'Cecilio will be fine,' Bobbi assures me again. 'You take care of yourself, Nicolás. Try to get some sleep tonight.'

I fidget with Sasha's stapler as I tell her that I will. I'm not sure that Bobbi believes me but she resigns and hangs up. Dropping my phone onto the desk, I grant myself a minute-long power nap before I grab my disinfectant spray bottle and exit Sasha's office.

Joe looks up as I drag my feet up the ramp to the Sistine Chapel room. We've not talked much today. Neither of us has turned on any music. I suppose she's cross with me for cutting off our conversation last night. Joe's flattened lips and scrunched brow certainly give that impression.

By now, it goes without saying that my dating life is fucking pathetic and always has been, but there were a few people I clicked with in the spring when I downloaded Bumble—three, to be specific. What nipped those connections before they could bloom were the same thing: Cece.

It's a lot like that one scene from Love Actually where Laura Linney's character finally gets to hook up with her fit coworker only to be interrupted by a call from her brother. Yeah... It's a lot like that scene, actually, except I never hesitate to pick up the phone. And the fit coworker character is out the door without giving me as much as an opportunity to dodge their questions.

I can't blame them. Everyone wants to be prioritized, it's a fair deal breaker to have. Don't change the fact that I need to prioritise Cece. Don't change the fact that I'll never date or befriend someone who doesn't wanna "deal" with it. And if that means losing friends then I guess I'm okay with that.

But the sharpness in Joe's eyes that I'd identified as anger might've been worry.

'Are you okay?' She wrings the biodegradable wipe in her hands. 'Don't take this the wrong way but you look really tired. Everything's okay with your brother, isn't it?'

'They're alright. I'm alright.'

I pick up wiping the bar counter where I left off when Bobbi phoned but Joe continues to stare at me. 'Maybe you should go home. You can't drown yourself in work every time you're stressed.'

I should never have told her that.

No surprise I look tired—I am completely done in. I didn't end the call with Cece until eight in the morning and though it is Sunday and the earliest commitment I had were the start of my shift at six, it's not like I fucking slept. It's not like I'll sleep if I go home now, not when I could spend hours later in a research hole, the same frantic googling I've done this morning and dozens of times before that.

Hey Google: Signs someone is in psychosis. Hey Google: How to support someone through psychosis. Hey Google: How to support someone with schizophrenia. Hey Google: Understanding suicidal ideation. Hey Google: Drugs and schizophrenia. Hey Google: Drugs and OCD. Hey Google: Drugs and PTSD. Hey Google: How to talk about drugs with a loved one. Hey Google: Are compulsions good? Hey Google: How to tell someone not to do compulsions without sounding controlling. Hey Google: How to stop doing compulsions. Hey Google: How to get rid of obsessive intrusive thoughts without compulsions. Hey Google: Intrusive thoughts v hallucinations. Hey Google: Schizophrenia v PTSD. Hey Google: What to do if someone you know is struggling? Hey Google: What to do if sibling is suicidal NOT "tell parent*"?

Hey Google: What if I don't love my brother but have lied to myself and them for so long that I've managed to convince myself I do? Hey Google: What if I don't know how to love? Hey Google: Why am I like this?

I flinch at the brush of Joe's fingers on my forearm. The burn in my bicep gives away that I've been scrubbing the sink much more aggressively than need be and I stop. I chain my stare to the drain.

'Nikki, please.' She don't specify what it is she's asking for.

I leave my disinfectant on the counter and step back. I suppose I should tell her; we've been friends for months now. I can trust her and she also needs to know eventually or I'll just come across as a shit friend. 'Could you come sit down for a bit?'

Joe is confused but follows me into the main room and a freshly disinfected booth. The words catch in my teeth every time I try to speak but Joe don't urge.

I fidget with my necklace, the compass pendant Shayna and Desmond gave me. They were more my parents than Mamá and Papá even though they were more like the cool aunt and uncle who ask you intrusive questions and sneak you some bud when you go to your first party.

'You know how I told you that my brother moved out recently. It's–um– He's schizophrenic and he also has OCD. They live in a home in West Country where the people know how to handle that sort of stuff.'

I pick at my cuticles and blink tears from my eyes. The vines are growing rapidly around my throat—I have to get it all out now if I wanna manage it in a way that's remotely comprehensible.

'Cece, they've... um... struggled a lot with self-harm and suicidal ideation. So no matter what I'm doing, if he phones me, I will answer cause if I don't prioritise him for a minute, they could be dead the next. That sounds dramatic but it really ain't. I haven't always been there for him in the way I should've and...

'That's my brother, he's always gonna come first—always. I've had issues with that in relationships before. It's not that I don't care about you or our friendship but unless you're dying...'

'I get it.' Joe takes my hand, holds it in both of hers over the table. 'You're a good brother.'

Right.

'That must be really difficult for your parents, to be separated from him like that.'

'For my–?' Just tell her. Just tell her. Put it all out on the table. And I just said that I trust her. 'They're in Colombia, so...'

'Still? But it's been months.'

'It's a... long-term project they're working on.'

The words are like those foam toys that you buy at the size of a gummy bear and put in water for them to expand. They swell in my throat and I cough them out.

'But definitely, it's tough. Cause they try their best. Obviously, I know– I mean, they know that love can't cure summat like that, but it would be nice if it helped a little. Wouldn't have to feel so useless.'

I crumble just as I've stuck enough support sticks into the soil to keep everything upright. 'I've had to drive him to hospital enough times to last me ten lifetimes. There were loads more times that I patched him up at home, like... He doesn't care at all.'

As my hand starts to shake, Joe only holds it tighter. 'I bet you make it all much easier.'

No, Bobbi makes it easier. Esther makes it easier. I've probably made it worse. All I do is shout at him about meaningless shit like grades.

I scrub away tears with my free hand, clear up my vision enough to see Joe's lips pursed. I've said summat wrong.

'What?' I ask.

'Nothing,' she says, only to correct, 'It's not my place.'

Sniffing, I sit up straight. 'What is it?'

'I just–' Joe's stare drills deep into me, the "speak v mind my business" battle visible behind her eyes. 'How can your parents stay abroad and leave you to balance all this? You're twenty-four. They should at least take some of the emotional burden. Or pay for a therapist if they really can't.'

'They're just right passionate about their work. Deforestation has increased by forty-six per cent in Colombia in the past year,' I cite. 'Someone's gotta try to stop that.'

'They're your parents. They should be here. Or have you with them in Colombia. They should be doing something.'

The vines are so tangled around me, even the canyon can't sever them and so, it stays shut. I sink, rest my forehead on my free arm bent on the table. Mould is itchy in my throat. I can't do anything as Joe caresses my hand.

The cushion beside me dips and a warm hand, much larger than Joe's, lands on my shoulder. 'Nicolás.' I snap my head up to Sasha's grim expression. 'I'm gonna need ya to go home.'

I shake my head, glancing at Joe in alarm to urge her to vouch for me but she has her phone out. What a grass.

'I'm alright.'

'I can't let you in a kitchen in this state. When you cut off a finger, that's my arse on the line.' Sasha holds both of my shoulders, inspects my face before pulling me into a hug. In his arms, I must look like a ragdoll. 'I know how you feel—I've sponsored a lot of kids. But you can't share the borscht if your bowl is empty.'

Notes

This chapter title is in reference to the novella A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings by Gabriel García Márquez. 

Grass: Slang for snitch; originally an undercover police informer who reveals criminals to the authorities.

Borscht: Beetroot soup popular in most Eastern European countries and some Central Asian ones as well, originated from Ukraine.