Last Train to Babylon by Charlee Fam

important event, right up until death, and even after a person is buried in the ground. It’s the only gift you can really ever give a corpse, and people do it all the time. That’s why I never understood guys who gave flowers on first dates—like, Hi, I don’t know anything about you, but everybody loves flowers. Even dead people!
    I watched as a few distant aunts and uncles approached the surviving brother—the women going in for a lingering embrace, their respective men offering a halfhearted pat on the shoulder. But in any encounter, his arms hung limp at his sides, his gaze vacant. When he was alone, he reached into his pocket, his wrist twisting against his pant fabric as he fidgeted.
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    I hadn’t noticed at first, but I caught sight of Tonya sitting with her mom in the back of the room. I squinted, trying to see if she’d been wearing my ring. A small part of me wished I could ask for it back. Not because I didn’t want Tonya to have it, but because Karen had asked me several times over the past month what happened to it. I didn’t feel like explaining I’d drunkenly given it to Tonya Szalinski.
    I started looking around the room for Rachel, when I watched the Younger Sullivan slip out the side exit. I slunk out close behind, hoping that I’d catch Rachel out back, smoking a cigarette with some of Max’s friends, but when I pulled the door shut behind me and stepped outside, there was just Adam, leaning against the side porch. He shifted his weight away from the railing when he saw me, and I noticed the chalky, white, chipped paint had left the slightest stain on his navy suit jacket. There was no Rachel in sight, and I was standing face-to-face with the dead boy’s brother. I didn’t really have a choice but to try and strike up a conversation.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    His chest rose with breath as if he were about to speak, but just as quickly, he sank back into his slouched stance.
    â€œSorry about your brother,” I said.
    His jaw tightened, locking in his words, the muscles protruding just beneath his ears. His cold, gray eyes stared past me at the moths floating beneath the motion-sensor lights.
    â€œYou’re a freshman this year, too, right?” I asked, feeling incredibly awkward. “Are you going to Seaport or St. Christopher’s?” He took another deep breath, but stopped himself before the words could leave him.
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    â€œLook,” I said. “You don’t have to say anything. But I’m really sorry, and if you need someone to talk to, I live just over there.” I pointed to the direction of my street, not that he’d have any clue where my house was, but it was a gesture and that was enough.
    O N THE FIRST day of high school, the Younger Sullivan stood at the corner of my street—a blue, zip-up hoodie hugging his skinny arms and a saggy backpack slung over one shoulder. He was shy, raising his hand awkwardly at me, with an embarrassed half smile. He had black shaggy hair, and this cool, blue tone to his skin and lips, like he’d been out in the snow too long.
    â€œThought you might want someone to walk with,” he said, nothing like the mute, broken boy I had met the week before.
    So that’s how it happened, Adam and me. And after all those years, he never even knew that I had kissed his dead brother.

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Chapter 9
    Monday, October 6, 2014.
    I’ M SORRY FOR your loss.
    The response I get from Jonathan this morning. It’s been almost twenty-four hours, but I guess I haven’t bothered to check my in-box since I left for Long Island yesterday anyway. I wasn’t expecting anything more. His e-mails are as detached as his managing skills, and I don’t hate it, at least in this situation. But most times, it’s just frustrating. I’ll take five minutes to type up a thoughtful e-mail, minding the details, making sure to use just the right amount of professionalism with a touch