Thirteen

He told me he broke it.

We were in the kitchen and he just said it,

like he'd been carrying it for a long time.

I was looking at his face.

It's a different face than the one I remember

making the promise with.

We were small then.

We were the kind of small where a pinky promise

felt like it would hold forever.

We swore we'd never tell

what happened that summer.

And we didn't.

We didn't tell anyone.

But he broke the promise anyway.

He told someone.

A friend. A girl.

Someone who mattered to him

more than the pact we made.

I should have been angry.

I thought I would be.

But I was just looking at this almost-adult person

who used to be my little brother,

who used to think that my pinky

was strong enough to bind him to something.

The summer we promised to keep secret

is still a secret.

He didn't tell them what it was.

Just that there was something.

And somehow that feels like the real betrayal.

Not that he broke the promise.

That he grew up and the promise

didn't matter anymore.