Chapter 33

33

Troy

Isit in my car, parked alongside the hibachi grill where Brandon and I agreed to meet. It’s between campus and Mom and Glen’s, so only a twenty-minute drive. I made reservations for seven, but I was so excited about the possibility of seeing him again, I got here at six thirty. I play around on my phone a bit when I notice another car pull in, three spots from me. A guy with dishwater-blond hair gets out. I know that hair; he gets it from Mom’s side. He walks toward the restaurant entrance, and I hop out to greet him.

When his gaze turns to me, a tear shifts in my eye. “Brand!”

His eyes light up in that familiar way as he pulls his hands out of his jacket pockets and hurries to me. “Come here, bud!”

He hooks his arms around me for a firm hug, the sort he used to give me plenty of back when we were kids. He even tries to pick me up off the ground like he would’ve back then, and says, “God, you’re heavy.”

I laugh as I hold him tight. Don’t let go. I don’t ever want to let him go.

He pulls away first. I accept that I’ve already clung on too long, and as I pull back, I’m caught off guard. It must’ve been my excitement, or some trick of the mind, but when I first saw him, I hadn’t noticed how he looked. Thin. Sunken-in cheeks. Bags under his eyes. His hair’s all over the place. His jacket’s faded, with tears along the seams. And there’s an odor like he hasn’t washed in days.

It all grounds me firmly back to reality. Makes me question this new job and the help I already had suspicions about.

But it’s still Brandon. That’s all that matters.

“Come on,” I say. “We’re a little early, but we can see if they have any seating for us.” I place my hand on his back and start toward the entrance, but he doesn’t come with me. As I turn to him, his expression twists up.

Something’s wrong. What’s wrong?

My gaze shifts to the car he got out of, and I notice another person—a woman, looks around his age—sitting in the passenger seat. A girlfriend?

For a second, I’m disappointed it won’t be just the two of us, but why is she still sitting in the car? Something isn’t adding up. I have a bad feeling about it, but maybe if I pretend this is all totally normal, I won’t scare him off.

God, just don’t scare him off.

His shoulders tense up as he notices where I’m looking, and I say, “Did you invite someone else? I’m sure we can get an extra seat, even if we have to wait a bit.”

“Troy, that’s not what it is, bud. I wasn’t thinking when I said seven. Realized I had somewhere I have to be tonight, but I really wanted to see you, so I figured I’d swing by at least.”

What little hope I had for tonight is already fading. He brought someone with him, and now he can’t even stay? Surely, he must know none of this sounds normal.

“This your ride?” He approaches my car and sets his hand on the hood. “Nice. You mind if we have a quick chat in here before I go?”

Another thing that’s not normal, but I’m at his mercy since I know he could flee with his mystery friend at any moment.

“Yeah, we can do that,” I say, unable to disguise my disappointment. I slide into the driver’s seat and unlock his door. He gets into the passenger side and closes the door, assessing the inside.

“This is like, really clean,” he says.

“Um…yeah.”

Not the conversation I thought we’d be having.

“Is it new?”

“2018, but runs really good.”

“Nice, nice.” He says that like he doesn’t really give a damn about my car. Not like the guy who used to really give a fuck about my life. Who listened to me ramble on about my school day. Who cheered me on through all my middle school football games.

The way his hand trembles against the console, his gaze flitting around as if chasing a fly, gives me the sense that something’s wrong here. Really wrong.

“Brandon, are you okay?”

He refocuses his attention on me. “I’m fine, bud. I got a lot going on with the new job. And I told you, I’m getting help now.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I say, though I don’t believe it. “Your friend. Is that your girlfriend?”

“Sure, yeah. Been seeing her for about a year.”

Tension rises within me, but despite how fucking weird he’s acting and how uneasy I am, I try to keep in mind all those things I saw online about how to manage this interaction if I ever had a chance: focus on good memories, listen, don’t judge, firm boundaries, and safety first.

This is my chance. And there might not be another.

“I went to this Halloween party a while back, and I thought of you,” I say. “About when we were kids and used to get dressed up. Remember that year you went as Michael Myers? How it made me freak out every time you’d jump out to scare me?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I remember that, little man. Remember going back to the house and counting all the candy, and you didn’t like the Milky Ways, so you’d swap me for my Snickers.”

We’re both smiling.

“You still playing football?” he asks—a reminder of just how long he’s been gone.

“No. That injury I had, I didn’t recover that quickly, so I wound up focusing on school and getting a job senior year.”

“I’m sorry, bud. I know that meant everything to you. Life really has a way of kicking you in the balls, doesn’t it?”

I can tell he’s not talking about me, and it just shows how little he knows the man I’ve become. “A lot of people think that, like it was some great failure in my life, but it actually worked out really well. I see the guys who made the team, and they’re so busy with that, they don’t have time for much else, while I get to hang with friends and work as a mechanic—”

“A mechanic? Really?”

“Yeah, for a few years now. I really enjoy it.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. I’m glad things are working out for you.” The smile on his face, the sparkle in his eyes, he does look really happy for me, and it’s nice to share things with him again…to look into his eyes and pretend we can simply pick up where we left off.

“I’ve missed you,” I confess. “You should text me sometime, and we can go fishing…or camping.”

He smirks. “Makes me think of those camping trips Dad took us on when we were kids. Fishing, s’mores, ghost stories…” His lips quiver, and that smirk shifts into a frown. He turns away. “On second thought, I’d rather not talk about the past.”

“We don’t have to,” I say, fearing that I had him, but now he’s slipping away again.

Silence—a long, uncomfortable silence before I finally find something I consider safe and that I think will make him happy for me. “I’m dating someone.”

His smile returns.

There he is again.

“Yeah?”

I want to tell him more, but I’d have to share that he’s Glen’s kid, and that might not go over well. Not in our first convo.

“He’s a great guy. You’d really like him.”

“He makes you happy?”

“He does.”

“Good. Nothing I want more than to see my little bro happy.” He says the words like it’s from a script, and again, I’m thrown. “You know, that help I’m getting, it’s not cheap,” he says, as though my comment about Atlas effortlessly segued into this. “I’m barely making rent since I started this new job, so I was gonna see if you could maybe spot me.”

My heart sinks.

Money? Is that what this was about? Again?

I’m not sure what upsets me more: that I convinced myself it wouldn’t be that, or that I knew in my heart it had to be.

He makes eye contact but struggles to maintain it. “I can pay you back in a few months, once I get going, but I’m paid biweekly, so the check takes a while.”

“What kind of work are you doing?”

His head tilts, like he has to think about it. “Waiting tables. There’s a Cheesecake Factory near my place. Keeps really busy and great tips.”

No Cheesecake Factory is letting a guy who looks and smells like this around customers. He’s lying to me. My brother’s fucking lying to me. Again.

His eyes widen, and he offers a friendly smile—the face he’d make when he was telling a fib when we were kids. Has he forgotten how well I know him?

“Troy, come on. I just need a little to hold me over for a bit.”

“How much?”

“Two K.”

“Two thousand dollars?” I can’t disguise my shock.

“Yeah. That’s what two K is.”

What an asshole thing to say. It’s hard to believe my brother is acting like such a fucking dick about this, and between the change in plans and his attitude, I’m getting really on edge.

“That’s a lot of money, Brandon.”

He cringes. “You have a job, right? Everything’s good. And Mom’s with that rich guy, so you can get money from him.”

My stomach clenches. “I would never ask Glen for money.”

“Well, that seems like a waste,” he says with a creepy snicker.

I’m disgusted by what I’m hearing. This isn’t the guy I remember. This isn’t the guy I love. But even in this short conversation, there have been flashes of him. I have to believe he’s somewhere in there. I need to believe it.

“Troy, I need this money.” As his hand shakes against the console, I already know why he needs it. It kills me to know he’s in pain right now, surely from withdrawal, but I know what I have to do.

“I can’t help you with that,” I say, speaking the words like slicing a blade into my arm.

“What?”

Fuck, I want to just Venmo him the money. I want to give him every penny in my checking account. I can earn it all back. But I remember what it felt like after I gave him money before. The guilt. The shame of knowing what I gave him was just going to hurt him even more. I can’t do that to either of us again.

I have to force the words out, but I finally manage, “I’m not giving you any more money, Brandon.”

“Any more? This about that money you loaned me a few years ago? I can pay that back once I get going. I need this to get my life started. I don’t have anything. We’re sleeping on an air mattress in my friend’s place.”

Firm boundaries, I remind myself, before saying, “I can’t help you.”

He stares at me in disbelief. His jaw tightens up. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this. We’re brothers. I would help you if you needed anything.”

I bite my tongue, wishing I could say, When have you been there for me the past seven years of my life?

But his disbelief turns quickly, his chin quivering. Even as tears stir in his eyes, they don’t feel sincere. “Troy, please. I really need your help right now. Things aren’t good, and I’m really struggling.”

I turn away from him. Even when his tears feel like a sick manipulation, it’s too hard. I have to be fucking strong. I have to get this right. I take a measured breath. “How about you let Mom and me get you some help, then. There are programs now with this drug called buprenorphine. It helps make withdrawals easier. There’s a lot of science behind its effectiveness, and Glen’s got plenty of contacts, so I’m sure he could get you into one of those.”

“No, no, no,” Brandon says, raising his arms like he’s about to cover his ears. His tone is sharp, hostile. “I’m getting the help I need, and I don’t want to talk about this. I need a little money. And I thought I could count on you, but are you saying you refuse to help me?”

“I want to help you, but not in the way you want me to.”

“What the hell, Troy?” Considering the waterworks show just moments earlier, now his face is red, his expression twisted up. He’s fucking livid. He shouts, “You’ve been living in a fucking McMansion with that guy who’s loaded for all these years. I’ve been living in an apartment with five people and no fucking AC or heat. Why won’t you do this for me?”

I wish I could say I never heard him yell at me like this before, but it reminds me of those final years. The shouting, not just at me, but at Mom.

It’s tearing my heart apart, but I force myself to say, “I love you, Brandon. But I’m not giving you any money.”

His chin quivers again, and now we’re back to tears. “Come on, Troy. Just this one time. I promise it’ll be the last.”

And I fear it might be, but not for the reason he’s suggesting.

“Don’t you care about me?” he asks. “Your big bro?”

I don’t know what he thought those words would elicit, but it’s rage. Rage at a world that lets this happen to people like him. Rage at his addiction for destroying the man I remember. Rage at Brandon for trying to use me. I’m so mad that it surprises me when a tear escapes my eye and runs down my cheek. His betrayal sears through me, stirring all my pain, anger, and resentment. It’s an ache over a broken promise, and it pushes words out like a weapon: “It’s just you and me, right?” I choke on the words as they escape my mouth; angry as I am, I can’t mask the pain of the kid who believed him.

I look him directly in the eyes, and his expression relaxes. For the first time since we started talking, the shifting tears in his eyes appear sincere.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I see something shift in him a moment before his hands cover his ears and he howls, not like a man, but like a fucking animal. It’s as if I hadn’t just said words, but doused him in scalding hot water. I know like I know my own heart that my comment was a mirror, granting him a glimpse of a reflection he couldn’t bear—the part that knows he did to me what Dad did to us.

He reaches for the door handle.

No, no, no! Don’t let him leave!

I lunge across the console and snatch the handle before he gets it. “Brandon, just wait. I’m sorry.”

“Let me go, Troy. I have to go!” He wrestles with my hand, fighting for control.

“No, please. Just stay with me, Brandon. I’m sorry. We can fix this. We can get you help. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“You don’t want me here. Just let me go.”

He pries at my fingers, and I swear he’s gonna have to cut them off to get out of this car.

I know this isn’t the right thing to do. Sure as fuck not thinking about safety now, but I’m desperate, and I’ll do anything not to lose him again.

“I do want you, Brandon. I need you in my life. Mom needs you. Please. I love you. I want to be here for you. Don’t leave me again.” My pleas aren’t like the man I’ve become, but like those of a child begging not to be abandoned once again.

“Get. Off. Me!” He flies into a fit, thrashing about until I feel his shoe on the side of my head. There’s a thud, and then, “I’m so sorry, Troy.”

My body’s slung over the console, my face against the dashboard, which my head must’ve ricocheted off of when he kicked it. But I don’t have time to think about that. He’s going. He’s fucking leaving!

I crawl from the seat, out the door, which he left open. Soon, I’m racing across the sidewalk alongside the restaurant, but the car Brandon came in peels out.

“I’m so…fucking sorry…Troy,” I hear between sobs before the car jets forward.

And just like that, he’s gone.

He’s fucking gone. Again.

Taking deep breaths as I recover from the confrontation, I head over to the restaurant and lean against the brick wall. My head hurts, but my body’s aching with a pain that’s much worse than anything he did to me physically.

That might have been my last chance, and I fucked this up. I fucked it all up.

I curse, balling my hand into a fist and smashing it into the wall.