I trail behind Trevor as we head back down the stairs, and I can hear his father’s voice raised. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but I recognize the tone. His voice sounds more than angry—his words are disgusted, and reflect frustration. I’m starting to slow my steps, not sure if I should be walking in on the conversation Trevor’s parents are having, when Shelly comes up behind us. “You two look lovely. Dinner will be served in just a few minutes. Go on in and grab a seat,” she says as she steps by us and heads into another room down the hall.

I’m more confused than ever as I follow Trevor into a formal dining room that looks like it’s set for a fancy Thanksgiving meal—the kind you see in old holiday movies. I know Trevor can hear the arguing just a room or two away, but he’s pretending not to. His mother comes in, sits down and puts her napkin on her lap before she reaches for the decanter of wine to fill her glass. Her face looks a little puffy, and I can tell she’s probably been hitting the wine for a few hours.

Just when things were about to reach unbearably awkward, the silence making it hard to breathe without drawing attention, the dining door from the kitchen swings open, and Trevor’s dad walks through. He seems startled at our presence at first, and he stops at the door to make eye contact with me and force a smile. He must know I’ve been listening to his argument.

“Charlotte,” his smile is tight and forced. He sits and places his napkin on his lap. “You look nice. Thank you for joining us.”

“Thank you for having me. I really appreciate it,” I say. My voice is small, and I’m just trying to fill the emptiness that’s swallowing us all up. I am no match though as the quiet starts up again as soon as my words are complete. I look at Trevor, who’s looking down at his plate, and then to Shelly, who is swirling her now half-empty glass. I’m about to ask if, perhaps, they’d rather do this some other night, when the door swings open, and I see him.

I know he recognizes me. We only hold our gaze for two or three seconds, but it feels like hours as his eyes reach through me and rattle my insides. I have this instant urge to cry, which I haven’t done in years, and I choke from the surprise of it. I reach for my water and sip on it, looking at the center of the table just to give myself a break from the intensity of it all. He’s standing—standing? Why would he be standing? I thought he couldn’t? Or maybe he could?

My mind is racing, and I’m being hammered away with guilt, anger and the strangest sense of regret. Why is he here? And why was he arguing with Trevor’s dad? Shelly pulls me from my thoughts as she finally slurs out an explanation.

“Charlotte, this is Trevor’s brother, Cody,” she says, gesturing to our newest guest. “Cody, this is your brother’s girlfriend, Charlotte.”

I slowly tilt my face back to his direction and stand, reaching for his hand. “Cody, nice to meet you.” I’m terrified, and I don’t know why. Or maybe I do.

He just smirks at my hand, and finally reaches for it, giving me a firm shake but sliding his hand from mine slowly, too slowly, lingering the touch of his fingers. I’m hot and faint, and all I can think about is how his hand felt in mine. “Nice to meet you, too…Charlotte?” he asks, raising one eyebrow and teasing me, but not in a friendly way. I just nod yes in response and take my seat again.

I try not to stare as he limps around the table to stop at the seat directly across from me and next to Shelly—his mother? I’m so confused. I know Trevor can feel the tension rolling off of me, and I hope he thinks it’s only from my confusion over the fact that I never knew he had a brother. Not over the fact that I feel like I know Cody, I mean really know him. Or the fact that I’ve met him before, and that he makes my stomach lurch, like an elevator dropping.

No one is offering any explanation, and I’m left looking around the table as bowls begin passing and drinks are being poured. No one is looking up—no one, except Cody. I try to avoid him, but he’s right in front of me. I’m done the second he hands a bowl of potatoes to me. On instinct, I reach up and grab them, my fingers reaching too far and touching his again. My heart is rapid, and I can’t breathe.

“So, you’re Trevor’s girl, huh?” he asks, his voice far from the friendly one at tutoring. He sounds snarky and accusatory, and it makes me feel instantly defensive.

“Yes, we’ve been dating for a year,” I respond, short and curt. Just like I mean it to sound, though I don’t know why. Being rational seems to be long out the window.