Page 17 of Bitter Truth

I roll my eyes, but don’t address his whole damn country comment.

“Doesn’t matter what your reputation is when you’re starting a new job,” I tell him. “You still have to show the boss that they made the right decision in hiring you.”

“That’s why you should be the boss. Open your own restaurant.”

I nibble on my lip. “Maybe someday.”

I don’t tell him that I doubt that dream will be one I’ll ever see come to fruition. That I fucked things up too bad for something like that to happen. The last thing I need to do is point out to my little brother all the ways I’ve screwed up. Not when he looks up to me like he does.

“Let me know when I can come see you,” he continues. “I want you to meet Mira.”

My eyebrows rise. “You met somebody?”

The way my brother laughs on the other end of the line ... I’ve never heard him laugh quite like that. Unabashedly would be the word to describe it.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping. “I met someone. And I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

I blink a few times. “If she’s special to you, I can’t wait to meet her as well.”

We talk for a few more minutes as he updates me about work. He’s an artist, my little brother, and he’s been pursuing his passion on the side while he works as a manager at a paint store. I can’t help but smile as I listen to him share about the educational programs he’s been putting together in conjunction with the community center.

He’s a good man. I’ve done my best to be there for him ... to help him as much and as often as possible so that he didn’t feel the sharp sting of life the way I have. Though I know it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough.

“Look, I gotta jet,” he tells me a little while later. “I’m meeting Mira and her friends for brunch in a little bit.”

“No, I got you. Head on out. Love you, Ash.”

“Love you, too.”

We hang up, and I stare at my phone for a long moment.

It blows my mind that neither of us are dead or crazy-addicted to drugs with the way we were raised. Better yet, I get to sit and listen to my brother talk about his life and his work like he does.

We’re fucking lucky.

So fucking lucky.

I might be trying to pick up the pieces of my life right now, but as long as my brother is happy and healthy, I don’t care what happens to me. Not really.

After my chat with Ash, I swap my sweats for running shorts, figuring now would be a good chance for me to get out some of my anxious energy. I’m not a huge runner, but when everything fell to shit at the end of last year, I started dealing with anxiety attacks.

I would walk around the city at night, the long blocks giving me the space and time to process my thoughts. Then a few months ago, I started running, and it became an important outlet for me to deal with my emotions.

I’m sure something like therapy might help a little bit more, and I’ll get there someday, but for now, I tell my stories to the road.

The midday sun pounds my shoulders for the entire four miles it takes to get from the vineyard into town, and I’m grateful when I make it all the way to Main Street.

I come to a stop outside of The Carlisle to catch my breath. I step into the alcove of the café’s backyard patio, tilting my face up and enjoying the sensation and coolness coming from the misters.

“Can I help you?”

I glance over at who I’m assuming is a server, since she’s holding an empty tray under her arm. Her eyes rove briefly over my shirtless, sweaty form.

“No, thanks,” I tell her, my chest still heaving. “Just need a sec.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just continues to watch me. It’s ... irritating.

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