1. Matthew

1

MATTHEW

EIGHT YEARS AGO

" H e's asking for you."

I look up from my sketch pad at my mother, startled out of my concentration zone, hyper focused on my drawing of the sleeping woman on the other side of the hospital waiting room. "Why me?"

Her frosted blonde hair is coming out of its bun, and the circles under her eyes match mine. "I don't know, Matthew. But can you please…? Just… Help us get him home."

"Uh…yeah." I stand up, and she snatches away my sketch pad and charcoal pencil, taking the seat I abandoned. "You're not coming?"

"He doesn't want me. I told you."

She didn't, but okay. I wipe my blackened fingers on my jeans and head toward the doors leading to the hall where Fischer's hospital room is. I came along today mostly for moral support, I thought, maybe for the occasional heavier lift, but I didn't figure they'd need my services getting my brother out of his room.

He's been in the hospital for over two weeks now. His second surgery was only four days ago. They reconstructed his femur from the inside with a rod, plates and nails, which sounds like a horrorshow and definitely something that requires more than four days recovery in the hospital, but I guess this is all he gets.

I knock on the door, apprehensive. Fischer's never asked me for anything. More often than not, he doesn't remember I exist.

"Come in, Matty." His sharp, barked out words only make the swirling ball of anxiety in my stomach more nauseating. I take a deep breath and open the door.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his hospital gown. His hair is an even bigger mess than Mom's. The dark blonde curls might even be matted, they look so bad.

He's glaring at me. Gray-green eyes so light they remind me of mirrors focus on me with pure impatience. Or frustration. Who knows? He might be my brother, but the truth is, he's thirteen years older than me and basically a stranger. "How can I help?"

"I need to get dressed. I can't walk out of here in this."

Yeah, I can see why he wouldn't want Mom's help with that. I spot the bag of clothes our mom brought on the edge of his bed, and I approach it, keeping my eyes off him. I have a tendency to stare, and he's probably feeling self-conscious enough already.

The outfit my mom brought is simple enough. A t-shirt, sweatshirt, and sweatpants. Some lightweight wool socks and a pair of Nikes.

As I pull out the clothes, he unties his gown at the neck, letting it slide off his arms and pool on his lap. He takes the shirt from me when I hand it to him and pulls it over his head, quickly covering his undamaged chest. The sweatshirt is next, which he also manages on his own. I have to assume what he needs help with is the lower half since that's where he took the blast.

For the last three months, Fischer's been reporting from overseas in Afghanistan. A few weeks ago, he was a near casualty of a suicide bomber. Debris and shrapnel shattered his leg and did some serious damage to his flesh. While none of his injuries were life threatening, they made a mess of him. There'd been talk of amputation, or so I heard, but the only thing he ended up losing, to my knowledge, was a testicle.

Hence, the catheter sticking out of his dick attached to a bag of urine strapped to his good leg. The other leg, his left, is covered in bandages.

He grimaces when he sees the bag. "I need to empty this."

"Want me to call the nurse?"

"I don't get to take her home with me," he snaps. "Hand me that jug." He points at a clear plastic container on the bedside table, and I pass it over to him. He groans as he bends over to unscrew the drain on the bottom of the bag.

"I got it." Without waiting for permission, I'm on my knees, draining the bag into the container. He's breathing heavily above me, but I don't look up. I do however, note the fact that his scrotum is swollen and asymmetric with a line of stitches up the left side. It makes my balls twinge looking at it, and not in a good way. Fuck, that has to hurt. No wonder he's snippy.

"Thank you," he says tightly when I'm finished.

I don't respond. Picking up the sweatpants, I ease them over his feet, up his calves, and his lower thighs, careful not to touch anything bandaged. When I get to the point where he'll either have to stand up or at least lift his hips, I stop. "How do you want this to work?"

"They said I should bear weight," he mumbles. "Supposed to help the healing process."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

His dark laugh is vaguely chilling. "Yeah. It fucking hurts." Without another word, he puts a hand on my shoulder, leveraging himself off the bed, mainly on his good leg. As quickly as I can, because he's groaning again, I pull the pants up over his catheter bag and his hips.

"This is so fucking humiliating."

"It doesn't bother me," I assure him, grabbing his socks as he eases himself down to the mattress again, finally releasing my shoulder where the imprints of his fingertips feel like they'll leave bruises.

My nerves are slowly dissipating. He's not annoyed with me. It's the situation he doesn't like, and I can't blame him. Few people are as fiercely independent as my brother, so I get that asking for help isn't in his wheelhouse.

"You mind staying at the house a few days?" he asks.

"Uh…" I'm not expecting that. "Yeah, no, if it'll help."

"You don't have to work?"

"I can take a few days off." It's not like I'm out saving the world. I work at a hotel as a bellhop, and my boss loves me, so I'm sure she'll understand if I say I have a family emergency.

"Our parents are too old to have to deal with this," he says.

"They don't mind either, you know?"

"I do."

Fair enough. Our parents are in their mid-sixties. Depending on what all Fischer needs help with—and I can only assume it's going to involve bathroom activities—I can see why he wouldn't want our mom, or my dad with his bad back to have to do whatever needs doing.

Once his socks and shoes are on, I stand, looking down at him as he looks up at me. I can't get over the mess of his hair. "Want me to fix that?" I ask, pointing at it.

He attempts to run a hand through his matted curls and sighs in what sounds like defeat. "Sure. And if you have to shave it off, go ahead."

I cringe at the thought. I like his hair. It stands out, and it's hard to think of Fischer without thinking of his unruly waves.

It takes about twenty minutes with a shitty comb and my fingers, but I manage to unlock the mats. Then I get it wet and run my hands through it a few times.

"I can't wait to take a shower," he says, his eyes closed as he lets me lightly massage his scalp.

"Are you allowed to?"

"Not exactly. I can't get the bandages wet."

I take my hands off his head. "Maybe the nurse mom hires'll be cute."

"No," he says firmly.

"No?"

"I don't want a nurse. For two weeks I've had stranger's hands all over me, and I can't—look—I hate to ask you this, I know you've got a life and shit—it's just until the bandages come off, but if you could help out—I'll pay you."

I point at my chest. "Me?"

"Please."

" Please? "

My brain snags in a weird loop of sponge baths and scrotum stitches. The soundtrack is groans of pain when I inevitably hurt him because I don't have a fucking clue how not to.

"Forget it?—"

"No," I say suddenly, holding up my hand to stop him for pushing me away again . If this is the only way to have the big brother he systematically deprived me of for my entire life, I'll take it. Sponge baths and all. "I'm happy to help."

A flicker of vulnerability flashes across his face. It goes away fast, but still, he averts his gaze, his insecurity running so rampant, I feel it in my own chest. He waves a hand over his lower body. "This doesn't gross you out?"

"What's gross about it?" I ask. He got hit with a piece of concrete, among other things. Who'd expect that to look pretty?

His throat bobs, and I stop looking at his throat. I have kind of a thing for Adam's apples, and it's probably best not to notice Fischer has one. I get that he's my brother, but he's adopted, and he did everything he could to make sure I didn't think of him as my actual brother growing up by making himself as scarce as possible since the moment my sister and I were born. I know the guy who runs the deli near the hotel where I work better than I know this guy, which is to say hardly at all.

But I'll take the in. If I can make him feel welcome at home, maybe our mom can stop feeling like she screwed up with him by having biological children. Maybe he won't feel the need to run off to active war zones to make a living, and he'll settle down in the city to work.

Maybe I can rebuild the bridge back to our family he's been burning for as long as I can remember.

"All right," he says. "I appreciate it. I guess I'm ready to go, then." He hits the button on his call light and looks up at me. "Can you help me up?"

I squat, putting my hands on his hips, and I feel him flinch. "Is this okay?" I ask quickly.

"I'll get used to it." He places his hands on my shoulders.

Using my legs to bear both our body masses, I stand straight, and his body follows. He lets out a shuddering breath as he settles half his weight on his recently shattered leg.

A male nurse who looks younger than I am arrives with a wheelchair and immediately steps over to help Fischer into it. I pivot to step between them, careful not to jostle my brother. "I've got him," I tell the nurse, who takes a step away.

Fischer looks up at me, eyes full of relief and maybe even some gratitude. Like we've done this a million times, I help him into the chair, even going so far as to bend over to lift his left foot onto the pedal. As I rise to look him over and make sure I didn't hurt him, our eyes meet again.

He gives me a nod, and mouths a thank you . I smile. He reaches up to give my wrist a squeeze. It's so shocking, I struggle to take my next breath. Of all the people in the world he could pick do this, he's choosing me.

As we're wheeling out of the room and down the hall, I turn to the nurse. "So, is nursing school hard?"

Fischer's answering chuckle is the best thing I've ever heard.