Page 2 of When I'm Gone

“Where does he think y’all went?” Brady asks.

Country music is playing softly on the radio and his parents are holding hands over the center console, such a stark contrast from how my life looked in Illinois that I’m not sure how to process it. “He doesn’t have a clue we even went to the city. I figured the less he knows, the better. You’ll just be there when he comes home from school.”

Brady nods and the subject drops but the silence doesn’t last long. Soon enough, Brady is pointing out his old high school and the bakery his aunt owns, among various otherlandmarks of his life here that I try to file away in my memory. I’ll bitch and moan about it to my heart’s content, but seeing this side of him is pretty cool.

His dad turns into a neighborhood and Brady starts rattling off who lives where and how he knows them. I have no hope of keeping up then, but listening to him talk soothes some of my nerves. The houses are all fairly cookie-cutter stucco in varying colors with what I’d consider a ridiculous amount of palm trees lining the sidewalks, but it’s definitely the kind of place where kids could play in the front yard. Not like Chicago at all.

Mark pulls into the garage of a two-story house with big front windows and a baby blue exterior. There is a Proud I.U. Parent sign in the front yard next to a plastic flamingo wearing sunglasses and a bikini top that Brady explains gets an outfit change depending on the season and insists I would get a kick out of her Valentine’s Day look, whatever that means. We kick off our shoes in the mudroom off the garage before Brady ushers me forward and I get my first real look at his childhood home. It’s an open concept with a big white kitchen, a sliding glass door leading to the backyard, and more adorable family photos scattered on walls and other available surfaces than I’ve ever seen.

It also smells vaguely like the beach and homemade cookies. If this is what a normal family is like, maybe I could get used to it. Brady props his chin on my shoulder where I’ve gotten stuck looking at a collage of photos on the wall behind the dining table.

“What do you think so far?” His voice is soft enough that it is just for me, covered by the sounds of his parents talking in the kitchen.

I sigh. “It seems like a great place to have grown up, Bray.” There was a piece of the puzzle still missing in the youngerCallaghan, though. “Think your brother will be happy to see you?”

I know that he will, given how Brady talks about him, but I’m hoping to get him talking.

My friend never needs much prompting when something is on his mind. “Easton hasn’t exactly had an… easy go of things lately. He needs the pick-me-up, so I hope he is.”

“Is everything okay?”

I feel more than see the smile he forces. “Yeah. Things will be fine. Maybe you can talk to him if you get a chance?”

Doesn’t answer my question exactly. Things will be fine is not the same as things being fine, but there was a weight to Brady’s request I am hopeless to ignore. “Yeah, sure. If you think it’ll help.”

He squeezes my unoccupied shoulder. “I do.” Backing off, he shoots me a killer grin that does little to ease my concerns. “You coming upstairs with me?”

Ha. Like I’d stay down here with his dad shooting us curious glances that feel a little judgmental in a way I can’t explain. Maybe he’s just trying to figure out if we’re dating or not, fuck knows that wouldn’t be the first time we’ve gotten that.

We grab our bags from the bottom of the stairs and hurry up. Brady opens the first door on the right and slings his bag inside before holding it open for me to trail in behind him. I busy myself taking in his space while he tosses my luggage in the same direction as his. I wasn’t expecting white walls, but it seems that it was painted that color so it could be a blank canvas for what I have to admit is pretty impressive artwork. Nothing is cohesive—a crow made to look like it was perched on the corner of his headboard, a siren from the eyes up lurking in the lake by his window. More than I can take in at one time, but for some reason it works.

“Holy shit,” I breathe as I spin around.

Brady sounds downright sheepish as he explains. “Eas ran out of his own wall space when he was ten so it was time for me to ditch the navy blue and cover it with something that would let it stand out, you know?”

I absolutely do not know. They’re all done with black and gray paint, so I get why he wanted the background color to change, but this being done by a teenager is making my brain skip like a bad vinyl. His childhood bedroom is essentially a sketchbook come to life.

I shake my head when I see the closet that looks like an entrance to a faerie realm. “Bray… this is insane. Your sixteen-year-old brother did all of this?”

He sits on the bed, that creaks with his weight, and props his head on his hands. “He’s so fucking talented, always has been. One day, he got some paint and went after a blank space on his wall, and when Mom got a look at it, it was too good to be mad about so she just let him keep it up. He just about broke my heart when he was in the fourth grade and started bawling when they gave him two options—either give it up entirely or repaint his room and start over again.” He looks at me for confirmation, like he needs to know that I would have done the same thing, so I nod. “I couldn’t let him give it up, you can see how fucking good he is. But the idea of painting over all the stuff he did when he was little didn’t sit well with me either. The stuff in his room is more kid-like, but it’s where you can literally see how his talent developed. I didn’t want him to lose it when he worked so hard.”

Fucking hell. I need to call my own siblings. Apologize or something. I know I’d never believed in them that much. “So you just let him come and go with a paintbrush and turn your bedroom into a modern art exhibit.”

He snorts a laugh as I fall on the bed beside him and lay back, only to find something else endlessly fascinating on the ceiling. An entire universe from space, to be exact. “He did alot of it when I was asleep. As you know, I could sleep through a train derailing in my room, so he just turned on the lamp and got to work.”

That is more endearing than it probably should be. I want him to keep talking. “You’re really protective of him.”

The bed groans as he flops back beside me, our bodies touching from shoulder to fingertip. “You’ll see when you meet him. Easton is… good. Pure.” I eye him suspiciously, he only laughs. “Not like that, gross. Don’t know and don’t want to. What I meant was that he’s got the best heart. The type of kid that will sit in the grass for hours because a butterfly landed on him and he doesn’t want to disturb it.”

I know someone else with a heart like that, but I didn’t want to make the moment any heavier than it already is. “Are you sure he’s related to you?”

His answering chuckle feels like a reward. “Sometimes, I’m not. You’re still an ass, though.” I link our pinkies together. The ins and outs of physical affection are a bit of a challenge for me sometimes. I wasn’t raised with it, but I know Brady needs it. Something heavy is going on with someone he loves and he has a hard time not internalizing things like that.

We stay like that, trying to absorb each little creation, until an alarm trills from Brady’s phone that I wasn’t aware he had set. “Easton’s gonna be home from school soon,” he says as he silences it.

“Come on, then. Let’s go surprise him.”

Just as I say it, a car door slams, forcing us to scramble downstairs in time. Brady’s mom gave us a knowing look in the kitchen where she appears to be baking something delicious based on the smell. Cinnamon, if I’m not mistaken. His dad is reclined back in a worn leather chair, none too interested in the reuniting of his children when there is a basketball game on.

---