Page 80 of Infinite

“Shut up, Carson,” Emer spits out. “Take a walk and sober up.”

Carson is three years older than me, and two more than Emer. For some reason I never figured out, Carson has always followed Emer’s lead. Carson is loud, boisterous. In the best of times, he was the life of the party. In the worst, he was obnoxious and the first to start a fight.

Emer is borderline mute. Born leaders don’t have to say much. They don’t have to beat their chests, demanding to be heard. The few words they speak just need to be the right ones for people to listen and understand this is who they need to follow.

Carson spits out a few curses under his breath, but ultimately obeys. He staggers forward, trying to shove past me by ramming me with his broad shoulder. He almost falls when I don’t budge. I don’t try to help him this time. I just watch him recover, struggling to come to terms with how much he hates me.

Ramming me with his shoulder is something he used to do all the time as a kid. He stopped doing it as much when he realized I was too fast, and regretted doing it altogether when I knocked him to the ground. Carson had four inches on me then. I think I have four on him now. But alcohol is like that. It gives you courage you shouldn’t have, and makes you stupid in ways that embarrass you. Not that I’m expecting Carson to be embarrassed anytime soon.

Me and Emer watch Carson stumble off. He doesn’t make it far, choosing to slump on the first step leading down to the reflection garden Daddy built for Momma. His beer slips from his grip and rolls with aclinkdown against the slate steps before it stops on the thick lawn.

“What are you doing here, Hale?” Emer asks.

It takes me a second to pull my attention away from Carson and the way he’s curled forward and swaying.

“I wanted to see y’all,” I admit. I don’t mention the mess I’m in. He’s probably heard and probably celebrated. I especially don’t mention the interviews Becca has conducted and how they brought up too many memories of a family I no longer see.

“Why? Missing Momma? Her letters?”

It’s a strange question he asks. It affects me all the same. Just like the trip down memory lane Becca takes me on every time the mic goes on and the camera rolls.

Momma was a bright woman. She knew the Internet, technology, and anything high-tech probably as much as the rest of us. But she always wrote letters by hand when she wanted to get our attention.

Rarely, it was because she was disappointed in something we’d done. More times, it was to tell us something personal following one of our accomplishments or something she was proud of that we’d said or done. It could be something as basic as a good grade we received in class or kindness she witnessed.

“Keep the letters,” she once told us, when Carson questioned why she didn’t just tell us how she felt. “When I’m gone, you’ll understand why I wrote them.”

It was the only time she’d mentioned writing them. For the most part, she’d leave them under our pillows, in our drawers, somewhere we’d find them.

“You have my letters?” I ask.

There’s only one thing that hit me harder than Momma’s death. It was realizing she’d never write me again. When I left for college, I didn’t take the letters with me. They’d still make an appearance every month, celebrating my achievements on the football field or congratulating me on making Dean’s List. Sometimes, they were just to talk about what was going on at home, how Daddy had received another few contracts or to gush about how her indoor plants were doing. Every time I came home, I’d place my new letters with the old ones in a box I kept on the floor of my bedroom closet.

When I left for New York a few months after graduation, I expected more letters, but they never came. Daddy got sick. He died. Then Momma followed him to heaven soon after.

The letters stopped long before I was ready to stop receiving them. It was like she said, I’d understand why she wrote them when she was gone.

“We have all the stuff you thought you were better off without,” Emer replies. “Including dem letters.”

I hate the way he says that. Like Carson, I’ve always admired Emer. I wasn’t particularly close to either of them and always felt like an outsider long before I found out I wasn’t full blood.

If I was a better man and a smarter son, maybe I would’ve figured it out on my own. Like most kids in the world, trying to find their way, all I cared about was that my parents loved me. I didn’t go out in search of the truth. I didn’t realize there was truth to find.

“They’re upstairs in your room. You want them?”

“My room,” he still calls it. Damn.

When I was a boy, I thought I lived in the best place on earth, taking advantage of the sun and surf with groups of friends too large to count. This place always felt like home. That all changed abruptly, leaving scars I swear I can almost see.

I shrug. It’s mostly all I can do. “Yeah. I’d like them.”

Emer doesn’t move, watching me closely. He’s not someone that’s ever been easy to read, choosing to keep his trap shut good and tight, silently pondering his next move and comment.

Most people speak just to speak. Emer never says anything he doesn’t have to.

He keeps still, barely breathing. I’m not sure what he’s trying to do. He seems to be testing me. But this test isn’t one I can pass. It’s bitter, lined with questions that go without being asked. I start to think this is mistake. That I shouldn’t have shown up like I did. But from the first moment I woke up, I felt I had to be here.

Becca lay contently against my chest. She’s exhausted from all the work she’s doing to help me, keep the Cougars on top, and that dimwit Denver from getting bitch-slapped by the press. I left quietly, trying not to disturb her and overpowered with the need to see my brothers.

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