After I Told My Brother I Didn't Need Him Anymore

I was halfway through a volunteer orientation when my body began to betray me. The community center's old heating system rattled above us. A dozen people sat in folding chairs arranged in a loose circle, listening to a coordinator explain the food pantry's new intake process. My name tag said MARA VALE in blue marker. I had already rehearsed the sentence I planned to say when the coordinator asked why I had signed up. I liked helping people. That was true. It was also the only answer I could deliver without stumbling. Then someone opened the side door. A sharp smell of cedar and warm pepper slipped into the room. My pulse jumped. Heat gathered low in my abdomen, and the fluorescent lights seemed to press against my eyes. I gripped my paper cup until it bent. "Mara?" the coordinator asked. "Do you want to take the first shift?" I tried to answer. My throat had closed around the words. A chair scraped beside me. A man in a gray sweater stood and moved toward the door, giving me space as he passed. He wasn't the source of the scent. The smell came from somewhere in the hallway, probably another volunteer, but my body had already decided I was in danger. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Call me if you need me. The message was from Owen. My older brother had sent it before I left the apartment, as if I'd been heading into a war zone instead of a two-hour orientation. I typed, I'm okay. Then I stared at the message until the letters blurred. I wasn't okay. My heat was starting a week early, and I had forgotten to renew the prescription that usually kept the first symptoms manageable. I stood so quickly my chair fell backward. "Sorry," I said, though nobody had accused me of anything. The corridor outside the meeting room was narrow and dim. I leaned against the wall and tried to breathe through my mouth. The scent was fainter here, but my skin still felt too tight. My phone was in my hand before I decided to pick it up. Owen answered on the first ring. "Where are you?" he asked. "At the center." "Do you want me to come?" I hated that question because the answer was so easy. Yes. Come and stand beside me. Let the familiar cedar in his scent drown out every other smell. Let the world go quiet. I hated how easy it was. "I'm fine," I said. "Mara." "I'll call a rideshare." There was a pause. I heard his breath on the other end, then the soft clink of something he was setting down. "Send me the address," he said. "I'll stay on the phone until you get outside." "I can manage." "Okay. Then I'll stay on the phone while you manage." I closed my eyes. It was exactly like him to make the offer small enough that I couldn't call it help. "I don't need you to come," I said. "I know." The gentle certainty in his voice hurt more than an argument would have. I gave the coordinator a hurried apology, collected my coat, and walked out. Owen stayed on the phone as I crossed the parking lot. I didn't ask him to come. He didn't ask again. By the time I got back to our apartment, the symptoms had sharpened. Owen opened the door before I had unlocked it. He wore an old flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His scent met me in the entryway, steady and familiar. I stopped on the threshold. "Do you want the guest room?" he asked. "I can give you space." That was the arrangement we had settled into after my first adult heat went badly. He stayed nearby, never touched me without asking, and used his scent blockers whenever I wanted privacy. When the cycle became unbearable, I could ask him to sit outside the door. The cedar in his scent helped ground me. It wasn't magic. It was just familiar enough that my body trusted it. I had never told him how much I depended on it. "I need to call the clinic," I said. "I can drive you tomorrow." "I can take a cab." "Okay." His agreement sounded like a locked door. I went into the bathroom and ran cold water over my wrists. In the mirror, my face looked pale and furious. I was twenty-seven. I paid my own share of the rent. I had a job, even if it was mostly remote, and I could hold a conversation if I prepared for one. But I still used my brother's scent as a substitute for a life I had never built. When I came out, Owen was in the kitchen making tea. He had removed his sweater and put on a clean shirt with a high collar, probably to keep his scent close to himself. I looked at him across the counter. "I can't keep doing this," I said. "Doing what?" "Relying on you every time I cycle. I'm an adult. I should be able to get through a heat without calling my brother." He lowered the kettle. "You don't have to prove anything to me." "I'm not trying to prove something to you." "Then what are you trying to prove?" I heard the brittle edge in my own voice. "That I can be okay without you." Owen watched me for a moment. I saw the worry in his face, but I couldn't know what he was thinking. Then he said, "All right." The words landed between us with a soft finality. I should have been relieved. Instead, I felt the loss before I'd even earned it.