Titus:Hold tight, sister.
Of course, my stupid ego would choose now to feel bruised at Titus calling me “sister.”
Me:Thank you so much, Titus. Love ya.
Titus:Don’t be mushy, Squeaks.
I feel free enough to tell Titus I love him in that casual way. It comes off as platonic, I’m sure. He showed me the same affection when he came to my Mom’s funeral and hugged me, saying, “Love y’all.” He was talking about the family, not me specifically.
I had sobbed into his shoulder and said, “I love you too, Titus.”
That day was as close as I’d ever come to revealing my true feelings. I was too raw to put up my cute, casual facade. But the day’s circumstances made it seem like I meant nothing romantic by it.
As I pace back and forth in the shade, unable to watch the movers seizing all of our family heirlooms and possessions, I think back to that day of the funeral. The party that had followed the burial was here, at the house. Titus stayed the entire day. He’d insisted that Dad rest and get something to eat in private. Titus had accepted condolences on our behalf when Herc and I needed a break. He’d made sure the three of us stayed hydrated. Titus had remained until the last guest was gone. Then, after Dad went to bed, Titus, Herc, and I stayed up late helping the catering company tidy up and move chairs.
He stayed the night in his usual guest room. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d wandered out to the shed at the tennis courts to cry and scream and throw things so that nobody could hear me.
I’d sat on the weird old trunk that Daddy kept in there, the one that Momma had said was too ugly to be in the house. I’d pounded that stupid, ugly stagecoach trunk until my fists ached. And then I’d laughed at how much Momma hated it. And then I’d screamed some more and then cried myself to sleep on top of it. In the morning, I awakened in my bed and found Titus in the kitchen making breakfast.
“Did you…?” I hadn’t even been able to say it. What girl doesn’t have a fantasy about her crush carrying her to bed and tucking her in? The thought of it made my stomach hippity hop. I was sad I missed it. Then my stomach turned, thinking that maybe it had been Herc, which was not as nice of a thought.
Titus chuckled, but pushed a plate of steaming waffles toward me across the marble kitchen island. I remember how good the kitchen smelled, and the memory forms a lump in my throat.
“Yeah,” he’d said, anticipating what I was trying to ask. “I found you and brought you upstairs. Hope that’s ok.”
Oh god, the way my heart thudded, knowing I was asleep and this man—barely a boy of 15—had carried me to bed and tucked me in like a frickin’ Disney princess.
I nodded and then marveled as I ate breakfast. “Who taught you to cook?” I asked.
He’d shrugged, then cautiously said, “Libby.” My mom.
“She…she did?”
“Sure. Sometimes I couldn’t sleep, and I’d find her awake in the kitchen. And she showed me how to use some of the kitchen gadgets.”
This surprised me. “Momma…was awake in the middle of the night?”
“Sure was,” he’d said.
I’d wondered what could have been keeping her awake at night. She always seemed so happy. But I was glad Titus got to have one-on-one time with her, a mother figure. That made me happy.
Even though I was grieving, I was content to listen to Titus talk about everything and nothing. He stayed with us for almost a whole week and a half. He was so much more of an adult than any other boy our age.
Oddly, those weeks after the funeral were among the most grounding of my childhood. Just having Titus there kept me from the edge of total despair. I loved him already, but those weeks solidified everything.
“Uh…Cass?”
My brother snaps me out of my daydream, dashing my hopes that everything will be okay.
Because they most certainly are not.
“What is it?” I ask, not at all desiring to know what’s wrong now.
Herc’s light eyebrows are drawn together, and he scrolls through something on his phone. His throat bobs, and his voice has a slight tremble, which only I can hear when he’s trying to be strong.
“Th-they…ah…they froze our accounts.”
“What?”