Page 51 of Due South

Before I can go get that, though, I have a few stops. The first is at the best thrift shop in town, which is thankfully still open today. There’s a display in the big front window with all kinds of weird-looking lawn ornaments and other holiday decorations. I never paid a whole lot of attention to Christmas since my family’s nominally Jewish and honestly doesn’t care about holidays at all, but you’ve got to hand it to this holiday for décor.

I rummage through the men’s clothing, searching for the perfect item. “Ah-ha!”

An older woman who’s been sifting through a bin of shoes glances over at me with a frown before going about her business.

“Sorry, sorry.” Then I march up to the checkout where a bored teenager is snapping her gum while twirling a lock of bleach-blond hair around one finger.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’ll take this and everything in the front window. And if you’ve got more Christmas lights somewhere, I’ll take those too.”

Her eyes bulge behind her hipster glasses. “Are you sure? Because we’ve got a lot of Christmas lights.”

“Yep. I want every single one.”

Which I’m regretting now while trying to shove them all into my car. Maybe I’ll get a new car. One I don’t have to worry about getting blown off the road every time a truck drives by or the breeze picks up. I don’t need anything super fancy, although I wouldn’t mind picking Lucy up in some swanky car. Or finding some not so-secluded spot to have sex in said car. But baby steps. Maybe an Altima would be nice.

But if I want a new car, there’s something I have to do first. After I’ve thrown my laundry into the basket I’ll deal with in a few days and get together a few things—including enough clothes to last me until the twenty-sixth when we’ll be done with this stupid thing, whether it’s good or not—I sit down on my sad excuse for a couch.

My brother’s at PT this afternoon. I know because my mom called last night to make me feel guilty for not being able to bring him in for his appointment. So when I call, I know I won’t be hearing Darren in the background and she won’t be able to make excuses about not being able to talk.

I hear the click as my mom picks up the phone and the drone of a talk show or a soap opera in the background.

“Chuck? What are you doing calling this time of day?”

“Hi, Mom. I wanted to talk to you about Darren.”

“Well, I already brought him to his appointment. There’s not really anything for you to do today, but he has to come again next week and I’d so appreciate the help. It’s just so much, you know? Trying to keep track of all his needs and shuttling him around and—”

I resist the sinking feeling inside and try to locate that guy again. The guy who stands up to people, who can get things done, who isn’t afraid to ask for what he wants. Well, okay. Maybe the bejesus is scared out of him, but he still goes ahead and does it anyway. Because isn’t that braver? Not the absence of fear, but going ahead and doing something even if it does scare you? It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to be brave. I just need to stand up for myself.

“Uh, no. That’s not it. I wanted to say I’m not going to be able to help out as much financially anymore. I’ll still contribute because I love Darren and I love you, but there’s only so much I can do. And if I keep paying for you to live your life, then I’m never going to be able to live my own. I’ve tried to help you find resources to give you more flexibility and more time, to try to take some of the burden off your shoulders because I know it’s hard. But you don’t listen to me and I’m tired of being punished for choices I don’t make.”

My mom stutters on the other side, probably because she’s so used to being the one who makes speeches and she hasn’t heard that many words come out of my mouth in one go since I was a kid. Maybe not even then.

“I’ve put together a bunch of options for Darren’s housing and his care and I mailed you a whole packet. I’m happy to spend time with you and Dad and Darren to figure out what’s best for all of us. But that’s going to have to wait for a couple of weeks while I get this project under control at work.”

I think of Lucy staying up all night putting together all that information for my brother. I wish she’d handed it to me so I could see her lovely blush and her sweet smile, and our fingers would have brushed and then it would have been all over. Because it’s never just a touch with Lucy. I always want more of her.

I’ve had my hands, my mouth on every single inch of her body, and it’s still not enough. I don’t know if it’ll ever be enough, but I’m willing to find out. I want to see her in my bed, want to see her deliciously round ass as she walks away from me to get into my shower. I want to make her pancakes while she sits at the breakfast bar in the apartment I’m going to get while she wears only one of my dress shirts. Now? How about now? What about now?

My mom has started railing about how I don’t understand or appreciate the sacrifices she’s made for us or the sacrifices Darren made. Comparatively, mine have been very small. I have to close my eyes because it hurts. This feeling like I’m never going to be good enough, no matter what I do. And I probably won’t. So why should I keep trying to jump over a bar that’s always going to be out of my reach? I’d rather take Lucy’s hand and walk around it.

I check my watch, because I’ve got to get going if I want to be able to pull this off. And I do. So I’ve got to go. She’s still going on, laying the guilt on thick, but I cut through it. “Mom, I’m sorry you feel that way. But this will be better for all of us. I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll call you later so we can figure out a day to go through all the information I have. I love you.”

She’s not done yet, in fact her voice ticks up an octave to something I don’t mind calling shrill. But I’ve already pulled the phone away from my ear and am clicking End Call. I survived. Something I’ve been wanting to do for years but hadn’t been able to bring myself to, and now it’s done. I’ve still got to actually execute the plan, but I have a few other things to take care of first. And they involve a smoking hot redhead and some Christmas lights.

*

Evans

It’s past eleven,and I’ve been bouncing a tennis ball against the outside wall of my office for the past twenty minutes, trying to work out the best structure to maintain all the elements of compliance for these bonds. Between BCG and PRA, we should be able to handle it no problem, but getting the duties split up in a way that makes sense—won’t be too taxing for them, nor cost them an arm and leg to have us do—is tricky. Lots of cogs. Lots of wheels. Lots of moving parts that need to work in concert.

Goodness knows we don’t want to get in trouble with the Municipal Securities Rulemaking Board. We just got accredited as a municipal advisor, and we can’t blow this on our first time out. I bounce the ball against the wall again, thankful I’ve got an office on the outside of the building because this is one of my best techniques to get my brain to sort information. It’s not effortless by any means, but there’s something about the thunk, thunk, thunk of the felt against the wall that clears pathways in my brain and sometimes allows disparate thoughts to come together in a way that makes sense.

As the ball leaves my fingertips, there’s a rap on my doorframe and standing there is my brother of all people. Looking like one of those guys in a television drama who’s supposed to be the bad boy with a heart of gold with his long hair and worn jeans. I’m startled by his appearance, but more so by the ball that’s bounced back to thwack me in the head. Ow.

“Darren, what’re you doing here? How’d you even get here?”

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