Forbidden Birthday Gift

The alarm went off at six-forty, same as always, but I was already awake. I'd been awake since five, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle into its morning groans. The water heater clicking on. The newspaper hitting the front door with that soft thump. My sister's footsteps in the hallway, padding toward the bathroom we shared through the wall.

Eighteen today. The thought sat in my chest like a swallowed stone.

I heard the shower start, the pipes shuddering their approval. Through the thin wall, I could make out the vague shape of her moving around, the shift of the curtain rings, the muffled splash of water against tile. I'd known the sounds of her morning routine for as long as I could remember. Longer than I'd known algebra, longer than I'd known how to drive. They were the background music of my life.

My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: *You do it yet?*

I didn't answer. I put the phone face down on my nightstand and swung my legs out of bed. The floor was cold. It was always cold in this house, no matter the season, some flaw in the ductwork my dad had never bothered to fix.

In the kitchen, I poured myself a bowl of cereal I didn't want and sat at the table, watching the clock on the stove tick past six-fifty. My parents had left a card on the counter, propped against the fruit bowl. *Happy 18th, sweetheart. We'll celebrate this weekend. Love, Mom & Dad.* They were already at work. They were always already at work.

The shower stopped.

I don't know when I first started thinking about it. That's a lie. I know exactly when. Three months ago, a Tuesday, she came out of her room in a towel because she'd forgotten her clothes in the dryer. Just a towel. Her hair wet, dripping onto her collarbone. She looked at me like it was nothing, like I was furniture, and walked past to the laundry room. I sat on the couch for twenty minutes after she left, not moving, not breathing right.

That night I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed and thought about the curve of her shoulder, the way the towel had gaped at the top, just barely, just enough. I thought about it the next night too. And the night after that.

It became a habit. Something I did before sleep, like brushing my teeth or checking the locks. I'd close my eyes and she'd be there. Not in a towel anymore. Less. I'd touch myself and feel guilty and then do it again the next night. Guilt is a renewable resource. It never runs out.

She came into the kitchen with her hair still damp, pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup yet. She was wearing her school uniform, the navy skirt and white blouse, the same thing she'd worn for four years. She looked at me and smiled.

"Morning, birthday boy."

"I'm not the one with the birthday."

She laughed. "Right. I'm old now. Legal." She poured herself coffee, black, no sugar, a habit she'd picked up from Dad. "Feel any different?"

"Not yet."

"Me neither." She leaned against the counter, holding the mug with both hands, blowing on it. Steam curled up around her face. "Mom and Dad already gone?"

"Since six."

"Figures." She took a sip, winced at the heat. "So what's the plan? Big party? Marcus taking you out?"

"Something like that."

She nodded and didn't ask more. That was one of the things about my sister. She didn't push. She gave you space. It was a quality I'd always admired and never told her about.

We ate breakfast in the kind of comfortable silence that only comes from years of shared meals. She scrolled through her phone, occasionally snorting at something. I watched her without watching her, the way you do when you've memorized someone so completely that looking at them is almost like looking at a photograph. The small crease between her eyebrows when she concentrated. The way she tucked her left foot behind her right ankle when she stood. The faint scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike at nine and I carried her home, blood dripping onto my shirt.

I'd been carrying her home ever since, in one way or another.

"Hey," she said, looking up. "I almost forgot. Your present."

"You didn't have to get me anything."

"I know. But I did." She set down her mug and walked out of the kitchen. I heard her bedroom door open and close, the creak of her closet. When she came back, she was holding a small box wrapped in newspaper. The comics section. She'd always done that, ever since we were kids. Said wrapping paper was a waste of money.

"Open it."

I peeled off the tape. Inside was a keychain, a small silver rectangle with an engraving. *To my brother, who always has my back. Love, S.*

"It's for your car," she said. "The one you're getting. When you finally get it."

I laughed. "Thanks. It's perfect."

She smiled, pleased with herself. Then she checked the clock on the stove and her expression shifted. "Shit. I have to go. I'm meeting Jenna before first period."

She grabbed her backpack from the hallway, slung it over one shoulder. At the door, she paused and turned back.

"Hey. Eighteen's a big deal. I'm glad you're my brother."

And then she was gone. The front door clicked shut. The house went quiet.

I sat at the table for a long time, holding the keychain, running my thumb over the engraving. *Who always has my back.* She had no idea. She had no idea what I thought about when I closed my eyes at night. She had no idea that I'd been counting down to this day for weeks, not because I cared about being eighteen, but because I'd made a decision. A stupid one. A wrong one. But a decision.

Marcus's text sat unanswered on my phone. *You do it yet?*

No. I hadn't done it yet.

But I was going to.

I stood up and walked to the window. Through the blinds, I watched her get into Jenna's car, watched the car pull away and disappear around the corner. The street was empty. The morning was gray and ordinary. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

I went to her room.

I'd been in her room a thousand times. To borrow a charger, to return a book, to tell her dinner was ready. But this time was different. This time I stood in the doorway and let myself look. The unmade bed. The clothes on the floor. The smell of her shampoo, coconut and something else, something I couldn't name. The room was a museum of her, and I was the only visitor.

I sat on the edge of her bed. The sheets were still warm.

I don't know how long I waited. Long enough for the sun to climb higher, for the gray morning to turn into a pale, indifferent day. Long enough to almost talk myself out of it. Almost.

When I heard the front door open again, my heart stopped. Then I heard her footsteps, quick and familiar, and her voice from the hallway.

"I forgot my lunch. Can you believe it? Jenna's already gone, I had to take the bus back. What a waste."

She appeared in the doorway of her room and saw me sitting on her bed. She didn't look surprised. She just tilted her head.

"What are you doing in here?"

I stood up. The keychain was still in my hand, the metal warm from my grip.

"I wanted to give you something," I said. "For your birthday."

She frowned. "You already gave me something. The keychain."

"This is different."

She waited. I could see the gears turning behind her eyes, the same eyes I'd looked into across a thousand dinner tables, the same eyes that had watched me graduate middle school, high school, the same eyes that had cried when our dog died and laughed when I tripped down the stairs at Christmas. She trusted me. That was the worst part. She trusted me completely.

"It's kind of a big deal," I said. "Turning eighteen."

"I know."

"I wanted to do something special."

She crossed her arms, but she was smiling. "Okay. I'm listening."

I took a step toward her. Then another. She didn't move.

And then I was kneeling in front of her, on the floor of her bedroom, looking up at her face. She looked confused now, the smile fading into something else. Something I couldn't read.

"What are you doing?"

"Just trust me," I said. "Please."

And she did.