Page 40 of The Carver

“I’m gonna come by and get you.”

“I’m not going over there.”

“It’s our mother, asshole.”

“She chose to marry him.”

“And she chose to have you—don’t you forget it.”

He was at my apartment thirty minutes later, letting himself inside because I didn’t lock the door.

I was still seated at the table, unable to fight the fog in my head.

He came to my side, looked down at me, and then yanked up the sleeves of my shirt.

I twisted out of his grasp and shoved his hand away.

But he saw what he needed to see. He sat down across from me. “Bastien, you’re better than this.”

“I’m a Dupont. I’m no better than trash.”

He sat there, arms across his chest, wearing a t-shirt tight over his biceps. “You’re better than this,” he repeated. “I know you are.”

“You judge me? That’s rich.”

“I don’t judge you. I knew you were having a hard time, but I didn’t expect this.”

My life had derailed since I’d left the house. I’d turned my back on the family business, but I’d received poor marks in lycée because I was so traumatized by the life my father had exposed me to as a boy. I didn’t get into university, so I ended up in the exact place I didn’t want to be. But I was a buyer as much as a seller.

“He’s gone now. It’s over.”

“You’re in charge now?”

“I guess so.”

He was my father’s son because he’d been ready for this since the beginning. When he was introduced to the business at the same age I was, he rose to the challenge, was prepared to tackle it head on. “Good luck.”

“I’ve been ready for this for a long time. And I want you to join me.”

“Me?” I scoffed. “I’ll pass.”

“It’s what Dad wanted.”

“And it’s never been what I wanted. Still don’t.”

“Maybe we can turn over a new leaf.”

“I wanted nothing to do with it then, and I want nothing to do with it now.”

He gave a slow nod in understanding. “So you can sit around and shoot up all day?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re better than this, brother. Way fucking better. Now, get your shit together.”

My brother and I had been at odds with each other for a long time, but the message coming from him hit differently than if it had come from somebody else. It was a stab in the lungs, but losing that air forced me to take a new breath. Forced me to confront my image in his eyes. I never thought about my own image, but now I saw it with total clarity. I saw how far I’d fallen, how miserable I’d become, and it hurt like hell.

He slammed his palm on the table as he leaned toward me. “Because youarebetter than this.”

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