The Brother is home for the long weekend. I love when The Brother comes home.

The Brother is the stability in the sibling dynamic; he is the even-keel, rarely fazed through the females’ bi-polar emotional episodes. It perhaps turned him a little hippie, a little indie, but I like that he doesn’t conform. I should only date boys with sisters, they have been prepped. Makes them stronger. For The Brother, after surviving the hurricane of two sisters’ adolescences, a mere relationship’s weather is as mere as spit on his shoes. He gets it.

I like how I justify the tourmoil through which he put him.

He returned from running errands just as I was leaving the parent’s house for my night, and, with my invitation, jumped in the car’s passenger’s side door to join me and my evening’s plans. As easy as that. No clothes change or questioning of details or confirming destination. Reminds me of our golden retriever’s response to “Ride in the car?” He hops in and is good to go. Pavlov could not have programmed him better. The Brother’s highest maintence question was an inquiry of my car’s music selection, as he is the one reason why my audio library contains alternate options to the radio.

We went to drink with my best guy friends from college, also known as The Kid From Boston’s ex-roommates, which sometimes gives me anxiety though it shouldn’t.

When The Brother comes out with me, I always introduce him with just his name, without the preceding “This is my brother” junction; I don’t know why I need to make the distinction, especially since we look alike and most people make the connection. I think because I want him respected as a peer, not as a tag-along.

The Brother and I drank cocktails and discussed his love life: dating through facebook, coffee shop awkwardness, and the questionable hickeys from the summer. (Twenty-three and still getting hickeys? Really, Brother?) He asked, without concern but general interest, if he was cockblocking me and laughed when I gave the excuse that I was untouchable because I was The Kid’s ex. “Oh really, is that how you think it works with guys?” He asked about The Kid and accepted my answers without prying for more.

We gossiped like friends until I was digging through my purse for lip gloss and checked my phone for missed calls. When The Brother glanced over and saw the three missed calls from The Kid’s Boston home number, he was outraged.

Outraged.

My even-keel baby brother losing his composure. On account of phone calls from the guy who broke my heart. Maybe it’s ok if we’re not always peers. It was kinda cute watching him act protective.

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