It Starts with Us: A Novel (2) (It Ends with Us)

When I was in the military, I was stationed with a friend who had family from Boston. His aunt and uncle were getting ready to retire and wanted to sell their restaurant. It was called Milla’s, and when I visited it on leave one year, I absolutely fell in love with the place. I can say it was the food, or the fact that it was located in Boston, but the truth is, I fell in love with it because of the preserved tree growing in the center of the main dining room.

The tree reminded me of Lily.

If anything is going to remind someone of their first love, trees are probably the last thing you want as a reminder. They’re everywhere. Which is probably why I’ve thought about Lily every day since I was eighteen, but that could also be because I still, to this day, feel like I owe her my life.

I’m not sure if it was the tree, or the fact that the restaurant came almost fully stocked and staffed, but I felt a pull to buy it when it became available. It wasn’t my goal to own a restaurant right out of the military. I had planned to work as a chef to gain experience, but when this opportunity presented itself, I couldn’t walk away from the prospect. I used the money I saved up from my time as a Marine, and I secured a business loan, bought the restaurant, changed the name, and created a whole new menu.

Sometimes I feel guilty for the success Bib’s has had—like I haven’t paid my dues. I didn’t just inherit the staff, who already knew what they were doing, but I inherited customers as well. I didn’t build it from the ground up, which is why I feel a heavy amount of imposter syndrome when people congratulate me on the success of Bib’s.

That’s why I opened Corrigan’s. I don’t know that I was trying to prove anything to anyone other than myself, but I wanted to know that I could do it. I wanted the challenge of creating something from nothing and watching it flourish and grow. Like what Lily wrote in her journal about why she liked growing things in her garden when we were teenagers.

Maybe that’s why I feel more protective of Corrigan’s than I do over Bib’s, because I created it from nothing. That might also be the reason I put more effort into protecting it. Corrigan’s has a working security system and is a hell of a lot harder to break into than Bib’s.

Which is why I chose to spend tonight at Bib’s, even though Corrigan’s is due to be broken into if we’re going by the rotating schedule this kid has developed. The first night was Bib’s, the second night was Corrigan’s, he took a few days off, and then the third and fourth incidents were at Bib’s. I may be wrong, but I have a feeling he’ll show up here again before going back to Corrigan’s, simply because he’s had more success getting into the less secure of the two places. I just hope tonight isn’t one of the nights he decides not to show up.

He’ll definitely show up here if he’s hungry. Bib’s is his better bet for food, which is why I’m hiding on the far side of the dumpster, waiting. I pulled over one of the tattered chairs the smokers use on their breaks, and I’ve been passing time by reading. Lily’s words have kept me company. A little too well, because there have been several times I’ve been so engrossed in this journal, I forget that I’m supposed to be on alert.

I don’t know for certain if the kid who has been vandalizing my restaurants is the same kid who shares a mother with me, but the timing makes sense. And the targeted insults that he’s been spray painting make sense if they’re coming from a kid who despises me. I can’t think of anyone else who would have a good reason to be angry with me more than a little boy who feels abandoned by his older brother.

It’s almost two in the morning. I check the security app on my phone for Corrigan’s, but there’s nothing new happening over there, either.

I go back to reading the journal, even though the last couple of entries have been painful to read. I didn’t realize how much my leaving for Boston impacted Lily when she was younger. In my mind at that age, I felt like an inconvenience in her life. I had no idea how much she felt I brought to her life. Reading the letters she wrote back then has been a lot more difficult than I expected it to be. I thought it would be fun to read her thoughts, but when I started reading them, I remembered how cruel our childhoods were to us. I don’t think about it much anymore because I’m so far removed from the life I lived back then, but I’m being thrown back into those moments from every angle this week, it seems. The information in the journal entries, my mother, finding out I have a brother—it all feels like everything I’ve tried running from has formed a slow leak that’s threatening to sink me.

But then there’s Lily and her impeccable timing being back in my life. She always seems to show up when I need a lifeline.

I flip through the rest of the journal and see that I’m already halfway through the last entry she made. I have very little recollection of that night because of the dreadful way it ended. Part of me doesn’t even want to experience it from her point of view, but I can’t not know how I left her feeling for all those years.

I open the last entry and pick up where I left off.

He took my hands in his and told me he was leaving sooner than he planned for the military, but that he couldn’t leave without telling me thank you. He told me he’d be gone for four years and that the last thing he wanted for me was to be a sixteen-year-old girl not living my life because of a boyfriend I never got to see or hear from.

The next thing he said made his blue eyes tear up until they looked clear. He said, “Lily. Life is a funny thing. We only get so many years to live it, so we have to do everything we can to make sure those years are as full as they can be. We shouldn’t waste time on things that might happen someday, or maybe even never.”

I knew what he was saying. That he was leaving for the military and he didn’t want me to hold on to him while he was gone. He wasn’t really breaking up with me because we weren’t ever really together. We’d just been two people who helped each other when we needed it and got our hearts fused together along the way.

It was hard, being let go by someone who had never really grabbed hold of me completely in the first place. In all the time we’ve spent together, I think we both sort of knew this wasn’t a forever thing. I’m not sure why, because I could easily love him that way. I think maybe under normal circumstances, if we were together like typical teenagers and he had an average life with a home, we could be that kind of couple. The kind who comes together so easily and never experiences a life where cruelty sometimes intercepts.

I didn’t even try to get him to change his mind that night. I feel like we have the kind of connection that even the fires of hell couldn’t sever. I feel like he could go spend his time in the military and I’ll spend my years being a teenager and then it will all fall back into place when the timing is right.

“I’m going to make a promise to you,” he said. “When my life is good enough for you to be a part of it, I’ll come find you. But I don’t want you to wait around for me, because that might never happen.”

I didn’t like that promise, because it meant one of two things. Either he thought he might never make it out of the military alive, or he didn’t think his life would ever be good enough for me.

His life was already good enough for me, but I nodded my head and forced a smile. “If you don’t come back for me, I’ll come for you. And it won’t be pretty, Atlas Corrigan.”

He laughed at my threat. “Well, it won’t be too hard to find me. You know exactly where I’ll be.”

I smiled. “Where everything is better.”

He smiled back. “In Boston.”

And then he kissed me.

Ellen, I know you’re an adult and know all about what comes next, but I still don’t feel comfortable telling you what happened over those next couple of hours. Let’s just say we both kissed a lot. We both laughed a lot. We both loved a lot. We both breathed a lot. A lot. And we both had to cover our mouths and be as quiet and still as we could so we wouldn’t get caught.

When we were finished, he held me against him, skin to skin, hand to heart. He kissed me and looked straight in my eyes.

“I love you, Lily. Everything you are. I love you.”

I know those words get thrown around a lot, especially by teenagers. A lot of times prematurely and without much merit. But when he said them to me, I knew he wasn’t saying it like he was in love with me. It wasn’t that kind of “I love you.”

Imagine all the people you meet in your life. There are so many. They come in like waves, trickling in and out with the tide. Some waves are much bigger and make more of an impact than others. Sometimes the waves bring with them things from deep in the bottom of the sea and they leave those things tossed onto the shore. Imprints against the grains of sand that prove the waves had once been there, long after the tide recedes.

That was what Atlas was telling me when he said “I love you.” He was letting me know that I was the biggest wave he’d ever come across. And I brought so much with me that my impressions would always be there, even when the tide rolled out.

After he said he loved me, he told me he had a birthday present for me. He pulled out a small brown bag. “It isn’t much, but it’s all I could afford.”

I opened the bag and pulled out the best present I’d ever received. It was a magnet that said “Boston” on the top. At the bottom in tiny letters, it said, “Where everything is better.” I told him I would keep it forever, and every time I look at it I’ll think of him.

When I started out this letter, I said my sixteenth birthday was one of the best days of my life. Because up until that second, it was.

It was the next few minutes that weren’t.

Before Atlas had shown up that night, I wasn’t expecting him, so I didn’t think to lock my bedroom door. My father heard me in there talking to someone, and when he threw open my door and saw Atlas in bed with me, he was angrier than I’d ever seen him. And Atlas was at a disadvantage by not being prepared for what came next.

I’ll never forget that moment for as long as I live. Being completely helpless as my father came down on him with a baseball bat. The sound of bones snapping was the only thing piercing through my screams.

I still don’t know who called the police. I’m sure it was my mother, but it’s been six months and we still haven’t talked about that night. By the time the police got to my bedroom and pulled my father off of him, I didn’t even recognize Atlas, he was covered in so much blood.

I was hysterical.

Hysterical.

Not only did they have to take Atlas away in an ambulance, they also had to call an ambulance for me because I couldn’t breathe. It was the first and only panic attack I’ve ever had.

No one would tell me where he was or if he was even okay. My father wasn’t even arrested for what he’d done. Word got out that Atlas had been staying in that old house and that he had been homeless. My father became revered for his heroic act—saving his little girl from the homeless boy who manipulated her into having sex with him.

My father said I’d shamed our whole family by giving the town something to gossip about. And let me tell you, they still gossip about it. I heard Katie on the bus today telling someone she tried to warn me about Atlas. She said she knew he was bad news from the moment she laid eyes on him. Which is crap. If Atlas had been on the bus with me, I probably would have kept my mouth shut and been mature about it like he tried to teach me to be. Instead, I was so angry, I turned around and told Katie she could go to hell. I told her Atlas was a better human than she’d ever be and if I ever heard her say one more bad thing about him, she’d regret it.

She just rolled her eyes and said, “Jesus, Lily. Did he brainwash you? He was a dirty, thieving homeless kid who was probably on drugs. He used you for food and sex and now you’re defending him?”

She’s lucky the bus stopped at my house right then. I grabbed my backpack and walked off the bus, then went inside and cried in my room for three hours straight. Now my head hurts, but I knew the only thing that would make me feel better is if I finally got it all out on paper. I’ve been avoiding writing this letter for six months now.

No offense, Ellen, but my head still hurts. So does my heart. Maybe even more right now than it did yesterday. This letter didn’t help one damn bit.

I think I’m going to take a break from writing to you for a while. Writing to you reminds me of him, and it just all hurts too much. Until he comes back for me, I’m just going to keep pretending to be okay. I’ll keep pretending to swim, when really all I’m doing is floating. Barely keeping my head above water.

—Lily

I close the journal after reading the last page.

I don’t know what to feel because I feel everything. Rage, love, sadness, happiness.

I’ve always hated that I couldn’t remember most of that night no matter how hard I tried to think back on every word that was said between us. The fact that Lily wrote it all down is a gift—albeit a sad one.

There were so many things about that time in my life that I was afraid she was too fragile to hear. I only wanted to protect her from the negative stuff going on in my life, but reading her words has shown me that she didn’t need protecting from it. If anything, she could have helped me through it.

It makes me want to write her another letter, but even more, it makes me want to be in her presence, talking about these things face-to-face. I know we’re taking things slow, but the more I’m around her, the more impatient I am to be around her again.

I stand up to take the journal inside and to grab something to drink for the wait, but I pause as soon as I come to a stand. There’s a streetlight at the other end of the alley creating a spotlight on the building, and there’s a shadow moving across the light. The shadow travels across the building in the other direction, as if whatever is casting the shadow is coming my way. I back up a step so that I can remain hidden.

Someone eventually comes into view. A kid closes in on the back door.

I don’t know if this kid is my brother, but it’s definitely the same person I saw on the security footage at Corrigan’s. The same clothes, the same hoodie tightened around their face.

I remain hidden and watch them, becoming more and more convinced by the second that it’s exactly who I think it is. He’s built like me. He even moves like me. I’m filled with anxious energy because I want to meet him. I want to tell him that I’m not angry and that I know what he’s going through.

I’m not sure I was even angry at whoever was doing this before I knew it could potentially be my brother. It’s hard to be angry at a kid, but it’s especially hard to be angry at one who was raised by the same woman who attempted to raise me. I know what it’s like to have to do what you can to survive. I also know what it’s like when you’d do anything to get someone’s attention. Anyone’s. There were times in my childhood I just wanted to be noticed, and I have a feeling that’s exactly what’s going on here.

He’s hoping to be caught. This is more a cry for attention than anything.

He walks right up to the back door of the restaurant without an ounce of hesitation. This place has become familiar to him. He checks the back door to see if it’s locked. When it doesn’t open, he pulls a new can of spray paint out of his hoodie. I wait for him to lift it, and that’s when I decide to make my presence known.

“You’re holding it wrong.” My voice startles him. When he spins around and looks up at me and I see how young he really is, my heartstrings stretch so tight, it feels like they’re about to pop. I try to imagine Theo out here alone in the middle of the night like this.

There’s still a youthfulness to the fear in his eyes. When I start walking toward him, he backs up a step, looking around for a quick escape. But he doesn’t attempt to run.

I’m sure he’s curious about what’s going to happen. Isn’t this why he’s been showing up here night after night?

I hold out my hand for the can of spray paint. He hesitates, but then hands it to me. I demonstrate how to hold it the proper way. “If you do it like this, it won’t drip. You hold it too close.”

Every emotion is running across his face as he studies me, from anger to fascination to betrayal. The two of us are quiet as we take in just how much we look alike. We both took after our mother. Same jawline, same light eyes, same mouths, down to the unintentional frown. It’s a lot for me to take in. I’ve been resigned to the idea that I had no family, yet here he is in the flesh. It makes me wonder what he’s feeling while he looks back at me. Anger, obviously. Disappointment.

I lean a shoulder against the building, looking down at him with complete transparency. “I didn’t know you existed, Josh. Not until a few hours ago.”

The kid shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and looks at his feet. “Bullshit,” he mutters.

The hardness in him at such a young age makes me sad. I ignore the anger in his response and pull my keys out to unlock the back door to the restaurant. “You hungry?” I hold the door open for him.

He looks like he wants to run, but after a moment of indecision, he ducks his head and walks inside.

I flip on the lights and make my way into the kitchen. I grab the ingredients to make him a grilled cheese and I start cooking while he walks around slowly, taking everything in. He touches things, opens drawers, cabinets. Maybe he’s taking inventory for the next time he decides to break in. Or maybe his curiosity is a cover for his fear.

I’m plating his food when he finally speaks up. “How do you know who I am if you didn’t know I existed?”

This feels like it could lead to a lengthy conversation, and I’d rather have it while he’s more comfortable. There isn’t a table back here with seating, so I motion toward the doors that lead into the dining room. There’s enough light from the exit signs that I don’t have to power up the dining room lights.

“Sit here.” I point to table eight and he takes a seat in the exact spot our mother sat in earlier tonight. He starts eating as soon as I set his food down. “What do you want to drink?”

He swallows, and then shrugs. “Whatever.”

I go back to the kitchen and pour him a glass of ice water and then slide into the booth across from him. He drinks half of it in one gulp.

“Your mother showed up here tonight,” I say. “She’s looking for you.”

He makes a face that indicates he doesn’t care, and then he continues eating.

“Where have you been staying?”

“Places,” he says with a mouthful.

“Are you in school?”

“Not lately.”

I let him get in a few more bites before I continue. The last thing I want to do is run him off with too many questions. “Why did you run away?” I ask. “Because of her?”

“Sutton?”

I nod. I wonder what kind of relationship they have if he doesn’t even call her “Mom.”

“Yeah, we got in a fight. We always fight over the stupidest shit.” He eats his last bite, then downs the rest of his water.

“And your dad? Tim?”

“He left when I was little.” His eyes roam around the room, landing on the tree. When he looks back at me, he tilts his head. “Are you rich?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you. You’ve tried to rob me several times now.”

I can see a smirk playing across his lips, but he refuses to release it. He relaxes into the booth more, pulling his hoodie away from his face. Strands of greasy brown hair fall forward, and he pushes them back. His hair holds the shape of a cut that’s long overdue, with sides that have grown out too long and uneven to be intentional.

“She told me you left because of me. She said you didn’t want a brother.”

I have to hold back my irritation. I pull his empty plate of food and his glass toward me, and I stand up. “I didn’t know about you until today, Josh. I swear. I would have been around if I had.”

He eyes me from his seat, studying me. Wondering if he can trust me. “You know about me now.” He says that like it’s a challenge to do better. To prove his low expectations of the world wrong.

I nudge my head toward the doors to the kitchen. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t immediately get out of the booth. “Where to?”

“My house. I have a room for you as long as you stop cussing so much.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What are you, some kind of religious nutjob?”

I motion for him to stand up. “An eleven-year-old muttering cuss words all the time seems desperate. It’s not cool until you’re at least fourteen.”

“I’m not eleven, I’m twelve.”

“Oh. She said you were eleven. Still. Too young to be cool.”

Josh stands up and starts to follow me through the kitchen.

I spin and face him as I push back through the doors. “And for future reference, you spelled asshole wrong. There’s no w.”

He looks surprised. “I thought that looked funny after I wrote it.”

I put his dishes in the sink, but it’s almost three in the morning and I’m not in the mood to wash them. I flip out the lights and have Josh lead the way out the back door. When I’m locking it, he says, “Are you going to tell Sutton where I am?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet,” I admit. I start walking down the alley, and he rushes to catch up with me.

“I’m thinking of going to Chicago, anyway,” he says. “I probably won’t stay more than one night at your place.”

I laugh at the idea that this kid thinks I’m going to allow him to run off to another city now that I know he exists. What am I getting myself into? I have a feeling my day-to-day responsibilities have just doubled. “Do we have any other siblings I don’t know about?” I ask him.

“Just the twins, but they’re only eight.”

I stop in my tracks and look at him.

He grins. “I’m kidding. It’s just the two of us.”

I shake my head and grab the back of his hoodie, pulling it down over his head. “You’re something.”

He’s smiling when we make it to my car. I’m smiling, too, until I feel a sharp stab of worry in the center of my gut.

I’ve known him for half an hour. I’ve known of him for a fraction of a day. Yet I suddenly feel like I’ll be protective of him for a lifetime.