Vivi

For two years, I thought I understood Ethan's brother. Or at least, I understood the version Ethan gave me. Ethan had always been the golden child. Money, cars, opportunities—his parents gave him everything. And whenever his brother came up, Ethan had an explanation ready. Jealous. Stubborn. Too proud to accept help. Someone who couldn't stand that Ethan had always come out on top. I believed him. Ethan was my boyfriend. Why wouldn't I? His brother never defended himself either. Ethan could make some smug comment at dinner and he'd barely react. Sometimes he'd laugh. Usually he'd just shrug and let Ethan have the last word. I mistook that for losing. Then came Christmas. Ethan handed me an envelope with a grin. A $1,000 prepaid card. I kissed his cheek and thanked him. It was generous. Everything Ethan did was generous. Then his brother handed me a box. I wasn't expecting anything from him. I pulled away the tissue paper—and stopped breathing. The doll. Same little dress. Same curls. Same tiny painted face. My mother had given me one just like it when I was little. I'd carried her everywhere until she was lost. I'd mentioned it once, months ago, during a conversation I'd almost forgotten. But he remembered. My throat tightened. Suddenly I was blinking back tears in front of Ethan's entire family, holding a piece of my childhood in my hands. I looked at the doll. Then at Ethan's thousand-dollar card. Then at his brother. He wasn't smirking. He wasn't looking at Ethan to see