Sebastian

Why do moths fly to the light?

Biologists don't know for sure, but they have a lot of theories. Some argue that moths are drawn to the moon. Others suggest that the insects rely on bright objects to navigate the night sky. One scientist even claimed that ultraviolet light excites female moth pheromone molecules, which lures in male moths.

Yeah, that last theory hasn't received much traction in the scientific community.

But maybe scientists will find out why moths flock to the flame in the most unexpected way. Maybe the answer will come from some moth that started its ill-fated journey toward the light. But suddenly, at the last second, it turned away. Maybe that moth can speak, maybe it'll tell us why it flew to the light—I thought it was the moon or that UV radiation really turned me on.

Maybe that moth will tell us what changed its mind. 

It would be a long shot, but you never know.

***

Sebastian had been back for five days. Mom was practically gushing on the phone when she called to let me know.

I really wished she hadn't. 

"Bethany, Bethany I know you weren't sure last time," she rushed. Her voice was thick with relief and joy. "But he did it. My baby boy did it. And he wants to see you. He keeps asking for you."

Alright, I told her. That's...that's good news. I'll call you back later.

I hung up and pressed the phone to my chest, gently rocking back and forth.

And then I threw up.

The pandemic transformed my workplace into germaphobe central. My supervisor had an intern practically push me out of the office, insisting I go home and take off as much time as I needed to get over whatever stomach bug I had come down with. 

I bit my fingernails into nubs the whole ride home. Sebastian was back. He wanted to see me. I had no idea what to do.

Michael was preparing dinner by the time I walked through the front door. I kissed him hello, pressed my raw fingertips into my palms, and leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Mom called. Sebastian's back."

Michael jerked, nearly dropping a handful of chopped onions.

"But I thought you said—"

I dug my fingers in deeper. "I know. I did. She called anyway."

"Oh, Bethany," he whispered, placing down the onions. He 

pulled me to his chest and rubbed my back in small, soft circles. I hadn't realized how badly I needed that stability.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he murmured.

"I know," I nodded. I wrapped my arms around him too. "But I don't want to see him...and I don't not want to see him."

"Which one's the better option?" He asked gently. "You don't have to answer that now, though."

The thought of coming up with an answer made my stomach clench with anxiety. I gripped Michael tighter. I just wanted to hide. I wanted to escape this inescapable issue. So I sucked in a deep breath and pat him on the shoulder.

"I'll decide," I tried to smile. "Let's get dinner done."

There was no fooling him, but Michael nodded and went back to chopping vegetables while I searched for pasta to boil.

My baby boy did it. And he wants to see you. He keeps asking for you.

I grabbed a box of garganelli tighter than I had intended to.

I told Mom not to tell me anything about Sebastian because I wanted out. Because I didn't want to experience whatever these confusing feelings were.

I wanted to cut Sebastian out of my life and forget about him, but I really couldn't, could I?

I tried to bury Sebastian as deep and far away as possible, but he still popped up. Even if Mom hadn't told me, he would have found some way back into my life. Because he never really left. Family never really leaves.

He did it. My baby boy did it.

Did what? That phrase could mean a lot of different things. No, that was stupid. I knew what Mom was referring to.

Did he really? Did Sebastian really change? After years and years, was this actually the turning point?

Maybe she was putting too much faith in him. Maybe I had too little faith in him. But I wouldn't know if I didn't see him. 

I tentatively poured the pasta into the pot of boiling water.

I could give him two hours this weekend. If Sebastian had finally changed, had really changed, then maybe we could ease back into our relationship. We could see each other once a week, have dinner once in a while, and maybe go to New York City again. If Sebastian hadn't changed, I could bury him deeper and farther away. That way, by the time he came back, he'd be—

A piece of garganelli flicked up a few drops of boiling water. I jerked back. But not really because of the water.

I seized a wooden spoon and stirred the pasta as if that could make me forget the unforgivable thought. I'd call Mom tomorrow. I'd tell her that I would come over.

***

I knocked on the old, familiar front door that Saturday. 

I could have let myself into the house. I had the keys, after all. But I felt like a kid on a stranger's doorstep, even though I had gone through Mom's doorway more times than I could count.

I heard a muffled voice from inside, then footsteps creaking along wooden flooring. The lock clicked, the handle turned, and the door pulled open.

Mom looked as elated as she had sounded on the phone when I told her I would stop by. 

"Oh, Bethany," she cried, pulling me into a giant hug.

"Hey Mom, the casserole—" her sweater muffled my voice while I struggled to balance the glass dish in my hands. 

I had no idea what to do that morning, so I cooked a casserole.

It had probably been a bad move to bring it. Aunts, uncles, and married cousins brought casseroles, offerings to places that weren't their home. Daughters didn't bring food into their childhood home unless it wasn't home anymore.

But Mom didn't seem to mind. She kissed me on the forehead. "Where's Michael, dear? Was he not able to make it?"

I shook my head. "He had a big job today. He sends his love, though."

Michael could have come. He offered to come, but I thought it would be best to wait. Maybe if today worked out he could stop by. Weekly visits, once-in-a-while dinners, a trip to New York City...

"Come on, get in. He's in his bedroom," Mom ushered me into the hall. She grabbed the casserole out of my arms and scurried into the kitchen. I was left standing with nothing to do but ascend the stairs and enter the first door on the left. 

The stairs creaked under my weight. I gripped the all-to-familiar wooden banister. It had bite marks from when Sebastian and I were teething and maroon crayon streaks from the time we tried to "paint" the house.

It was overwhelming how quickly memories were resurfacing simply because Sebastian was back.

I couldn't stop to collect myself at the top of the stairs; he would have heard the creaking and then the silence. I had to bite the bullet, and I had to do it now. So I pushed open the bedroom door.

And there he was.

***

"Bethany," he smiled. 

Everything inside of me turned numb.

All I could whisper was, "Sebastian."

He was lying on the old chaise Mom used to keep in the garage. A large orange t-shirt covered his lanky torso. He was almost certainly wearing his classic-Sebastian jeans under the blanket spread over his legs.

His face was pale, and track marks populated his arms, but the first-chair flutist from middle school, the boy who hated math but loved to bake, was sitting right there in front of me.

My feet felt like lead. I should walk over to him, I thought.

A puzzled expression fluttered across his face. Then, Sebastian got up to meet me where I was.

"N-no," I stuttered nervously, rushing over as he folded the blanket. Sure enough, he was wearing those jeans. "I, I can come over." 

"It's cool. I can walk," he said, stretching his arms. "I'm not bedridden or anything. Mom's just overprotective."

I was about to agree when Sebastian barrelled into my arms. His hands gripped my shoulder blades, his fingernails digging into my skin.

What the—

Oh.

He was hugging me. Fiercely.

"I thought about you every day," he whispered. "I missed you."

"I...I missed you too," I whispered back. And then I realized that I had.

***

The casserole was under-seasoned. I could tell Mom was being polite when she insisted it wasn't, but Sebastian didn't seem to mind.

"This is so much better than the food they gave us in rehab," he praised between bites. 

I chuckled nervously. I had no idea what to say in response. "Well, I'm glad to have met that bar. At this rate, I'll be cooking for Gordon Ramsey."

Sebastian grinned mischievously. "I think that would be my greatest achievement, getting Bethany to make a fool of herself in front of Gordon Ramsey." 

"Sebastian," Mom scolded, but she didn't really mean it.

"Well," I toyed back. "What's number two on that achievement list?" What I wanted to know was his game plan. So he completed rehab. Did that mean he was back? That he had changed?

Sebastian's mouth curved upward as he looked back to his plate, grabbing another forkful of casserole.

"Bakery. Shannon, uh, one of the counselors, was telling me about this really nice one that's hiring. I was thinking about applying. You know, start as a dishwasher or something and work my way up to manager. Down the line, obviously, not outright."

"Well, I think that's wonderful," Mom praised. "Then I won't have to cook desserts for the holidays because you will." 

Sebastian laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.

God, I forgot he did that whenever someone complimented him. He was always sheepish around praise.

Is. He is. He's right here.

It felt like an out-of-body experience, Mom, Sebastian, and I sharing a meal. How long had it taken for this routine event to feel so foreign? How long would it take to feel normal again? Could it feel normal again?

I didn't notice Sebastian looking at me from across the table. I was never good at hiding my emotions, but he was usually too high to notice them. He folded his hands behind his plate and looked me dead in the eye. "So you got concerns. Shoot."

"Concerns?" I asked, trying to sound as vague as possible. I shoved another forkful of casserole into my mouth. God, I really had underseasoned it.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "About me. If I'm clean—the answer is yes, by the way—How long I've been clean. How long it'll last."

"Sebastian, don't talk like that," Mom rebuked. He shrugged and leaned towards me, waiting.

"Fine," I replied, setting down my fork. "How long have you been clean?"

"Four months."

"Are you talking to James and Eddy anymore?"

"Not since I entered rehab."

"Do you plan on talking to them again?"

"No, I deleted their numbers. Shannon helped me."

"But you know where they live."

At that, Sebastian frowned. "You know what I meant."

"Okay," I relented. "How's the bakery application coming along?"

"Fine, I have a resume. Just need a cover letter."

"Do you still get cravings?"

"Of course I get cravings!" Sebastian sputtered. "Every addict and survivor gets cravings. I will for the rest of my life. Is that too much for you?"

"Too much for me?" I scoffed. "I want to know if it's too much for you."

Mom smacked her hand against the table. "Enough! Bethany, enough. Both of you, enough. This is supposed to be a nice family meal."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I just want to make sure I have the full picture."

"I'm trying to answer your questions, but you're just interrogating me," Sebastian fired back. 

"This has been going on for years, Sebastian. Years." I fumed. "I want to know for sure if the nightmare is over or not." 

He blinked in surprise. When was the last time I had been this vulnerable with him? The first time Mom and I tried to get him to go to rehab? The summer he overdosed? I had surprised him—and myself. I thought I would be more guarded today.

"Fine then," I cleared my throat. "What made you stick with rehab this time? What changed your mind?"

At that, Sebastian looked down. He slid his hands together, then folded them into a single fist. Then he looked back up. The corners of his eyes looked red.

"You guys."

***

Mom took our plates and told us to "take it to the porch." It was her go-to phrase whenever she was too tired to deal with us arguing as kids.

"Some things haven't changed," Sebastian mumbled as I pushed the screen door shut. 

"Clearly," I sighed, straddling a fold-up chair. A light breeze meandered across the porch. "Look, I'm sorry for getting so confrontational. This whole situation is just really weird."

"Yeah," Sebastian echoed. He fiddled with his fingers. "Mom told me you didn't want any updates about, well, me. I'm sorry."

Guilt and embarrassment rocketed inside me. "God, she told you that? What the hell?"

Sebastian laughed awkwardly.

"Look," I groaned, pressing my temples. "I don't want to hurt you. But all you've been doing is hurting yourself. And us in the process."

He grimaced. "Thanks for the extra dose of guilt trip. But you're right," he whispered. "And I'm sorry. For everything."

We didn't say anything for a bit after that. All we could hear were the cars going by and the moths buzzing around the old lamp above us.

Something made Sebastian chuckle.

I raised an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"

"Oh," he clarified. "When I was—well, when I wasn't doing too great in rehab, I would read this book on bugs. It was actually pretty cool. It had this whole section on moths." A tiny smile tugged at Sebastian's lips. "And apparently, there's this one scientist that thinks moths fly into lamps because they're horny."

"Because they're horny?" I sputtered. 

"Okay, kinda," Sebastian clarified, turning towards me while pointing up at the lamp. "He thought that the UV radiation from the light did something to molecules that female moths emit, which basically turned the male moths on."

"So moths fly into the light because they're horny," I repeated.

Sebastian waved his hand. "Probably not. But scientists don't know for sure why. But that's what I decided when I was there." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm going to be the moth that turns away. I'm gonna fight this. And I'm gonna beat it."

I couldn't stop myself. "How do you know?" I asked. 

"I said it before," Sebastian answered. "Because of what turned me away from the lamp. What changed my mind." He looked me dead in the eye. "You. And mom."

"But we've always been here," I countered. There had to be something deeper. "It didn't change your mind when you were 21. Why now?"

Sebastian shrugged. "I got lonely. I got to the point where I realized just how badly I missed both of you."

I had no idea how to respond to that. It was such a simple reason.

But the feelings were so much deeper.

"I missed you too," I admitted, hugging my chest. The discomfort in my chest blossomed. I welcomed it. It almost felt like waking up. "I missed you so much and it hurt so bad that I just...I just wanted to forget. I thought if I pushed you away far enough, it would stop hurting."

"Did it?" Sebastian's voice was quiet.

I pursed my lips. "I don't think so. I think...I just got used to the hurt." I flipped through the past five years in my mind. The late nights, waiting for phone calls, wanting to scream but nothing coming out. And then nothing until Mom called me at work to say he was back. "It...it was like I developed a pain tolerance for missing you. So I didn't feel the hurt. But it was there."

Sebastian buried his head in his hands. I hadn't meant to make him feel worse.

"Oh, shoot, Sebastian—"

"No, no," he waved his hands, wiping his eyes. "Sorry, sorry. But," he wiped his nose with his short orange sleeve, "I'm also relieved, if that makes sense? I thought you might have stopped caring. I wouldn't have blamed you if you did, but—"

"No," I whispered. "I didn't understand. But I always cared."

Buzzzzzz

We both jumped as my phone lit up. It was Michael, texting to see if everything was okay. I told him I would only be two hours. It just turned into four.

"You got to go?" Sebastian asked. Disappointment tinged his voice.

I did need to leave. I had to have boundaries. "It's getting dark," I responded, standing up. "But Sebastian...." my brother looked up, waiting for me to finish. I had no words.

So I barrelled into his arms.

Weekly visits, once-in-a-while dinners, a trip to New York City...

"I'll see you next weekend, okay?" I whispered. He gripped me back.

"Okay."