You Up, No Question Mark

my brother texted at 1:40. first time in two years. just: you up. no question mark, which is how i knew it was real and not drunk. he only drops the question mark when he's scared.

we don't talk. there was a thing, money and the way he talked to our mom, and i decided i was done, and being done felt like the floor finally going level. two years of level. i didn't miss him. i'm pretty sure i didn't miss him.

i know what the text is about before he says it. it's about her. it's always going to be about her now, she's the only wire still running between us, and at some point that wire gets cut by the thing we both know is coming, and then there's nothing. two grown men who used to share a bunk bed and now share a last name and an address we both moved out of.

i typed yeah. deleted it. typed yeah again and stared at it. the dots are going on his end. stopping. going. he's scared of whatever he has to tell me, and i'm sitting here doing the math i hate: that when she's gone, i can keep being right, or i can keep my brother. there isn't enough night left to pretend i don't already know which.