Even Lovers Drown

Silence wrapped around them, the distant sound of loud crew members and bands creating background noise. Green eyes stared into green eyes, identical shades forever linking them as siblings. Waiting, watching, gauging. Neither moved. Neither broke eye contact.

Finally, Davy spoke. “Who told you?”

A cautious note lowered his voice, and the question, itself, seemed a cautious step into conversation. As if he were determining the extent of trouble he was in. But Saylor wasn’t upset. He was a grown man. He could do what he wanted without consulting his little sister first. Including get her face tattooed on his body.

He didn’t even consult her before performing ridiculous stunts that got them both in trouble during childhood. What made him think he had to consult her now?

Saylor shrugged and smiled, hoping to appear lighthearted. “Christopher let it slip.”

Sighing, Davy took the empty spot next to her, his eyes not once leaving hers. Her attempts at reassurance didn’t seem to work. Her brother slouched against the couch’s cushions, crossed his legs in a way that looked uncomfortable, and didn’t allow a smile to crack his wary expression.

“Are you mad?” he asked.

She did threaten to tell on him. She supposed after that childish declaration, getting him to accept she wasn’t upset would take more than subtle gestures.

“Why would I be mad? My face is forever etched in your side. I thought that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“Because I didn’t ask you first,” Davy said, “Because I didn’t tell you.”

Silence. His words rolled in Saylor’s head, their underlying statement confirming what she already knew. There was more to the tattoo than just a declaration of sibling love. He got the tattoo less than a year ago. She had been home for about a year. That was no coincidence.

“You should have told me,” Saylor stated.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

And he broke eye contact.

In fluid motions, he uncrossed his legs, rested his elbows against his knees, and placed his face in his hands. Up, down, up, down, he rubbed his face. Restless, frustrated motions. He dragged his hands away and slouched against the couch again, crossing his arms over his chest

And his eyes met hers, stunningly serious green depths not at all like her brother, the brother who turned every serious situation into a joke since childhood.

“You were suffering,” he said, “You didn’t need to know I was suffering, too. I couldn’t add that to what you were already dealing with.”

Protecting her from his pain, that was just like him. He couldn’t stop himself from doing so, his older brother instincts constantly working in overdrive to keep her safe. But she could have helped. Maybe a little.

“You were suffering because of me,” Saylor said.

That was the truth. She knew it, he knew it. Skirting around the fact that her idiocy caused him emotional distress, caused their parents emotional distress, wouldn’t help them get anywhere.

“I just felt so lost, you know?” Davy said, “You’re my little sister, I’m supposed to protect you. And I failed.”

“You didn’t fail.”

“She abused you, Saylor. She scarred you. She starved you. She isolated you. She hit you. I didn’t do anything.”

Everything Katie did to her had been in secret. He didn’t know, had no way of finding out with Saylor locked away in her personal hell. He couldn’t have done anything.

“That wasn’t your fault. I made a bad decision.”

After all, she had been the one to start talking to Katie. Unprovoked by her matchmaking friends or grandchild-minded family. No one pushed her.

“I should have stopped you.”

“I wouldn’t have listened.”

She had been excited by the prospect of having a college girlfriend, dazzled by Katie’s intelligence, made curious by her silence, was victim of a teenage crush.

She had been in love.

Davy couldn’t have said anything to keep her away from Katie. His experiences, his character judgment, would have been ignored. If anything, he would have pushed Saylor away from him, not away from Katie.

“I could have done something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

She rested a delicate hand on his crossed arm, reassurance through touch. One of the many tactics their mother used to keep them calm during episodes of panic.

“You’re the best big brother ever, you know that? You kept me from hurting myself when I started walking, you beat up bullies for me, you ate the broccoli off my plate so I wouldn’t get in trouble.” At that, a smile cracked his serious expression. Small, a tiny tweak of his lips, but Saylor noticed. “But there are certain mistakes you can’t keep me from making. No matter how much you wish you could.”

“Guess you had to grow up at some point, huh?”

“No one stays a kid forever.”

“Except Peter Pan,” Davy scowled, “lucky bastard.”

Saylor laughed, relieved to hear him crack a joke. Even if his statement had been a serious observation, the fairytale frame lightened the levity considerably. He was back to normal. Kind of.

“Do I get to see it?”

She had been trying to imagine the work of art since it had been mentioned. She was four in the image, she knew that much. Young. Very young. But aside from her age, she had no clue what the portrait consisted of. She wanted to see, wanted to know.

And she wanted to admire her face.

Wasn’t that the best part of having her portrait on her brother’s body, the opportunity to stare at a masterful rendition of herself? All the time.

“You want me to lift my shirt in the middle of a five-star hotel lobby?” Davy asked, eyebrow raised.

How cute, he was pretending he had an ounce of modesty.

“Blake got to see it,” Saylor retaliated.

Childish? Yes. She wasn’t above adding a pitiful pout to catch a glimpse of the tattoo. She could be a manipulative little sister when she wanted to be.

Sighing, an admission of defeat, he shifted in his spot and grabbed the hem of his shirt. Complete surrender and Saylor didn’t have to pull out any little-sister tricks. Because he didn’t care about lifting his shirt in public.

“Ready?”

“Unveil the masterpiece.”

And he lifted his shirt, exposing his colored side. She held back a gasp of surprise. There she was, taking over a majority of his side, so realistically done she couldn’t believe a person was the creator. She could see each of her freckles, her green eyes sparkled under her broad smile, her Halloween costume for that year—a bright pink princess dress and brilliant tiara—looked tangible enough to make any four-year-old crave them.

Beautiful.

“Wow,” Saylor murmured.

“Not what you expected?”

“Not at all.” She tore her gaze away from herself and met his eyes. “I thought you would go for something more embarrassing.”

“That picture of you crying on Santa’s lap was a close second.”

Saylor laughed, a brief flash of the traumatic Christmas picture that left her terrified of Santa for years stirring her memory. Definitely more embarrassing than a picture of her in an outfit that clashed with her red hair.

Her eyes drifted to the image again. She looked so happy, so free of worry. But none of her life worries existed then. School consisted of daycare, not mind-numbing nursing programs. She hadn’t realized her sexuality, let alone had a girlfriend to torture her. And matching her hair color to her clothing was her last concern. Nothing mattered except trying to be like her big brother and convincing her parents to let her have a cookie before dinner.

She missed those times.

“Do you remember that Halloween?” Davy asked, disrupting her musings.

She glanced at him, then back at the tattoo. “Vaguely.”

She remembered candy. Lots of candy. Most of which she wasn’t allowed to eat for one reason or another. There were scary houses covered in spider webs and ghouls. She had been afraid to walk to those doors, but her brother, clad in knight’s armor, promised to protect her the whole way.

“Mom wanted to dress you up as Ariel,” Davy said, “She thought you would look so adorable in a sea shell bra and fins. But you threw a fit. Cried, threw yourself on the floor, the whole deal. You know why?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Because Ariel stopped being a mermaid for a guy and you didn’t want to be like her.”

And the chosen photograph made sense.

“She should have stayed a mermaid,” Saylor said.

Words she should have lived by.

“You became Ariel,” Davy said.

Under Katie’s spell, she didn’t have a choice. Funny, she always equated Katie to a mermaid. Intoxicatingly beautiful and dangerous, the equivalent of the mythical creature. She didn’t fit the prince role of Davy’s metaphor. Not the way Saylor believed she should.

Blake was more of her prince, her savior, her lover, than Katie could ever be.

“I’m not Ariel anymore.”