Page 100 of There's No Us Without You
Not how I should deal with my brother.
Or what I should and shouldn’t tell him.
My vision blurs for a moment, so I drop my head into my hands and rub my eyes. I fucking hate that I don’t hate him. More than that, I hate that I can’t just walk away.
He’s my blood.
Tyler says he’s clean, and whether I believe him, the last thing he needs is for our father to fuck everything up again. I’m keeping our old man’s condition a secret to protect him. If he’s going to spiral, I can’t be the one to send him down that path.
Jenny comes up beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says. “It’s not my place to tell you what to do with Tyler. You know best.”
Shaking my head, I swallow down the bile rising into my throat. “I just—I don’t want him going through all that again.”
Jenny nods, a sad smile pulling up one side of her thin lips. “You’re worried about him. You’re a good man, Will.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Remember that.”
I’m not a good man, at least not in the way that counts. A good man would probably tell his brother that his father has been lying in a hospital bed for almost two years, shitting and pissing himself, and needing round-the-clock care so he doesn’t die a lonely fucking bastard.
But, if I’m pissing fire, everyone else should feel the sting.
“I better get going,” I say, running a hand through my hair while avoiding Jenny’s all-seeing eyes.
She doesn’t argue, just hugs me goodbye. Nodding, I make my way towards the front door. Something tugs at my insides, making me pause in the hallway—guilt, maybe? I stare at the very last door on the right.
Nothing will ever make me step foot inside that room.
Even if it is the old man taking his last breath.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Emerson
My right legbounces as I push the food around on my plate, mindlessly rubbing my left knee under the table. It feels a lot better since I started taking the oxy almost a week ago, but my stomach still isn’t handling the medication very well. The firstnight I took it, I ended up in the bathroom at two in the morning puking my guts out for about half an hour.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Mum says as she reaches over the glass table to pat my hand. Her accompanied frown is more pronounced with the lights from the crystal chandelier hanging above us, creating shadows on her face.
“I’m fine,” I say, returning a tight smile.
Mum pats her mouth with the white linen napkin in her hands before glancing at my dad, then back to me. “You’ve barely touched your food. Is there something wrong with it? Your father spent all afternoon making your favourite fish curry.”
I clear my throat, directing a half-arsed attempt at a smile towards my father. “No. It’s... great. Thanks Dad.”
Dad winks but says nothing.
As usual.
It’s my mother I wish would stop talking for five fucking minutes. I love her, but Christ, I just can’t deal with her right now.
Yeah, I should be more grateful and all that nonsense. After all, Sundays are family days, and my parents always go to a lot of effort to make my favourite meal when I’m not away for games.
After our home game win yesterday, I should be relieved, ecstatic even, that we’re much closer to sealing the deal and ending up favourites to win.
It’s hard to feel much of anything, though, when your life is spiralling and you have no idea what’s coming next.
Mum sighs. “Well, maybe you’re coming down with something. Have you been looking after yourself?”
“Jesus. Yes, Mum. I’m looking after myself.” I shove my plate away, and sink down on the chair, crossing my arms over my chest.
I glare at my dad, hoping for some backup. As usual, what I hope for and what I get are two very different things. Instead, he remains silent at the head of the table, ignoring my mother’s overprotectiveness. That’s what I get for being an only child, I guess.
