Zane. Absolute. Menace. The man pushed his luck every single day, and one sentence from him had Mom grilling me about whether it was true.
I waved her off, exasperated. "Nothing's happened. Believing he'll stick with a gym routine? I'd sooner believe pigs fly."
"Don't you underestimate that boy. Zane decides to do something, it gets done." Then she poked me, absolutely delighted. "You know what this is, sweetie? The ship Mom's been pushing since you two were in diapers—it finally sailed!"
She could not stop grinning.
Mom had called Zane smart and sensible since we were kids. She never compared us; she just used to tell Grandma Carter, all the time, "If those two stay this close when they're grown, we can rest easy."
Grandma Carter had no children of her own. She adopted Zane in her fifties, and her health was never good. That's why Zane could cook and run a household before most kids could tie their shoes. As for Mom—she'd cut ties with her family after the divorce, and found me at the hospital.
Zane and I grew up side by side, and he never really had friends. Except me. And he was always the impressive one. His name was on the scholarship list every single year. Every break, he worked, saving money, racing to give Grandma Carter an easier life.
She never got to see it.
The winter of his freshman year, Grandma Carter got hit by a car on her way home from her farmers' market stand. By the time the ambulance reached the hospital, she wasn't conscious anymore. Zane and I were both away at school; Mom was the only one by her side. He drove through the night.
He still didn't make it in time.
I remember Zane that day. His eyes were windburned red. Not a single tear. He handled the funeral with terrifying calm and saw off the last of the mourners.
Mom said he hadn't eaten all day. She asked me to bring him something warm.
When I got to his house, Zane was sitting rigid in front of his grandmother's framed photo, still as a statue. I softened my steps and went to call his name—and the words died in my throat. His face was streaked with tears, and he was trying, still trying, to smile at me.
He said: "Zo, I don't have anyone now. I'm an orphan again."
It crushed me. I knew no "my condolences" was worth anything right then. So I set the food down and settled onto the floor beside him.
"Grandma Carter—Zane has me and my mom looking out for him now. I promise, we won't let him go cold or go hungry. Rest easy."
Zane turned his head. His lips moved, and the tears spilled over again. I gave him a smile.
"Eat something. If you make yourself sick, Grandma Carter's going to blame me for not taking care of—"
I never finished. Zane pulled me into his arms, hard, like he was trying to fold me into his ribs. He buried his face in my shoulder, voice thick and muffled. "Zo. Thank you."
He wasn't a boy anymore. He was steady now. Solid. I hugged him back gently and patted his spine.
"Zane, you're not an orphan. I'm not going anywhere. Ever."
He went rigid for a second. Then he was shaking, and his voice came out wrecked. It took him a long time to say: "Yeah. We're never splitting up."
Maybe we'd been inseparable all along. But "I like you"—from Zane—still felt strange.
I buried myself in my blankets and admitted it: I was mad at myself. For always, always going soft on him.
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