But I hear his voice behind me. “Your turn to wash the bedding!”

I stop and turn my head, his short, black hair sticking up all over the place, and his green eyes showing no hint that he’d had a sleepless night like he claims.

“I’m not touching your sheets,” I tell him. “Put them in the washer yourself.”

He bats his eyelashes, and I let out a quiet sigh. If I don’t do his sheets, they won’t get done. And why do I care? No idea.

“Don’t make me touch your sheets,” I plead.

But he just blinks up at me. “Coffee first,” he says. “Coffee will help you feel better about it.”

Whatever. I storm off, knowing I’ll do it and knowing that he knows I’ll do it.

I’m allowed to pout for a little while, though. If our parents were here, I might not feel obligated to give in to him, but Trace wasn’t much older than me when we were orphaned. He thinks a woman will fill that void that not having a mom has left in him.

I step into the kitchen, the chipped blue and pink stucco walls shining with the light coming from the rusted old chandelier over the kitchen table. The shutters over the sink spread open, the white grate keeping out intruders, but letting in the smell and sound of the rain.

Macon leans against the stove, grease stains on his gray T-shirt and the leather peeling on the front of his steel-toe boots. He dries his hands and tightens the thin, leather strap, identical to mine, around his wrist.

I walk for the Moka Pot. “Morning.”

“It’s almost noon.” I hear him sip his coffee. “You’d never know I have five siblings with all the shit you all make me do around here by myself.”

I hood my eyes, bracing myself as I pull the coffee beans out of the cabinet.

It’s not noon. It’s barely ten, and it’s Saturday. “Coffee first, please,” I say.

He’s in a mood, probably been up since five a.m. and had time to self-talk himself into a nice little tizzy that we were the most ungrateful lot. Macon needs sex. Lots of it.

I pick up the pot but feel it’s already full. Ugh, thank you. He brewed another pot.

I pour myself a cup and walk to the table, taking a seat opposite him. “I was at school late,” I tell him, taking my first sip. “I guess the last few months of senior year aren’t for relaxing after all.”

“No, not for relaxing,” Macon says, “any more than it’s necessary to apply to Dartmouth when you’re already going to Florida State.”

I shoot my eyes up.

He reaches over the table, to the stack of bills waiting to be paid in the napkin holder, and plucks out a white envelope, tossing it to me.

I grab it, flipping it over to see the Dartmouth return address in the corner. The envelope is ripped open, and I can feel the letter inside.

“Congratulations,” he tells me before I have a chance to read the letter.

I dart my gaze up to him again as I dig inside the envelope. “You opened my mail?”

But I don’t wait for a response. Unfolding the piece of paper, I don’t know if he’s screwing with me, or if I really got in. My heart pounds as I start reading, taking in one word after the other, holding my breath for the shoe to drop.

It doesn’t. I read the first couple of sentences over and over, reality slowly coming into view.

He’s not lying. I got in. I exhale, smiling as I feel like I’m floating all of a sudden.

I got in. I got into an Ivy League school with a great theater department.

I’m going to Dartmouth.

I squeeze the paper, kind of wishing I could hug someone right now. But I’m the only person in this house happy about this.

“But what do I know, right?” Macon continues. “I’m just a poor, dumb redneck who’ll never be more than this. I should be lucky to learn from you.”

My smile slowly falls, and I look up, meeting his brown eyes. We’re the only two kids—the first and the last—who got our mom’s eyes, but that’s all we have in common. I respect my oldest brother greatly. He takes care of things. He’s reliable, honest, and strong.

I don’t really like him much, though. He doesn’t want me to go to Dartmouth. He doesn’t talk to me other than to parent me.

“You’re the one who pushed me,” I tell him, setting the letter down. “You wanted me to get out of here. ‘Be someone’, you said. ‘Be remembered’. That’s what you said.” I can’t help the scowl spreading across my face. “Dartmouth is ten times the school Florida State is, and you’re still not happy.”

It takes me less than three seconds to get angry at my family, but Macon just cocks his head, playing with me. “And what are you studying at Dartmouth?”

I shake my head. I’m not giving up the theater. It’s my life, not his. “You want me close so you can reel me in.”

“And you want to fly out of arm’s reach where I can’t.”

He thinks theater is stupid. He thinks I’ll wind up a middle-aged failure and realize too late that I can’t go back and make the conservative decisions he thinks I should make.

I’ll be a failure if I stay.

“Eighteen won’t make you an adult, Liv.” He stares at me. “You still need raising. I was twenty-three and I still needed raising.”

I fall silent, tired of going around and around with him about this. His situation was completely different. No one—no matter what age—would be ready to lose both their parents within two months of each other, and also get saddled with raising and supporting five younger siblings.

Over the years, I became in awe of Macon, slowly realizing as I matured what it must have been like for him. He was a Marine, off seeing the world and living his life only for himself. He had freedom and opportunities.

One day, our dad had a heart attack that left him weakened until he finally passed one night. Two months later, my mom followed.

Macon had a choice. He could let us be split up and sent off to foster care, or he could be discharged and return home to pay more bills than he was capable of, feed bellies that were constantly hungry, and be chained to people who would continue to be dependent on him long after they’d turned eighteen.

His life was over, but he didn’t hesitate. He came home.

Wailing hits my ear, and I let out a breath, bringing my mug back to my lips as the crying gets louder and louder.

Here comes exhibit A of what dependency looks like.

“You gotta take this kid,” Army whines, coming into the kitchen and swinging his son over my shoulder and into my lap.

I shoot back, setting down my coffee, the scorching liquid sloshing onto my hand before I grab the kid and hang on to him.

I glare at my second oldest brother as he passes me and heads to the fridge, no shirt, and his jeans hanging looser around his waist, because his five-month-old son still doesn’t sleep through the night, and my brother forgets to eat just like he forgot to wear a condom.

“Army, come on,” I bite out, hefting Dexter up and holding him close. “I’ve got chores and practice.”

Army’s brown hair, a couple shades lighter than mine, is matted on one side of his head, and bags darken the skin under his eyes. “I just need a shower,” he assures. “Please? I’m dying. Damn kid cries all the time.”