33. Reed

33

Reed

“ H e hasn’t answered his phone in two days,” Lettie said on the other end of the line as I drove toward Beckham’s place. Her voice was rough from getting over the flu. Bailey was already better, but Lettie’s immune system always took a little more of a hit due to her anemia.

“Did you call anyone else?” I asked, keeping my focus on the road through the downpour.

“Just you.”

Despite her being sick herself, Lettie worried about her brothers just as much as we worried about her, so when Beckham wasn’t answering her texts, concern grew in her gut like a weed on a spring day. I already felt bad they’d gotten sick. They were meant to be on their honeymoon this week, but they had to postpone it until they felt better.

“I can go check myself. I don’t want to bother you—” she started.

“No. It’s fine. I’ll just swing by on my way back from the feed store.” I paused to let her respond, then thought better of it. She was resting at home. Last thing she needed to be doing right now was worrying about her family. “I’ll text you an update. Now quit worrying and watch some gossip show or something. I don’t need Bailey showin’ up to the ranch this week all pissy because he’s worried about you.” I knew the feeling all too well.

“I don’t think he’s the grump we have to worry about,” she mumbled. “Thanks, Reed.”

“Yep.” I hung up the phone, tossing it in the cup holder as I turned toward Beckham’s double-wide. Pulling up the driveway, I shifted into park and killed the engine, adjusting the brim of my hat before getting out and shutting the door behind me. I walked up the muddy gravel path to his porch, climbing the few steps before pounding a fist on the door loud enough to be heard over the rain.

I waited a moment before knocking again, and seconds later, the door swung in. I didn’t wait for him to invite me in as I shoved past him, choosing not to acknowledge the beard he was growing and the trash littering every countertop.

“Lettie’s worried about you,” I stated, eyeing the mess of his house. What the fuck was he doing with all his spare time to be okay with his place looking like this?

The door clicked shut, and I turned to face him, taking in his messed up hair, stained t-shirt, and baggy sweatpants.

“Don’t know why,” he grumbled, moving to the kitchen. “Beer?”

“It’s eight a.m.,” I replied as he opened the fridge and ducked his head inside.

He reemerged, beer in hand, and shrugged. “Five o’clock somewhere, right?”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” He had our mom concerned, and now our sister. Before we knew it, the whole goddamn town would be on his case.

He popped the tab on his beer, taking a swig. “Don’t need people worrying about me, if you couldn’t guess as much.”

“That’s real fucking clear, Beck. But naturally, when you act like you don’t give a shit about yourself, people are going to fucking care.”

He leaned back against the counter, drawing my attention to the beer cans lined up behind him.

“Are you drunk?” I asked, taking a step forward.

He took another casual sip of his beer. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

If defensive was how he wanted to be, maybe that’d get him to open up. Talk about whatever the fuck was going on with him. This closed-off broody shit wasn’t working.

“Yeah, that’s real mature. Rotting away at home, getting wasted every damn day. Do you even see the state of this place? It’s a fucking mess.”

He shrugged again, eyeing the space as if he was seeing it for the first time. “Ain’t too bad.”

“Are you depressed or some shit?” If emotions were what he was battling with, he needed to talk to Callan. I wasn’t anyone’s first choice to be their therapist. I could get Brandy to open up, but my brother? There was a reason siblings didn’t always get along, and ninety-nine percent of the time, it was because of fucking emotions. That’s why I never talked about mine with them. Fuck, half the time, I didn’t know what the fuck I was feeling to begin with. To try and voice it would be a goddamn shit show. I didn’t need my brothers witnessing that.

Beckham simply stared at me, looking bored, as if he couldn’t wait for me to get the fuck out of here so he could go back to chugging beers and passing out on the couch alone.

What the fuck would make him quit this act? Snap out of whatever mood he was stuck in for good?

He didn’t have a dog, a best friend, a girl—

Or did he?

There was only one way to find out.

“Man, Parker would fucking love to see you like this,” I muttered.

I knew bringing her up was a line I shouldn’t have crossed, and yet, for some fucking reason, I didn’t expect the punch or the pain that stung after. My head snapped to the side, Beckham’s fist connecting with my jaw with a loud pop . My teeth vibrated in my skull, the metallic tang of blood coating my mouth. My tongue slipped out to run along my lower lip as I stared at the wall, barely moving.

It wasn’t the first time a Bronson brother got physical with another. Hell, we all had our fights growing up. It’d just been a while. But now I had an idea of what might be bothering him. Or at least, that he hadn’t let that girl go.

My fingers ran along my jaw, dabbing at the liquid on my bottom lip. Pulling my hand away, I stared at the blood before wiping it on my jeans and shaking my head.

“Whatever you’ve got going on, Beck, I don’t need to know. But you have a lot of people worried, and you might think whatever this is is killing you, but think about what it’s doing to them. And now what it’s done to us.” My eyes fell to the ground. “This isn’t you. I know that, you know that. So find some way to cope that doesn’t involve digging your own grave.”

I looked at him, but he refused to meet my gaze as he stared at the kitchen floor. Regret shone clear in the way he stood, but I wouldn’t get an apology. Hell, I didn’t need one. I would’ve done the same if someone had brought Brandy up in that way. Unfortunately for the both of us, that just meant we cared about them. And for Beckham, sometimes that care was wilting. It consumed him the same way it did our brother, Callan. Difference was, Callan wouldn’t let himself waste away over it. Beckham was just overly sensitive in some topics, but I couldn’t change that.

I could be there for him like our mom said. Wait for him to open up and not force it out of him. But that wasn’t like me. And this wasn’t like Beckham. The fact of the matter was—nothing was going to change here. Not today, not tomorrow, and likely not next week.

So after this, I’d drop it. My family could put the burden on me all they wanted, but Beckham wasn’t mine to take care of. I loved him because he was my brother, but that didn’t equip me with the mental tools to change who I was because he was struggling. Whatever was going on with him would have to be solved at the source, and his problem didn’t include me.

Without another word, I turned and left, leaving him standing in the kitchen to think about all of this.

Maybe punching his brother was what he needed to snap out of it, or maybe I only made it worse. Whatever it was, I got a reaction out of him instead of a shrug or a grunt.

That had to count for something.