Saturday:
My brother and I, we had lunch plans.
We made lunch plans a month ago when he first decided to visit. I confirmed them two weeks ago. I confirmed them a week ago. I confirmed them the day before. I confirmed them the morning he left. "We're going to the Dutch, yeah? Right when you get here?" I confirm these things, because he's forgotten before, because I had several other people who wanted to take me out to lunch, but I had plans with my brother. Sorry. Family first.
He shows up at my apartment, you know, the one I spent five hours on a beautiful October morning cleaning and reorganizing and stocking to better entertain him and his buddy. He shows up with two sandwiches: one for him, one for his buddy.
I hadn't eaten all day, in preparation for our meal, the one I had confirmed a few hours before. It doesn't even occur to him that, even though we had plans, I would have rearranged my life to fit in those plans. He would never, ever do that, not for me. Maybe not for anyone.
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I didn't really expect to spend any time with him. He's here to visit his friends. That's why I wanted to go to lunch when he first arrived, before he got swept into the frenzy of the visit. I don't want to make him feel worse that he's going to when his vacation is over.
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When he calls me hours later, even though I'm getting ready for work, I go to his friends' place to do his clown makeup and hair for him, leaving no time for me to do my makeup for myself.
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I made arrangements to sleep elsewhere so he would have my apartment to himself, arrangements that further cut into my plans for the evening since I would be relying on someone else for a ride, since I would have to drive somewhere to sleep instead of being able to walk home after partying, since I had given up my apartment to better suit his plans.
I'm so thrilled to do these sorts of things that I insist upon it.
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When I broke up with the boy a few weeks ago, the first thing my brother said is, "Where are we gonna sleep?"
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Saturday night:
I end up working at the bar for a few hours, and the boy comes to pick me up, and we make out while "The Shining" creeps me out in the background. This is probably the best way I could have spent Halloween anyway.
I would have at least liked to put in an appearance at any of the parties I was invited to, but I was in too bad of a mood, and I hadn't eaten anything but an admittedly satisfying veggie burrito that I ate alone at a dirty table in a gritty taqueria, twenty minutes spent being ogled by Mexican laborers coated in the grime that keeps this city clean, instead of with my brother and his buddy and a pitcher of Belgian beer at the quaint German restaurant with the checkered tablecloths, sitting outside on a beautiful October afternoon.
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Sunday:
I wasn't expecting him to actually be there for the birthday cake I made for him. My friends, the ones who spent the day drinking Bloody Marys on a boat, which is where I would have been had I not been baking, came over to keep me company and partake of the cake while I turned leftovers into cake truffles so that I could freeze them so that my brother could take them with him. I set out a birthday card on top of his present with instructions to take the truffles with him.
I put some thought into these things, making people feel appreciated.
My friends and I, we grab cocktails at the bar down the street and relive their adventures on a beautiful October day, the one I spent inside, baking, for him, after the one I spent, inside, cleaning, for him.
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I don't know why I did that, knowing there was no possible way he would appreciate it, except that I've learned to take a certain amount of pride in my home, except that I like to make people happy, and crawling into freshly made bed makes people happy, and home-baked goods makes people happy.
I don't know why I bothered, because it only served to make him feel badly, even though I wasn't upset about that. I really just wanted one meal with my brother when he was in town, but he fucked that up right off the bat.
Now that he can't stop apologizing, I can't stop my fury from growing.
It's not easy to be angry with someone who fucked up on accident, which is what I was choosing to believe all weekend. It's easy to be angry with someone who knows he's chosen to do something wrong, something selfish, something that inconveniences someone else, when he chose to spend time with his friends, the family he was forced to find growing up when ours fell apart, when I ran away to boarding school. He'll always choose them over me. It's not rejection.
I just wanted one fucking meal with him.
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Monday:
Now I just feel sorry for him. Now, I can't have anyone in my life whom I pity (see: my father; see: Katie/Deanna/Euliza; see: anyone else I've expunged from my life). Now it's why I don't talk to my brother.