My brother was always running inside my veins, but I hardly saw him. His maniacal ways kept him away from me. But today Billy has flown from O’Hare to Will Rogers International, to see the progress I’ve made since he left 11 years ago. Like a child, I’m to showcase my finger paintings and macaroni necklaces—I’m to read the ancient writings inside my walls that explain how I’ve become a woman: things I’ve done, decisions I’ve made, the boys and girls I’ve loved and hated, pills I’ve taken, hearts I’ve broken. The times I’ve lost focus, strayed from the path he set me on all those years ago.

“This is what I’ve done. Let’s see if you can keep up,” he whispered in my ear, as he left on what felt like a bullet train, headed to places I’d hoped to one day see. I was so focused then, but my pristine, white sheets soon were splattered with drugs and dirty boy fingertips, vodka, dust and dented street signs.

He’s set his old luggage down, still in decent shape; an off-black, long-sleeved shirt hangs from his left shoulder. He’s lost weight, but doesn’t look unhealthy. A couple days’ worth of stubble decorates his otherwise bald head. I try and hug his bones, but he holds me at length.

“Show him to me.” He says.

He’s referring to Nathaniel, the love I let slip once in a letter. I was so excited the chilly October day I met him, I wrote pages about his silly hair, his sadistic fingertips, our Bonnie and Clyde adventures. One day we even slept in Billy’s bed. When I woke, I vomited in the bathroom down the hall out of guilt. I wouldn’t use my brother’s bathroom. Nathaniel, however, didn’t mind and tidied himself up using Billy’s shaving cream and comb, then switched the steaming shower on so we could clean off the blood, sweat and sin. His naked ass disappeared behind the curtain and I followed. Of course I followed. But Nathaniel could do that, we could do anything.

This meeting has started in the negative numbers and I’m scrambling out of the red. I open the locket around my neck; Nathaniel is on the right, Billy on the left. He places a long finger over Nathaniel’s face, rubbing slowly. I watch it move with the wide-eyed voracity of a newborn. I’d fallen in love with his hands when I was eight years old, the mold by which I’d formed all my later desires. Indeed. I compare them to the sundry sorts I’ve had caress me in hallways and hotel rooms, on the dance floor and underneath restaurant tables.

“So, this is your hero.”

I nod and chew my lip. I feel like he’s caught me making out in the backseat of his car. I wanted to tell Billy I loved him, that I’d always love him, but opt for silence instead.

“He looks sly, this one,” he says, tapping Nathaniel’s impish grin in the picture before him. I feel like apologizing. But I’m not sorry. I want to defend the man in the picture, but I won’t speak out of turn against my brother.

“Does he love you?”

The question catches me off guard. A real reason for this madness would make this whole affair easier to swallow. I’ve spent my life in question and I don’t want a choice this time.

“I don’t know. His tongue does lots of things.” I stare at his peeling luggage. When did it start to peel so badly? He tilts my head upwards, runs a thumb across my cheek. I turn my face into his wide palm and he pulls me into his endless arms.

“Boys are vicious creatures.” I hear him far above me, his sternum holds my face. “Their tongues are hardly compensation,” He finishes, as my lips hit his neck. The familiar scent of Chicago invades me: cold, crisp and neon. I turn away. Uh oh.

Billy squints and grabs my chin. “I know boys just like him, what they do to girls under cover of night, with their Cheshire grins and deep-set eyes, their silken words and nimble hands.” He softens. “And the desperate way they claim to need you.” Of course it sounds like one big, contrived fucking speech. I know it isn’t. “But you’re going to love him anyway.”

“He’s just a boy,” I whisper.

“A boy who holds a heart that belonged to me first and therefore must defend,” he replies. “I never let it go.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, desperately. No I’m not. I press his hand to my chest and try to hold his gaze.

“I bet he isn’t,” he says and gently pulls his away. With a final piercing blue and hardened look he heads up the stairs to his room, leaving me alone to love them both more than ever.

To read Part III, see Billy – Part III