He’ll get through this, too. And he won’t be alone.
I glance again at Warner, who looks only marginally better than the last time I saw him. He really needs to wash that blood off his body. It’s not like Warner to overlook basic rules of hygiene—which should be proof enough that the guy is close to a full-on breakdown—but for now, at least, he seems okay. He and James appear to be deep in conversation.
I remain at the door, eavesdropping. It only belatedly occurs to me that I should give them privacy, but by then I’m too invested to walk away. I’m almost positive Anderson told James the truth about Warner. Or, I don’t know, exactly. I can’t actually imagine a scenario in which Anderson would gleefully reveal to James that Warner is his brother, or that Anderson is his dad. But somehow I can just tell that James knows. Someone told him. I can tell by the look on his face.
This is the come-to-Jesus moment.
This is the moment where Warner and James finally come face-to-face not as strangers, but as brothers. Surreal.
But they’re speaking quietly, and I can only catch bits and pieces of their conversation, so I decide to do something truly reprehensible: I go invisible, and step farther into the room.
The moment I do, Warner stiffens.
Shit.
I see him glance around, his eyes alert. His senses are too sharp.
Quietly, I back up a few steps.
“You’re not answering my question,” James says, poking Warner in the arm. Warner shakes him off, his eyes narrowed at a spot a mere foot from where I’m standing.
“Warner?”
Reluctantly, Warner turns to face the ten-year-old. “Yes,” he says, distracted. “I mean— What were you saying?”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” James says, sitting up straighter. The bedsheets fall down, puddle in his lap. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before? That whole time we lived together—”
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Why would I be scared?”
Warner sighs, stares out the window when he says, quietly, “Because I’m not known for my charm.”
“That’s not fair,” James says. He looks genuinely upset, but his visible exhaustion is keeping him from reacting too strongly. “I’ve seen a lot worse than you.”
“Yes. I realize that now.”
“And no one told me. I can’t believe no one told me. Not even Adam. I’ve been so mad at him.” James hesitates. “Did everyone know? Did Kenji know?”
I stiffen.
Warner turns again, this time staring precisely in my direction when he says, “Why don’t you ask him yourself??”
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, my invisibility melting away.
Warner almost smiles. James’s eyes go wide.
This was not the reunion I was hoping for.
Still, James’s face breaks into the biggest smile, which— I’m not going to lie—does wonders for my self-esteem. He throws off the covers and tries to jump out of bed, barefoot and oblivious to the needle stuck in his arm, and in those two and a half seconds I manage to experience both joy and terror.
I shout a warning, rushing forward to stop him from ripping open the flesh of his forearm, but Warner beats me to it. He’s already on his feet, not so gently pushing the kid back down.
“Oh.” James blushes. “Sorry.”
I tackle him anyway, pulling him in for a long, excessive hug, and the way he clings to me makes me think I’m the first to do it. I try to fight back a rush of anger, but I’m unsuccessful. He’s a ten-year-old kid, for God’s sake. He’s been through hell. How has no one given him the physical reassurance he almost certainly needs right now?
When we finally break apart, James has tears in his eyes. He wipes at his face and I turn away, trying to give him privacy, but when I take a seat at the foot of James’s bed I catch a flash of pain steal in and out of Warner’s eyes. It lasts for only half a second, but it’s enough to make me feel bad for the guy. And it’s enough to make me think he might be human again.
“Hey,” I say, speaking to Warner directly for the first time. “So what, uh— What are you doing here?”
Warner looks at me like I’m an insect. His signature look. “What do you think I’m doing here?”
“Really?” I say, unable to hide my surprise. “That’s so decent of you. I didn’t think you’d be so . . . emotionally . . . responsible.” I clear my throat. Smile at James. He’s studying us curiously. “But I’m happy to be wrong, bro. And I’m sorry I misjudged you.”