I’m making breakfast now, in the aftermath of his homecoming three days ago. I try not to stick my thumb in his scrambled eggs as I set our plates on the table. You don’t want to embarrass yourself anymore, do you? I pour his coffee, cream on the side, and pull his chair out. I don’t hear him coming down the stairs yet, so I duck into the bathroom to wash my face and spray my wrists with my favorite perfume. I’m all grown up.

When I hear his light shuffle, I hurry into the kitchen and stand next to my chair, awaiting his arrival. He emerges through the doorway, in a pair of black silk pajama pants and a black thermal shirt. His taste has become more refined over the years, and he looks better now than he did when he was younger. Even in the early morning, he walks with an air of assurance about him, a thickness that fills the room. It seeps into the corners and pores of people around him. It’s an amazing thing to experience, like he’s able to feel your entire body, each hidden alleyway everywhere at once, from 15 feet away.

He walks over to me and kisses the side of my neck. The stubble decorating his bald head scrubs my cheek.

“Good morning.”

He appraises the table before he sits. I sit too, and pick at the food I’ve just finished making. He eyes me occasionally. His eyes dazzle me near dead, just as Nathaniel’s do. My mouth is dry, and I can hardly swallow the food I’m shoving between my lips, yet don’t really want to eat.

I stare into my steaming coffee cup and my mind wanders to Nathaniel for a moment. I remember our trysts on Hopeless Beach and how the sand would scrape my back. It would always sting vehemently when we’d wash in the Gulf. But it was the welcome pain that reminded me I was real, that I was inside the moment and nowhere else.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, sipping his own coffee, and staring at me.

“No-nothing,” I say, spilling the liquid on the table. “Are you finished?” I ask in an effort to change the subject. I stand and start to reach for his plate, when he grabs my wrist.

“Maybe—” he says. I know he isn’t referring to his breakfast and brace myself for the onslaught, yet again.

“Well, just let me know when—,” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Come here.” He holds my wrist like a leash and pulls me between his knees. Taking it, he puts my perfumed skin to his nose to inhale the bitter chocolate and patchouli scent. I feel as though I’ve just come home smelling like some boy or bar.

“What is that?” he asks softly, though his eyes are hard.

“It’s called Angel.”

“I’d say that’s pretty accurate,” he says, running a thumb under my eye. My cheeks grow hot at his touch.

“Its by this French designer who–”

“I know what Angel is,” he says, with a wave of his hand and releasing me. “I’ve lived in France. They sold it in the high-end boutiques. I used to buy it for one of my ex-girlfriends.” I feel a little nauseated. I grab a wash cloth and wipe my spilled coffee from the table.

He begins to look in the cupboards and I let him for a few minutes. “There’s an ashtray in the top drawer by the stove.” I don’t keep them where mother used to. He didn’t used to smoke, but acquired the habit somewhere along his travels. Probably from an ex-girlfriend. I don’t question it. He lights a cigarette.

“Does he like it when you wear that perfume?” I was hoping he wouldn’t bring Nathaniel up again, that we could ignore my sins and move right to working on my penance. That’s like asking the Titanic to ignore the big fucking iceberg in the middle of the ocean. I slowly resume my task as I answer, and feel as though I might fall over.

“I guess.” I know he isn’t going to believe me because I can’t lie to him, and I know damn well the answer to his question is a full-on “yes.” The familiar crunch of a cigarette being put out is audible. He steps behind me, lacing his fingers around my stomach, and pulling me close. He whispers in my ear:

“I think he does.”

“I guess.”

“You know he probably thinks of you if he smells it when you’re not around,” he continues. He tightens his arms around me. “But that’s probably the only time he thinks of you when you’re not there.” He kisses my cheek and walks away.

I don’t want to argue with him.

“I love him.” It’s all I can think of to say. I feel like I’ve just confessed to cheating.

“And what has he given you to earn such a prize?” he asks evenly.

Even my brother can push me too far. I throw the wash cloth to the floor. What right does he have to come back and question my morals, only to leave again in a few days? If Nathaniel is flawed, at least he knows it. At least I know it.

“What have you done? You haven’t been here in eleven years! You leave when I’m sixteen and conveniently show up after mom has died, with a new smoking habit, expensive clothes and the pleasure of being the judge, jury and executioner of my decisions!” I walk over to him and put my hands on his hips, the drape of his pants disrupted just below the drawstring. I can smell him above the leftover breakfast. “I’m fucking twenty-seven years old now. We aren’t kids, and you aren’t sleeping in my bed anymore!”

He laughs—he actually laughs —and shakes his head. I look at the tiny crow’s feet beside his eyes, the way his skin looks just a little roughed up, like he’s bathed in fine sand paper.

“Fuck, you sound just like Rose.” He quips, lighting another cigarette.

“Who’s Rose?!”

“A girl I used to know.”

My reverie is shattered as he turns to walk back up the stairs.

To read Part VI, see Billy – Part VI