You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Thirty Two

Zayn:

My brother and sister had set up a reservation for noon at a swanky Italian restaurant that had Lake Union views and
made all its own pasta on site.

I’d been cavalier to Harry about how momentous—or not—this reunion was, but the second I saw my brother and sister waiting for me, something inside cracked and a flood of pain, regret, and love flooded through me.

They both stood when they saw me, and Doniya’s brown eyes filled with tears.

She looked exactly as I’d remembered
her—tall, with large eyes and a broad mouth. She wore dark jeans and a deep brown turtleneck that matched the color of her shoulder-length hair.

Roger had put on some bulk around the middle, but his face was unlined and almost boyish. His hair—more brownish than Doniya’s or mine—looked unbrushed and his shirt a little rumpled, as if he’d just woken up.

He hadn’t changed a bit, I thought with a pang of nostalgia. If the President invited my brother to the White House, Roger would show up slightly disheveled and blinking like a mole just come up from underground.

For both my siblings, the age difference between us was so stark it looked as if we came from entirely different branches of the family tree.

“Zayn.” Doniya hugged me and I smelled her perfume, hairspray. . .all foreign. Her hands came up as if to hold my face, then fluttered away.

“You look amazing. All grown up.”

Roger gave my hand a hearty shake. “Lookin’ good, little bro.”

“You both look great,” I said as we took our seats, Roger and I on either side of the booth, Doniya in the middle.

“I wasn’t expecting you until next week.”

Roger jerked a thumb at our sister. “Her idea.”

Doniya shot him a look. “And Ro agreed immediately, because we both felt we couldn’t wait one more day.”

Your guilty conscience couldn’t wait. . .

I shelved the unkind thought. “I’m glad. It’s good to see you.”

We fell into superficial chitchat about their jobs—Doniya was editor for a Town & Country-type magazine in Raleigh, and Ro ran a division of a bank in Manhattan, despite looking like he couldn’t manage a Little League team.

They asked about my move back to Seattle and current employment, apparently deciding it was safer to go no further in my history than last month.

Once the food arrived, Roger dug in, while Doniya and I both picked at our plates.

“I wish I was better at this,” Doniya said after a while.

“Instead of coming here, I wish I’d invited you back to my house, bundled us up on the couch to talk and cry and let you yell at me, if you needed to.”

I eased a sigh as something in my heart unclenched.

“I would’ve liked that too. No yelling required.”

Doniya shook her head, pushed linguine around in garlic butter. “I deserve it.” She whipped her fork at Roger who was stuffing his face. “So does he.”

“Huh?” Roger’s glance went between us.

“Oh, yelling. Right.” He jerked his chin in Doniya’s direction.

“We picked this place because you were afraid of a scene, remember?”

“I’m not going to make a scene, for God’s sake,” I muttered, and the good feeling of a second ago evaporated.