Page 19 of Gabriel's Salvation

“Nah, there’s fuck all on. What's up?” Gabe asks as he offers me a beer from the cooler beside him.

“No, thanks, I don't drink,” I reply, the way I have so many times before. But rather than the approving nod or ‘if you say so’ shrug I usually get, I'm met with what seems like anger. What the fuck is this about? Is he really angry that I don’t want a beer?

“What do you mean you don't fucking drink? Like legally or at all? Because it makes no difference to me that you're only eighteen, I'm not trying to bust your ass over a number.” Gabe laughs.

“No Gabe, it's got nothing to do with my age, I just choose not to drink.”

“What? Never or just before noon?” he quizzes

“Ever, like I don't drink at all.” I clarify, crossing my arms. What the fuck is his problem? Why is he so mad?

“Is something the matter? Are you like dying or on medication or something?” Gabe asks, sounding genuinely horrified.

“No,” I laugh. “ I just don't drink. I choose not to.”

“Why?” he gasps as though I just told him something that is utterly horrifying to him.

“Take a look around Gabe. Ring any bells?” I ask, waving my arms. He looks around but still doesn't seem to be getting it. “Our father was an alcoholic, Gabe. He had problems his whole life with the shit and from what he told us about his father, he probably had problems with alcohol, too. It's not worth the risk.” Gabe flinches like I physically punched him.

“Well I drink, all the time, in fact. Doesn't mean I'm an alcoholic,'' Gabe tries to argue, sounding very defensive. I look past him and into the cooler. I notice at least four if not five of the beers are missing.

“Gabe it’s…” I say looking at my watch, “quarter past eleven in the morning, we didn't get back from the airport until just past eight, and it looks like you're already on your fourth beer.”

“Who the fuck are you to judge? A man’s allowed a beer in his own backyard to unwind, you know.” he snaps back defensively. I could feel his anger and something else, perhaps shame, radiating off of Gabe.

“Anyway, I'm going out, I feel like I need a walk to clear my mind. I'll be back later.” I say.

“Wait, I've made plans for us. We’re meeting some girls at six.” Gabe says, looking towards me.

“Gabe, I'm not interested in girls.” Gabe looks at me with confusion written across his face.

“Not like that, I am interested in girls. I just meant I'm not interested in meeting random girls.”

“Oh good… not that I wouldn’t still love ya if you were interested in dudes. Like, it would be weird as fuck, but I’d still love ya,” he stutters, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Good to know I guess” I laugh back, enjoying seeing my usually cocky brother, flustered.

“Anyways, as I said, I'm heading out.”

“Come on, I already told them we’d meet them,” Gabe begs.

“Fine, I'll be back before six then. Friends only, though,” I say, giving him my best ‘I mean it’ face.

“Deal,” he agrees, nodding his head.

I leave our yard and make my way towards the woods. It all seems so different, yet oddly familiar. I head through the woods, past the tall trees with a very clear destination in mind. I continue walking until I see it. The cabin. My real home away from hell growing up. My legs begin running like they've got a mind of their own till I reach the wraparound porch. Running up to the door I knock as hard as I can, begging and praying that by some miracle, since it’s summer break, she’ll be there. Disappointment fills me but not surprisingly, there's no answer. I make my way around, peering in the window. Looking for some sign of life inside. But I see nothing to indicate anyone is even staying there.

I slump down onto the decking and sit, reminiscing about all the other times I was here. I envision me and Bella playing hide and seek around the trees just in front of me. Then I remember how we used to play games and draw right here on the deck. I wonder… I crawl around the decking looking, until I spot it. Our handprint. I chuckle to myself remembering the time her pops was varnishing the wood and Bella accidentally put her hand in it. She was so worried they would get mad that I decided to put my hand in it too, so that if they found it they'd realize the mark belonged to me instead of her. But of course, I did it wrong. Instead, we ended up with some strange seven fingered hand print. I can't believe after all these years it's still here.

I can't believe her pops never painted over it. Her pops. I suddenly remembered. He worked at the Ranger’s station, I wonder if he's still there.

I make my way there, knock on the door and am greeted by a guy who looks barely in his thirties. “Hey, I'm looking for Mr. Williams, erm George, I think. . .” I say desperately hoping I got the name right.

“Sorry kid, I don't know him,” the guy answers.

“Ignore the newbie, he's barely out of diapers,” a voice from inside calls.

“What do you want with George?” the older man asks.

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