases a sigh so deep I expect to see it stir the dust in front of us and send a tumbleweed rolling.
“I ate healthy stuff for the twins,” Dom confesses. “Because I was responsible for feeding them most times. They never ate anything unless I ate it first. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have liked if I was only ever feeding them junk food. I guess it became a habit.”
And now I feel like a garbage person. Apparently, that bitch zombie virus is still pumping strong through my veins.
The Perry parents are kind and loving, but this isn’t the first time I’ve thought they put too much responsibility on their eldest son’s shoulders. Dom may be nine years older than Adam and Carter, but that still means he was only nine when they expected him to start helping out.
If it weren’t for Josh and Rosaline nudging Dom out of his responsible shell, I’m not sure the guy would’ve gotten much of a childhood.
“I’m sorry.” That was easier to say than I thought, so I keep going, sharing my thoughts in a normal volume instead of yelling like before. “That makes sense. And I shouldn’t have shamed you about what you were eating. That was shitty of me. I just…” I’m just projecting my insecurities onto you. But I don’t say that. “I just think you should make choices for yourself now. Do what makes you happy. Eat the food you like. Don’t make yourself hungry.”
Silence falls between us for a stretch, probably because Dom is so shocked that I willingly apologized to him. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m experiencing heatstroke.
“Are you thirsty?” he asks. The question sounds like a peace offering.
I hold out my hand and a moment later he hands me the nozzle.
Once more, the lukewarm liquid hits the spot, and I make the mistake of peeking over the top of my sunglasses in time to spy Dom’s smile. The expression almost looks satisfied.
Probably because he sees this as doing his duty for my brother. Making sure I don’t perish on any of these postmortem missions.
Reminded of Josh’s request, I slip my phone out of my back pocket, and I keep slurping Dom’s water supply as I hold up the phone in selfie mode and snap a quick picture of us.
Happy, Josh? There’s a cactus over my shoulder and we kind of look friend-adjacent in this one. Is that what you wanted?
I keep the snarky comments toward my brother to myself and give Dom back his hose.
“The letter said we should share regrets, too,” I say.
All the stories we told so far were funny ones.
Dom’s smile becomes subdued but doesn’t disappear completely. “He did, didn’t he?”
I nod. “I regret not…” The words I meant to say fade into silence, as if speaking them will reveal how terrible of a sister I was.
My silence lingers past the point of comfort.
“I regret not going with him when he asked.”
Dom’s admission pulls me out of my struggling thoughts. I stare up at him while he gazes out at the expanse of land littered with cacti.
“Going with him where?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.” Dom rubs a hand over the back of his neck in a rough gesture. I can feel the frustration and regret rolling off him. “He’d invite me on trips all the time. Told me the invitation was open. I never went. Work kept me busy, but I could’ve taken time off. I always thought…”
The pain in his voice guts me because it’s a reflection of my own.
“You always thought there’d be more time.” I finish the statement for him with the same reasoning I used myself whenever I turned down one of my brother’s invites.
The future always seemed to stretch out in an unending road before me. Maybe Josh sensed the end of his life was closer than most others. And that’s why he did as much as he could with the time he had.
More, I guess. If we count the ashes in my bag as him reaching farther than the limits of death.
“Exactly.” Dom does a slow turn, taking in the town that also manages to live on after its demise.
When the silence goes on for longer than it needs to, I worry that Dom has fallen down a mental rabbit hole of despair. The same one I practically live in. It’s a dark place that as few people as possible should have to deal with. Which is why I break the stale air with an inappropriate comment.
“Josh had terrible table manners.”
Maybe it would have been fair to share a regret. To expose my pain the way Dom did.
But I want to laugh again.
It feels so good to joke about my brother instead of constantly reminding myself that he’s gone.
Dom jerks, as if he forgot he wasn’t alone in this ghost town.
I keep going. “He was a loud chewer, and his mouth was open half the time. Plus, he always stole food off my plate! More than once I thought about stabbing his sneaky hand with my fork.”
Dom chuckles. “He did that with me, too. I used to guard my meals from him.”
We turn in silent agreement and start walking through the town again. I tug my backpack off, unzip it, and root around until I find the Rubbermaid container with my brother’s remains.
“And his singing,” I say.
Dom groans. “So pitchy. Like he was constantly going through puberty.”
The perfect description of my brother’s wailing calls up vivid memories of me cringing through his caroling.
“Horrendous,” I agree while my fingers pop off the lid. “He used it as a torture method to get me to do what he wanted.”
“Or to make you smile,” Dom adds. “When he sang to you on your birthday, you always had the biggest grin.”
“I did, didn’t I?” My soft response drifts away with the wind. I hold up the container of Josh, the small particles of him already catching in the breeze. Dancing to freedom and a new adventure.
“He was an atrocious dancer, too,” I say as my hand tilts.
“The absolute worst,” Dom agrees. “One time he accidentally gave me a black eye during the Electric Slide.”
And as another piece of my brother leaves me, he departs to the sound of my laughter.