Age Gap16 min read
"Follow Me" — The Brother Who Became More
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"Follow me."
I step out of the classroom and my throat goes dry. My hand still holds the strap of my backpack. The corridor smells like chalk and hot metal. The boy in front of me doesn't turn. He walks like someone who expects the world to give him room.
"You're Marie, right?" he says without looking back.
"Yes." I answer. My voice is small. My heart hammers.
He keeps walking. I hurry after him.
He is taller than I remember from the photos. He has broad shoulders, a neat haircut, and a face that looks calm even when he is saying things that make me nervous. When he finally turns, his dark eyes sweep over me and stop. He says two words that feel like a promise and a command.
"Come with me."
"Why?" I ask, though I don't mean it. I am already moving.
He says, "Because my mom told me to."
Josefina Henderson's voice at the school gate is loud enough to cut the world into pieces.
"Marie! Over here!"
My cheeks burn when she wraps me in a warm hand and tugs me forward like I belong to her already.
"Say hello to your aunt," she says, with a smile that doesn't hide the strictness.
"Aunt Josefina," I reply. I want to be brave.
Cedar Lebedev leans back in the driver's seat, one foot over the carpet like it's his throne. He lifts an eyebrow at me and says, "Sit behind me."
Josefina clucks. "No. You sit in the middle. Sisters and brothers sit together in the back."
"Fine." Cedar shrugs and opens the passenger door with exaggerated manners. "You can have the front if you scream."
I slide into the back, clutching my water bottle with the Snoopy sticker. I am supposed to be staying with Josefina for a while. My parents are away for work, and their trip got moved up fast. The whole city feels new, and everything is raw and loud. Cedar is the son of Josefina, the friend of my mother, and he is supposed to be my "older brother" for a few weeks. I have only known his name from childhood stories and a photo that showed a different boy.
"Call me Marie," I whisper when Cedar glances back. "Not 'little kid' or—"
He snorts and looks away. "You called me 'brother' in my house today," he says. "Fine. Keep doing that. It's funny."
The joke should sting, but I smile instead. It feels less frightening to hide behind a smile.
*
The first week is awkward like a half-remembered dream. I learn the layout of their apartment, where the spare toothbrush hides, and how Josefina always makes the tea too sweet. Cedar acts bored and sarcastic most of the time. He eats quietly. He plays games and does homework. He tells me not to lock the bathroom door and then acts like he never said it. He is small acts and clipped words when he is not being blunt.
"Don't follow me like I'm a stray," he says one morning when I catch up with him on the stairwell.
"You're exaggerating." I retort. "I just— I want to get to know you."
Cedar stops on the stairs. He looks down at me and for the first time the joke leaves his face. He says quietly, "I know."
He does not elaborate. He never will tell me why he looks like he is always guarding a secret.
But he notices. He notices when I get quiet and he notices when I try to act brave. He notices the little things—when I leave my jacket in the living room, when I tuck my shoelace under my foot. There is comfort in being noticed.
"Don't make it weird," he says once, with mock grumpy tone, but his fingers find my hair and smooth my bun like it's a silly habit. "You are fine. Just be you."
"You're seriously talking like a parent now," I mutter.
"Someone has to," he says. "You can't get lost every time you turn a corner in this city."
He will catch me every time, I think. I don't tell him that.
*
School is its own maze. I watch Cedar in the high-school hallways. He moves through crowds like he owns the space, even when he doesn't want to. Girls glance his way. Boys joke about him. He is good at sports and keeps his head down on tests, but he never brags.
"Is he a celebrity?" Ariya Blake asks me in the cafeteria one day. Her eyes sparkle.
"He's my—um, he's my guardian," I say. "My mother's friend."
Ariya laughs. "He's a walking poster. You're lucky."
Lucky feels wrong and right at the same time. Lucky because he is kind; wrong because I do not want to be the kind of girl who leans on someone else's name to get noticed. I want to be noticed for who I am.
One afternoon at the basketball court, I do something I will remember for a long time. Two high-school boys shove between plays and words get louder. A rival's shove looks angrier than practice.
"Don't push him," I blurt before I can stop myself.
I run in and shove the boy back. He stumbles and nearly falls. The court goes quiet. Cedar is frozen for a second. Then he rubs my head like I am a frog he rescued and laughs with relief.
"You really don't know when to keep quiet," he says, but his laugh is warm.
My cheeks burn because I am proud that I stood up for him and scared because I might have made everything more complicated.
He squeezes my shoulder. "Okay, I'll teach you defense next time."
At dinner that night, Josefina pinches our cheeks and tells stories from when we were kids. She finds my little teeth mark in Cedar's childhood photo album and laughs like it's the cutest crime.
"You bit him?" I hear her tell my mother over the phone later. "And he didn't cry? That boy is a saint."
Cedar rolls his eyes, but he does not say no.
*
The first real scar on our thin peace comes in a shopping mall. I am in the arcade, watching a girl on the dance machine when a man steps too close. His smile is wrong; his hand is sticky.
"Hey, baby," he says.
I say no. He takes my wrist.
"Let go!" I pull, but he is stronger.
Then Cedar is in front of him like a storm.
"Touch her again and you'll remember losing a tooth," he says.
The man laughs and throws a grab. Cedar moves fast—faster than a calm student should. He kicks. The man collapses on the floor like a pile of bad decisions.
I break down. The world tilts. I bury my face in Cedar's chest and cry.
"Shh," he says. "You're okay."
He doesn't lecture me for biting the man the way I had bitten before. He just holds. People gather. High school boys voice their approval. A staff member ushers us out with hurried apologies. Some girls clap. Some boys look at Cedar like he is a statue.
We sit down on a cold bench by the fountain. He wipes my tears with his sleeve and hands me a napkin like it's the most ordinary thing.
"Was he seriously going to take you?" I ask, because it feels like a question I have to answer aloud.
"No," Cedar says simply. "But he tried. I don't like people who think they own small things."
His voice is small when he says it and huge when he says my name. I hold his hand without thinking. It is heavy and safe.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He looks at me like I am the last person in a long line.
"Don't give me dramatic thanks," he says, but there's a softness that makes his words gold. "Just promise you'll scream next time."
"I will," I say. "I promise."
*
Days become routine. We argue about dumb things. He calls me small names like "little wisp" and "small brave" and I call him out for hogging the front seat. He teases me about being "extra careful" and watches my face when I read books aloud. He shares his hoodie when it rains.
"You smell like coffee," I tell him one morning when he hands me a thermos.
"So?" he says. "You smell like sugar."
We walk the line between brother and something else in private touches. He pats my head when I need courage, and sometimes his hand lingers near mine longer than it should. He gets quiet right after—like every feeling is dangerous.
"Do you like someone?" I ask him once when we wait for the bus.
He shrugs. "I like sleeping."
"That's not the same."
He gives a quiet laugh. "No. Not the same."
There are nights when I lie awake in my bed and imagine what it means when his thumb brushes my knuckle or when he keeps me close in the mall. I tell myself I am silly. He is my older brother. He must be.
But then he says, "Marie, don't date anyone younger than you." And I feel my face heat.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you're annoying," he says. "And I already have my hands full."
He says it like a joke. But I hear something else.
*
The truth hides in moments. I see Cedar soften around me. When he thinks no one watches, he whispers my name. He buys the exact flavor of candy I like and hides it in my backpack. He waits in the school yard because he promised to. He comes to the mall when I am late because my eyes are still red. He teaches me to shoot hoops and to skate and he makes sure every learning moment ends with a laugh.
"You're like a magnet for trouble," he says once when we are sitting on our small balcony. "First the idiots at the court, then the creep at the mall."
"Maybe," I answer. "Or maybe trouble is magnet for me."
He pokes my side. "You're the magnet, I'm the shield."
"Says who?"
"Me," he says. "I already said I'm your shield."
Sometimes a shield is a strange thing to share. I start to see how he chooses to stay despite everything. He could let me be another name in the crowd. He doesn't.
"Why do you stay?" I ask him one night after we walk home under a sky rinsed clean.
He stops. He looks at me in the amber light of a street lamp and says, "Because you are stubborn. Because when you cry, you pray to the ceiling for rescue. Because when you laugh, it sounds like sunshine. And because I can't leave you to face a world that means to be rough."
The answer is huge and small at once. My stomach flips. I want to ask a thousand things. Instead I lean in and say nothing.
He brushes my hair from my forehead, his hand lingering, warm. "Don't do anything too dumb," he says like a command.
"I won't," I promise.
*
A week later, a letter falls onto my desk. It's a folded paper from someone in my class. "Please eat this candy," the note reads, with a smiley. I smile because it's silly but my stomach tightens anyway.
Cedar reads the handwriting and frowns. "It looks like Jaxon Jonsson's."
"No way," I say. "He's too loud."
Cedar snorts. "Loud can hide a lot of things. You can't accept gifts like that."
He takes my hand and places the candy back into my bag. "If someone likes you, they should be able to say it to your face," he adds.
"You're being dramatic again."
"Maybe." He doesn't move his hand away.
At school that day, Jaxon tries to talk to me, but Cedar is there to stand in front like a guard. "You like Marie?" Cedar asks without pretense.
Jaxon says yes, all earnest and clumsy. Cedar nods like he heard the confession but doesn't reward it with anything.
"Okay," Cedar says. "Then keep it to yourself. She has to like you for you, not for candy."
Jaxon is left standing puzzled and I feel a hot wave of gratitude. It blooms and lingers inside me like something necessary.
That night, Cedar plays games in his room. I overhear him tell a friend, Barrett Dupont, "I don't want him making her silly promises. I just want her safe."
Barrett laughs. "You sound like a dad."
"Good," Cedar snaps. "Maybe I need to be."
*
The more time passes, the less clear the line between brother and something else becomes. I start to know what it is to want someone without a word. I begin to understand the weight of someone else's watchful eyes. At the same time, I know the rules. We live under one roof. It is messy and beautiful and every inch of it feels stolen.
One evening, we go out with friends to a small Thai restaurant because Jaxon dragged us. The place is noisy and full of steam and spice. I sit between Cedar and Barrett. Cedar orders a lot of things like he is feeding a small family. He pushes a plate across to me.
"Try this," he says.
"You're hogging so much," I tell him.
"You're the guest," he replies. "Be polite."
Someone at the next table laughs and then glares at him. She seems familiar—a loud girl with a pink shirt and a too-bright smile.
"Who's your pretty friend?" she asks, sliding into our table with the smooth confidence of someone used to getting attention.
"She's my sister," Cedar says fast.
"Or my girlfriend," the girl teases.
Cedar sets his face to stone. "She's neither," he replies. His voice is blunt. I feel him wrap an arm around my shoulders without thinking.
"I'm not your girlfriend," I say quickly.
"Good," he answers. "Don't be."
The girl huffs and leaves. Barrett and the others joke. On the way out, the girl from before blocks my path. She smiles like she tastes trouble.
"You're so lucky," she says to Cedar. "I'd like a brother like you."
Cedar says nothing. He steps forward until he is right in front of her, like a wall. "Don't get too close."
She backs off like she never expected grit. The walk home is quiet. Cedar does not talk much, but he walks close—too close—and I don't pull away.
When we reach the building, I hear him ask, "Do you want to watch a movie?"
I nod. He puts on something with low lights and sits close enough that our knees touch.
At one point, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. When I come back, Cedar's shirt smells like the dinner spice. He lifts his head and looks at me like he knows something dangerous. He says, "You okay?"
"Yes."
He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against mine for a second. "Good night," he whispers.
"Night," I answer.
The touch is brief and safe and nothing more, but it wakes a tiny bright pain in me like a bell.
*
Holiday week arrives. Parents still overseas. We are given a day with Josefina's friend and her daughter, a small girl named Karsyn Gonzalez—loud, sharp, and demanding. Josefina asks Cedar and me to look after Karsyn so she can help at work.
"Just be patient," Josefina says, as she hands over a small girl's backpack. "She cries for her mom."
Cedar answers with a grunt, but his fingers find mine and squeeze. We set off, an odd little troop.
Karsyn is wild. She wants toys and snacks and to watch cartoons. She wants to race and hide. At one point she runs ahead and the crowd around the amusement park swallows her up. My heart drops. I run after her. The world is loud. I spot a man edging too close. He looks like the kind that remembers the smell of small children and thinks it invites him.
"Karsyn!" I shout.
He reaches for her. I shove his arm and bite hard into his hand. He curses and stumbles. I am so small, but I will not let anyone take her. The man snarls.
Cedar arrives in one stride and snatches me up like a sail.
"You're stupid," he tells me between his teeth when we hide behind a candy stall.
"I saved her," I say.
"You did," he replies. He pulls me close until my breath is on his neck. "Just don't do it alone."
The words are sharp and tender.
Karsyn wraps her small arms around my neck and says, "You're my hero."
I laugh, and Cedar's shoulders relax enough for me to see the hidden worry on his face.
Later that day, when we are back at the apartment, he cleans my small bite with careful fingers and says, "You do not have to be a hero alone. I can be one with you."
"Like a team?"
"Like a team."
I rest my head on his shoulder because I want to. He doesn't protest.
*
Time moves forward and it feels like it is carrying something else with it. One night as rain hits the window in a steady drum, I find myself telling him things I never said. "I like Sadie," I confess. "Her voice is like—"
"A good voice," he says.
"Yeah." I can't even finish with anything witty.
He smiles and ruffles my hair. "She must be good."
We keep each other safe in all sorts of small ways. He explains algebra and the best way to hide from a class bully. I teach him how to make a paper crane and how to say the chorus of some silly song in a language he pretends to hate.
One evening we get into a fight about nothing.
"You always tuck my shirt in wrong," he complains.
"You make my bag smell like game controllers," I shoot back.
He looks at me and then steps very close. He says, "Stop. Stop fighting."
I freeze. The air hums.
"Marie," he whispers. His voice is everything and nothing. "Don't make me leave."
I step forward until I'm almost on tiptoe. I touch his cheek with the flat of my hand. His skin is warm and alive. He breathes.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
He breathes too. "It would be easier to pretend we are just housemates," he says. "Easier to be rude, to make jokes, to be cold. Easier to not care."
"Is it not easier now?" I ask.
He closes his eyes. "No," he says. "No, it's not easier. Because when you cough, when you cry, when you laugh at the stupidest jokes, you take pieces out of me I can't find after. So leaving isn't easier. It's a kind of violence I won't do."
My throat tightens. I feel like I might float off.
"Marie," he says again. "I care. Not just the way I'd care for a little sister. I care because you're you. I don't know how to explain the rest. I only know I don't want to lose it."
My head spins. Those words are thin and huge at once. They feel like a cliff and a pillow both.
"Do you mean—" I try to ask.
He grabs my hand. "Don't ask me to name it," he says. "I don't have the words to make it safe. But I'm here."
"Is that— are you saying—"
"Stop," he whispers. "Let's not put names on things that might break them. For now, we keep what we are. We protect each other. And we don't let anything mean keep you from being a person."
"But—"
"I said stop," he says, not harsh but firm. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise," I whisper.
He pulls me into a hug like the world could fall and the hug would hold it.
I press my face into his chest and think about how forever isn't a word for now. I think about how present is enough and how it feels when someone's heart beats the same tempo as mine.
"Good," he says. "Now we're done with heavy talk. Go sleep."
I fall asleep with his hand on my back, like a map.
*
Winter slides in. My parents call from far away and promise they will come back soon. The vacation is close. I start to hope that after they return, maybe things will shift into some normal box and not feel like an open wound and a secret at the same time.
But a promise is just a promise. One night, after a small fight about nothing, Cedar sits me on the balcony and says, "You can't keep avoiding the world."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I mean," he says slowly. "You have to learn to be brave on your own too. I'm here, but you have to know how to stand when I'm not right by your side."
"Like on the court," I say. "Like the time I pushed the boy."
"Exactly," he replies. "And like the time you bit that creep." He makes a face as if remembering the bite. "Also, good bite."
I scowl. "You can be gross sometimes."
"Only when you need to be."
I want him to promise he will always be there. He will not give that. He says, "I will be there as long as I can. As long as you need me. But there will be people who won't stay. Learn to stand so when they go, you don't fall."
"Will you go?" I ask, because fear is honest.
He looks at me and his jaw tightens.
"I won't go on purpose," he says. "But life—" He swallows. "It has its own ideas. I can't promise forever."
The balcony quiets. The street lamps make soft circles. I hold his hand for a long time like a ritual.
"I'll train then," I say. "I'll learn so you don't have to worry."
He tilts his head and studies me. "You silly kid," he says, but his lips curve into a smile.
*
The last day of my stay is sunlit and loud with farewells. My parents arrive and the apartment swells with luggage and new voices. Josefina hugs me until my ribs remind me that breathing is a thing I must do. My mother's face is tired but bright with home. My father jokes and fails to carry all the bags.
"Thank you," my mother says to Josefina. "For everything."
Josefina shakes her head. "You two have to come back soon," she says, tugging at me. "Marie has gotten used to this place."
"I have," I say.
Cedar stands awkwardly with a small box in his hand. He hands me a folded letter and a wrapped package.
"For the train," he says.
"Just take it," my father says quickly. "You're a star. Keep the boy out of trouble."
Cedar gives me a quick nod. "You be safe," he tells me. He pauses like he has rehearsed this and then spoken the wrong line. He clears his throat. "Call me if you get lost."
"I will," I promise.
My mother pulls me into a hug and whispers, "Take care."
On the platform, I hold the small package his fingers pressed my palm. Inside is a shirt with a small note tucked in.
"Marie," it reads in his handwriting. "Don't bite strangers. Love, Cedar."
I laugh and cry at the same time.
"Bye, brother," I say.
He steps forward and hugs me. It's a hug that tastes like all the days that came before—safe, warm, complicated.
When the train pulls away, he keeps waving until the station is a blur. I press my face to the window and watch him shrink into the city.
"Call me once you get home," he says into the phone, even though I am sitting across and can see him.
"I will," I promise. "I will write sometimes."
"You better," he says. "I don't like missing your voice."
"You'll survive," I say.
"I hope not," he replies.
*
Two years pass like pages in a book. We write. We visit. Cedar goes off to college finally and I start high school in a city that feels like home now. Our calls grow into something like old threads. He messages me before exams. I respond with pictures of my lunches. We tease each other the way proper siblings do, and sometimes we don't. Sometimes we talk for hours about life and choices and how the world is more complicated than we thought.
One late summer night, I find myself on his doorstep again. It is past midnight. I had missed my bus and something inside me wanted the old safe hand and the old guard. Cedar answers the door with sleep in his eyes and coffee breath and the same messy hair.
"You're a ghost," he says.
"I missed home," I tell him.
He shakes his head. "You're here. Come in."
We sit on his small couch like old conspirators. The city hums outside. He looks at me for a long time and finally says, "Do you remember the mall?"
"Yes," I say.
"The man?"
"He tried to grab me," I whisper.
"I'm sorry he did that," he says. "I'm sorry you had to be brave on your own."
"You're not always on my side," I tell him bluntly.
He looks surprised. "I try."
"That's not the point. You were there when I needed you most. I never forgot that."
He reaches and takes my hand. It is familiar and new at once.
"Marie," he says carefully, "I don't want to be a thing that complicates your life."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
He searches my face as if reading a map. "I mean that I care. Very much. And I don't think I fit cleanly into any box. I know you are young and your life is only starting. I can't promise I know what will come. But—I don't want to hide that you matter."
My throat tightens. His words are a warm tide that rises and doesn't drown me.
"Do you mean—?" I begin.
He cups my face with the gentlest hand I've known. His thumb strokes my cheek. "I mean I care for you in ways that are more than family," he says. "But I also know how dangerous that is. You are just coming into yourself. I won't rush you. I won't make you my secret or my mistake."
I listen to him and my whole body wants to say yes and run and fall.
He leans in and time seems to freeze. His forehead rests against mine. He breathes so close that we share the same air.
"Promise me one thing," he whispers.
"What?" I ask.
"Promise me you'll live like you are worth it. Promise me you'll never shrink. Promise me you'll always fight when you must and rest when you need."
"I promise," I answer. My voice breaks in a way that feels honest.
He smiles, a soft curve. "Good."
He presses his lips to my forehead in a light, quick kiss—only a whisper of contact—and then he pulls back as if we both agreed to keep daylight intact.
"Goodnight," he says.
"Night," I answer.
He walks me to the bus stop. When I wave goodbye, he raises his hand until I am out of view. The city hums and I think of everything heavy and everything light. His hands had kept me for years. Now his lips had given me a blessing I was not sure I deserved.
I step onto the bus and clutch the small shirt folded into my bag. Cedar had not named what he is, and I had not named what I am. But we both stayed honest. When I sleep that night, I feel safe and oddly brave.
*
Months pass. We remain apart for stretches but close in small acts. We protect each other. We learn to be honest without breaking each other. He never pushes me. He never asks me to define the edges of what we are. He just stays.
One rainy evening, he shows up at my school gate with a paper umbrella and a grin that lights up the gray.
"Looks like you need rescuing," he says.
"I can walk," I say.
"Maybe," he says, "but you shouldn't have to."
I take his hand. It fits as if it had been made for me. I laugh.
"You're impossible," I tell him.
He shrugs and pulls the umbrella so it covers my head and his. "Someone has to be," he says.
We walk home under one small umbrella, sharing the dry spot and the quiet. The city is slick and bright and different than before. The world still moves, and one day we will have to name the line between brother and more. But for now, we walk on the same side of the street.
"Will you wait?" I ask him when the lamp light makes a puddle look like a glass mirror.
He looks down at me like I have asked him to be the moon.
"I will wait," he says. "I will be here. But not like a cage. Like a door. When you're ready, you can open it."
I smile and squeeze his hand. "And if I'm not ready?"
"Then we'll keep walking together as we always have," he says. "And maybe one day, we'll rediscover what we meant without breaking what we had."
We step into the light, our shadows long and leaning toward each other. He squeezes my fingers and I feel steady.
"Come on," he says. "The rain's getting colder."
"Okay," I say.
We walk, shoulder to shoulder, the city around us full of other lives and other lines, both invisible and very clear. My heart is full of a thousand small mercies: his rough jokes, his quiet hold, a forehead kiss that was gentle and true. I do not know what the future holds. I only know I am not alone.
"Follow me," he says, a smile in his voice.
"I will," I answer, and I do.
The End
— Thank you for reading —