I was twenty-six when I finally understood how you can live in a house and still be invisible in it. My name’s Dax. For most of my life I believed that being quiet, dependable, and useful would eventually add up to love. It added up to convenience. Chase—two years older, louder by ten—could coast through a semester, dent a fender, break a rule, and still be “our little star.” I, apparently, was the roof patcher, the loan floater, the “could you grab milk on your way back?” Even when I got my fir