A Second Chance at Us

Chapter Three

A Second Chance at Us

Chapter Three — The Things We Don't Say

I spent the next few days convincing myself that everything was normal.

It wasn't.

Not exactly.

William had settled into the house surprisingly quickly. He helped Mum with groceries, fixed the loose kitchen cabinet, and started taking his morning coffee outside.

It was almost like having the old William back.

Almost.

The difference was in the quiet moments.

Sometimes I'd catch him staring out the window, lost somewhere I couldn't reach.

Other times, I'd walk into a room and find him looking at me.

Whenever our eyes met, he'd smile and look away.

I told myself it meant nothing.

It had to mean nothing.

One afternoon, I came home earlier than expected.

I found William in the living room, sitting on the floor surrounded by boxes.

“What are you doing?”

He looked up.

“Trying to decide what stays and what goes.”

I put my bag down.

“You're cleaning?”

“Apparently.”

I laughed.

“Who are you?”

“Very funny.”

I sat beside him.

He opened one of the boxes.

Inside were old photographs, letters, and little pieces of our childhood.

I picked up a photograph.

It was me at about ten years old, sitting on William's shoulders.

I burst out laughing.

“Oh my goodness.”

William smiled.

“You loved that.”

“I was terrified.”

“You begged me to carry you.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

I looked at him.

“You have proof?”

He pointed at the photograph.

“That's pretty convincing.”

I laughed again.

For a few minutes, we went through the box together.

There were birthdays.

Christmases.

School events.

Family holidays.

A lifetime of memories.

Then I found a photograph of William at twenty-one.

He looked ridiculously young.

I held it up.

“You looked like a child.”

He frowned.

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was handsome.”

“You were skinny.”

He laughed.

“Same thing.”

I shook my head.

“You haven't changed.”

“Neither have you.”

I looked at him.

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged.

“You still laugh when you're nervous.”

I stopped smiling.

“I do?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn't know that.”

“I noticed.”

There was something about the way he said it.

Like he'd been paying attention.

I looked down at the photograph.

“William?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you come home?”

He didn't answer immediately.

Finally, he said, “Because I couldn't stay where I was.”

“Because of Ava?”

He nodded.

“Everything reminded me of her.”

His voice was quiet.

“So I thought coming home might help.”

“Has it?”

He looked at me.

“Yes.”

My heart skipped.

“Why?”

He smiled faintly.

“Because I'm not alone here.”

I didn't know how to respond.

So I looked back at the box.

“You know you can talk to me.”

“I know.”

“About anything.”

“I know that too.”

His hand moved toward another photograph.

Mine reached for it at the same time.

Our fingers touched.

We both stopped.

It was such a small thing.

Barely a moment.

But neither of us immediately pulled away.

William looked at our hands.

Then at me.

His expression was impossible to read.

I slowly moved my hand away.

“Sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize.”

“I know.”

Neither of us spoke.

The silence suddenly felt different.

He stood.

“I should finish upstairs.”

“Okay.”

He picked up the box.

Before he left, he looked back.

“Penny?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm glad you're here.”

I smiled.

“I'm glad you're here too.”

He walked upstairs.

I stayed on the floor surrounded by photographs.

My eyes landed on one from years ago.

William and me.

Two children.

Two siblings.

Everything simple.

Everything uncomplicated.

I picked it up and stared at it.

Then I whispered the words I'd been repeating to myself since he came home.

“He's my brother.”

The words were supposed to make me feel better.

Instead, they made my heart hurt.

Because somewhere between childhood and now, something inside me had changed.

And I was beginning to realize that pretending otherwise wouldn't make it disappear.