I told Adrian I'd be arriving at the end of the week, but I didn't give an exact time. My half-brother didn't push me to be more specific in my plans; I figured he knew I was leaving myself an out in case I changed my mind.

As I now pull into his gravel driveway just before eight on Friday evening, I'm relieved to see a car parked out front. Adrian's house is smaller than I imagined. I'm not sure why I envisioned him owning some sprawling estate out in the country.

The old farmhouse faces west, its windows bathed in the fading daylight. I study the dwelling, looking for a sign of the man I long to see.

And there he is, opening the front door, which is painted the same dark green as the shutters. My first glimpse of him starts an ache in my chest so fierce that I struggle to breathe past it. He's still lean, his hair just as dark as I remember. There's an easiness to the way he carries himself that I've always envied. At almost forty, he resembles his father more than our mother. 

Or me.

I barely have time to cut the engine and climb out of the car before he's closed the distance between us.

"Vivienne!" His smile is joyous as he reaches for me. "Did you find the place okay?"

Though I try to answer, my tongue feels like lead in my mouth. Adrian's embrace leaves me red-faced and stammering. Of all the greetings I anticipated, this didn't register on the list. He acts as if it's been mere weeks instead of years since we've seen each other. I wonder if he's decided to pretend our lengthy estrangement never happened.

Despite myself, I nestle my cheek against his button-down shirt. I'm finally able to breathe again, and his scent, the one I never stopped craving, fills my nostrils. All at once, the memories slam into me like a deluge. I feel my legs threatening to cave; I want to flee before I'm carried off in the flood.

"I didn't have much trouble." My voice is weirdly high-pitched.

Adrian withdraws a little to look down at me. I know what he's seeing: my brown eyes, large and guarded. My dark blonde hair, pulled back in a messy ponytail. The Cupid's bow of my upper lip, which is one of the few features I share with him. 

His hand moves to the nape of my neck. As he cradles me with his palm, I force myself not to relax deeper into his touch.

"I'm so glad you're here." His smile softens into something tender.

My fingers ache to graze his cheek. Somehow, I manage to keep my arms at my side. "Me, too." My own smile is a tentative offering. I never forget that I need to be careful not to want too much. Not to feel too much.

He seems reluctant to let me go. Retrieving my suitcase from the backseat of my car, he asks, "This is all you've brought?"

"Uh, yeah." I rock back on my heels while shoving my hands in my jeans pockets.

I reached out to Adrian last week, breaking the years-long silence between us, to suggest a visit. I don't intend to stay long, so I packed light.

Together, we walk toward his house. "It's nothing fancy," he says, "but I got a great deal on the place. And it's not too far from town."

When we reach the steps leading up to the front door, I tell him how much I love the wraparound porch.

"I spend plenty of evenings out here," he reveals, "watching the sun set. I enjoy the quiet."

It surprises me, how much he's changed. Ten years ago, he was living in a large city and working long hours as a manager for his father's construction company. 

And I was living with him. Even now, I can easily recall his ambition, and beneath it, the unyielding drive to prove himself. 

He ushers me into the living room, and I'm again taken aback. The house is quaint, its fixtures obviously original. Instead of throwing himself into a renovation project, my brother has let the dwelling be. It feels as if I've stepped into another era, one I was born too late to directly experience and can only intuit while at Adrian's side.

"It's beautiful," I say.

He must hear the truth in my words, for his face brightens. "I'm so happy you like it. I want you to be comfortable here." Nodding toward the staircase, he adds, "Your room's upstairs."

I follow at a safe distance, careful not to crowd him. Upstairs, the hardwood floor faintly squeaks as Adrian and I walk down the hall. My room is at the very end, next to his. The bed is covered by a beautiful quilt, its intricate pattern presenting a maze to my eyes. Two windows, with their antique glass panes, further soften the sunset's rays until the room appears swathed in a pinkish-gold glow.

"This is magnificent!" I can't stop myself from rushing to the closest window. In early May, the trees flash their finest green. Adrian owns enough land that there isn't another house in sight.

I hear him draw closer. Counting each footstep, I discern his caution. When he lingers just behind me, I dare to turn.

His gaze is almost pleading. "The first time I saw this room, I imagined it as yours."

I feel something splinter deep within me. In minutes, Adrian has managed to take a sledgehammer to the walls I've spent years building and fortifying. All my defenses, weak as wet plaster.

Still, I force out a stilted laugh. "I only wish my apartment bedroom was this nice!"

The corner of his mouth ticks upward in a half-smile; he knows what I'm doing. Even so, he graciously allows me to retreat. Though mere inches separate us, I insist on another kind of distance.

"You must be hungry." His tone is deceptively light. "Come on downstairs, and I'll fix dinner."

In the kitchen, he insists that I have a seat at the table while he cooks my favorite pasta dish. I'm touched that he remembers after ten years. He's still dressed in fine clothes, and I realize he wanted to look nice for me tonight.

As he asks me questions about my job, my friends, and my hobbies, I fear my responses make me sound boring. My job as an administrative assistant is far from exciting. I'm not big on socializing, so I spend a lot of evenings zoning out in front of the TV or staring at my phone. I read the occasional novel and enjoy one too many Rum and Cokes when I'm alone in my tiny apartment on a Saturday night.

Adrian doesn't press. If I seem reluctant to talk about a certain part of my life, he steers the discussion toward another.

When he sets a plate of pasta before me, my stomach releases a low, hungry rumble. 

"This looks delicious," I say.

During dinner, I make a point to ask him the same questions he asked me. He reveals that during the recent real estate boom, his father's business made a fortune. With his newfound wealth, Adrian made numerous lucrative investments, the earnings of which have enabled him to semi-retire in his late thirties.

"I still help Dad out with the business some," he adds, "but many of my days are spent here."

He tells me he's planted several fruit trees, along with a small garden. 

I have to shake my head. "I never dreamed I'd see the day."

Adrian pretends to be clueless, but his grin gives him away. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean! You were a total workaholic before. It's hard to believe you gave it all up."

His gaze softens as he considers my words. "My mind is clearer now. I don't feel the need to constantly stay busy, or distract myself from..." 

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. Instead, he finishes his wine and sets down his glass. The gesture is heavy with finality.

Later, after we've cleared the table and put away the leftovers, our chitchat devolves into a silence that's less than comfortable. 

"Wow, it's late," I finally exclaim, though it's not yet ten. "It's been a long day. If you don't mind, I think I'll turn in."

"Of course." While drying his hands on a dishtowel, Adrian turns to me. His expression is so neutral that it feels like an affront.

Again, I follow him upstairs. He shows me where I can find the toiletries and fresh towels. 

"If there's anything else you need, just let me know," he says. 

Before I can thank him, he draws me into his arms. When he lowers his lips to my hair, I close my eyes and swallow a needy moan.

Once he's gone to lock up and turn off the lights on the first floor, I give in to the urge to look through the bathroom drawers and inspect the medicine cabinet. I'm not searching for anything specific; I just want a better sense of my brother's existence in this house. 

So why am I pleased to find no evidence of a lover? No hair ties or tampons. No lip gloss or stray tube of mascara. When I glance at my reflection in the mirror, I discover I'm smiling.

Guilt settles upon me like a grimy residue, and I rush through the motions of getting ready for bed. When I step back into the hallway, I listen for any sound from Adrian. Hearing only the metronomic tick of a grandfather clock, I retreat to my bedroom.

Already, I'm thinking of the room as mine, just the way Adrian imagined it. Of course, I'll always be a mere guest in this house, I remind myself while pulling a modest nightgown over my head.

The bed is exquisitely comfortable. A groan escapes my lips as my muscles relax and my body settles into the mattress.

Yet even after I've turned off the lamp and nestled beneath the covers, I can't sleep. I keep waiting. Keep listening.

Eventually, I hear Adrian moving around in the room next to mine. I find a visceral comfort in his nearness. The door to my room, which I closed earlier while undressing, is now an intolerable barrier.

So I slip from bed and make my way through the darkness. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, as is the brass knob when I clasp it.

Opening my door, I discover my brother hasn't shut his. Lamplight spills from his room, only to be swallowed up by the hallway's shadows.

Before I can change course or even question my motives, Adrian appears in his doorway. He wears just a T-shirt and boxers. During the year I lived with him in his apartment, he was always so careful to stay covered up.

"Everything okay?" he asks. 

I open my mouth to tell him yes. Instead, I blurt out, "I can't sleep."

He hesitates for only a second. Then he takes a step toward me. When I don't withdraw, he takes another.

I let him shepherd me back into my room. His hand is a solid warmth grasping mine.

"Come on then," he whispers.

Need is a chemical flooding my bloodstream. It makes me tremble and flush hot. I let go of Adrian only long enough to slide into bed. As soon as he joins me, I reach for him again.

If he notices me shaking, he doesn't comment on it. Lying on his side, he pulls me close. As we spoon together, he buries his face in my hair. I hear him breathe in deep. All the while, I'm intensely aware of his bare skin pressed to mine.

"I'm sorry, Viv." His voice is a little louder now. Maybe the darkness makes him brave. "Sorry for the way I handled things before."

I snicker at that. "You mean you're sorry for not letting me down easy."

I guess I'm braver now, too.

Adrian's sigh is full of weariness; I brace myself for a lecture. 

"For fuck's sake, that's not it at all!" As exasperated as he sounds, his arm doesn't loosen its grip on me.

"We shouldn't talk about it." My voice holds a knife-edge of warning.

Recalling the events of that summer a decade ago makes me flinch. The memory is a poorly dressed wound that never fully heals.

And I brought the injury upon myself. 

The ten-year age difference between me and Adrian prevented us from being close when I was growing up. But by the time I began my senior year of high school, my home life was a hive of dysfunction, and I reached out to my older brother for help. I told him I couldn't bear the fights between my parents, the drunken arguments and tearful accusations of infidelity. I was desperate to escape.

Though Adrian was working long hours for his father and renting a one-bedroom apartment, he invited me to stay with him. At twenty-eight, he did his best to provide me with a stable environment. I slept on the couch and tried to earn my keep by making sure the apartment was always spotless. I never became much of a cook, so Adrian would whip up quick meals in the kitchen once he arrived home from work.

My friends often stopped by unexpectedly, hoping for the opportunity to flirt with my brother.

"He's so gorgeous!" Ava was always telling me. "I'd fuck him in a heartbeat."

Adrian never gave her a second glance; he had his hands full dating several different women. And I resented each one of them for eating into his free time, for depriving me of his attention.

On the nights he was out late, I would crawl into his bed, safe in the assumption that he wouldn't bring anyone back to the apartment. I'd bury my face in his pillow and inhale his scent until it made me giddy.

Later, my brother would come home to find me sleeping soundly. Instead of rousing me awake, he would take my place on the couch.

Only when I apologized and promised to stay out of his room did he assure me it was okay. 

"I know the couch isn't all that comfortable," he said. "I should buy a new one."

After that, he'd join me in the bed, careful that we never touched.

I could have lived like that forever; I never wanted to leave. But I graduated from high school and would be attending a college three hours away in the fall. I was eighteen and couldn't remain in the refuge my brother had created for me.

Weeks before I moved out, he and I were watching a movie in the living room. As he threw popcorn pieces into the air, I tried to catch them with my mouth. He'd cheer me on every time I was successful, and I felt wildly, ridiculously happy in being able to please him. 

"God, I'm going to miss you," he said, his smile fading.

I froze, astonished by his confession. I always believed I was a burden my brother tolerated because he loved me. 

Lifting a hand, I stroked his cheek. "I'll miss you, too," I said.

Then I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his.

Almost immediately, he recoiled. "What the hell, Viv?"

"I'm sorry!" I sputtered.

"You kissed me!" He wiped at his mouth as if I'd left a disgusting film there.

"Adrian, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No." He scooted away, putting an entire couch cushion of space between us. "I'm your brother, and what you just did is wrong. You understand that, don't you?"

Hot tears of humiliation stung my eyes while I vehemently nodded. Yes, I was wrong. Yes, I was sick and revolting. I would agree to anything if only he would forgive me.

But his coldness lingered. It permeated our goodbye on the day I left for good.

At college, my devastation turned into a cesspool of shame. Even while making the Dean's List, I drank and fucked in an attempt to wallpaper over the rot inside me. Self-loathing hardened into bitterness. In just months, I decided to carve my brother out of my life entirely.

In the years that followed, I avoided him at all costs. Numerous times, Adrian reached out to me by phone and email, or through my social media accounts. I didn't respond. I never went home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. By that point, my parents had divorced, and I had little to do with either of them.

When I turned twenty-eight earlier this year, the only family member to wish me a happy birthday was Adrian. I let his call go to voicemail.

"We do need to talk about it," he now insists. And I'm back in this room which holds no memories for me. Yet my brother and I are steeped in the past.

"I was frightened," he continues. Despite his words, his tone is a soothing lull. "Terrified I was a monster, because I wanted to kiss you back."

My eyes widen in the darkness. I'm silent and still, my breath bottled in my chest.

"You were eighteen, Viv." Adrian's voice thickens. "If I'd acted on my attraction toward you, I would have fucked up your life. So I panicked and pushed you away. It killed me to do it, and I ended up losing you."

"You haven't," I manage to whisper through my own unshed tears.

"I did, for a long time." He brings his lips to my neck, and the sensation sends a pleasurable shiver through me. "I went through my days feeling as if I was missing something vital to my very being. Nothing, and no one, could replace you. So I walked away from it all. Out here, in the quiet, I was finally able to face the truth."

"Which is?" I know the answer, but I want to hear him say it.

"I fell in love with you that summer ten years ago. I never stopped loving you."

Though I'm lying down and anchored to the bed by Adrian's embrace, I feel I'm being tossed about by violent waves. My heart is rolling around in my rib cage.

I'm hyper aware of his warm palm on my belly. I ache for his fingers to inch higher. And when they do,...