Page 50 of Healing You
S teve and Noah rode in tense silence for the better part of their two hour trip back to Maple Grove. It wasn't that Steve hated his brother—not by a long shot. Noah just drove Steve a little crazy sometimes. “Uh-oh,” Noah said.
Make that more than a little. It was the first thing he'd said since their hellos at Baggage Claim.
“I don't like the sound of that,” Steve muttered.
“Fuck. I think I left my cell on the plane.”
“It's quarter past seven now, and we're still twenty miles away. I'm not turning around—”
“I wasn't asking you to turn around. I just have this stupid Skype audition tomorrow and my agent's gonna kill me.”
Steve sighed, taking the wheel with one hand and pulling his phone out of his pocket. He held it out to his brother. “Here. Call your phone. Maybe someone at the airport will answer and we can find a way to get it back before your audition.”
Noah eyed the phone for a half second before grabbing it and dialing his number. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Oh, I know you are.” Noah was always sorry. He constantly had something to apologize for... and the women in the Tripp family just kept forgiving. If their dad were still around, this shit wouldn't be happening. Mike Tripp had been a strict dad. Loving, but tough. And not afraid to dole out groundings and punishments when his kids messed up. Something Noah never really experienced with him. A lesson on responsibility he would never learn and from a man he would never know.
No, Steve didn't get so angry with Noah because they were so different. He got angry because they were so much alike. Without his accident, Steve would have been going down that same path as Noah. He would have gotten the hell out of Maple Grove for good, probably moving to a big city, too. He would have been partying and drinking and bulldozing his way through life and relationships. His gaze flicked quickly to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his scar. He hoped Noah didn't have to learn the hard way, too. If their dad had been around, he would have knocked some sense into both of them long ago. If Dad had been around, maybe I never would have gotten in the wreck with Yvonne.
Guilt tightened in Steve's throat and almost as though it was out of his control, his grip on the wheel tightened. Little beads of sweat broke out along the edge of his hairline and the car felt way too goddamn hot all of a sudden. The tie which he had carefully knotted now felt restrictive—like it was a boa constrictor going in for its final kill. Steve clawed at his neck, tearing the tie off and tossing it in the back seat.
Hot prickles like a thousand needles pierced is skin and he swerved for a second before catching himself and straightening out in the road.
“Steve—Steve!” Noah shouted from the passenger seat, but he sounded miles away. “Are you okay?”
No. No, he fucking wasn't. A blue road sign caught his attention—Rest Area—and he yanked the wheel into the far right lane and pulled off into the parking lot. He unbuckled and stumbled out of his seat, barely making it to a grassy area. Bracing his hands on his knees, he hurled up his lunch, his stomach muscles contracting, until there was nothing but bile.
Two hands squeezed his shoulders. “You're okay, man,” Noah said quietly.
Steve focused on his breathing. In slowly, to the count of four. Out just as slowly. The twins were young when he had his accident, but they weren’t that young. They remembered. They were old enough to understand they had almost lost their older brother in addition to their dad. And when they moved Steve’s recovery home from the hospital, Noah and Callie used to help. Or tried to. They'd make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sneak him Dr. Pepper when he should have been drinking water.
“Thank you,” he said and his voice sounded like he'd swallowed a scrub brush. “I think I'm better now.”
“Let's sit a minute.” Noah guided him over to a picnic table. “I can't be on time for this party, anyway. It might give Mom a heart attack if I show up where I'm supposed to be when I'm supposed to be there.”
Steve gave a hoarse chuckle. “That ship already sailed, asshole. You were supposed to be home last night.”
They each sat. The sky had turned into a smeary mix of orange and blue where the day was closing into night. Crickets serenaded them from the tall grass and Steve closed his eyes, feeling the heat fading into a glorious coolness over his forehead. The summer breeze washed across his face eradicating the sweat that had built so quickly across his skin. “You got your anxiety medicine here with you?” Noah asked.
Steve shook his head. “Haven't taken prescription medication for this shit in a year.”
“Then what's changed?”
Yvonne. Only Steve didn't say that. Couldn't say that—he couldn't admit that she was potentially the reason for all this resurfacing. So, instead he said nothing.
“That was a pretty intense episode.” Noah said when Steve didn't answer.
“I know.”
“You could have run off the road—”
“I said I know,” he snapped and immediately regretted it. “I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you... I'm mad at me.”
Noah nodded, not meeting his eyes, suddenly fascinated by his cuticles. “Sometimes it seems like you're mad at me.”
His brother's voice was so small, and when Steve glanced to his left, he didn't see the twenty-three year old famous celebrity starring in some stupid vampire show. He saw the insecure little boy who used to sneak into Steve's bedroom when he couldn't sleep to play Nintendo. Steve swayed to the left, gently bumping Noah with his elbow. “Well sometimes I am mad at you. Sometimes you deserve it, shithead.” That got a small chuckle. “And sometimes you don't deserve it. Sometimes it's my own demons and you're the easiest outlet for them to escape.”
Noah shrugged, his inky eyelashes nearly as long and curled as Yvonne's. “That anger's gotta come out somehow, I guess. I'd rather be a punching bag than see you hold all that in.”
