Page 22 of Indigo

“I’m good.” I finish the last line, hitting the period button harder than necessary, and turn my attention to my younger brother.

Jagger is more than capable of doing my job, I know that. I’m proud of that. I’m just not ready to admit it to him. After spending years of my life watching out for the kid, making sure he was fed and safe, I’m having a harder time than I thought I would letting go of the parental role I took on at nine years old.

He runs his hand over his face before looking at me with the exact same expression our mother used to give me when I was being a brat. He looks just fucking like her. Their eyes are the exact same shape and shade of green, their hair the identical shade of caramel brown.

“I know you’re capable, Jag.”

He moves in his seat, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket before sliding it across the desk. “While you’re here,” he begins. “Let’s talk about this.”

I pick it up quickly and realise it’s a power bill. A power bill addressed to Mrs Mary Neil.

I clear my throat, re-fold the paper, and toss it into the drawer to my left before sitting back in my chair, waiting for the questions to begin.

“Why are you paying her bills, Pax?” he asks, the concern in his voice clear.

I shrug. “You know why.”

“Spell it out for me.”

I crack my neck and lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “This is my business, Jagger.”

He scoffs. “Fuck off with that. Your business is my business, always has been,” he says. “She got a payout for what he did, Pax. It’s not your responsibility to pay for her shit. She can’t know about it because she sure as hell wouldn’t accept your money, and her husband wouldn’t want your handouts if he was here.”

He has no idea that I pay for Mrs Neil’s water and electricity because I found her hunched over a table in the diner months ago, trying to figure out how to make ends meet.

She knows I’m paying them.

She may not like it, but she knows.

Narrowing my eyes at him, I try to tone down the anger that courses through my body before speaking. “But he’s not here, is he? He’s fucking dead. So I take care of it. End. Of.”

“This isn’t your burden to carry,” he says, lowering his voice and searching my eyes.

I take a deep breath like my therapist taught me and refocus my mind. I know he means well, but the fact that our father killed her husband makes it my burden. She needs someone to take care of her, and I’m in the position to do it, so why can’t I? I owe everything I have to her and her husband and then some. The man hired me when no one else would, taught me how to fix cars, how to make a living, and then sold me the damn shop for less than what it was worth when he wanted to retire. The least I can do is make sure that his wife has power and fucking water.

He doesn’t understand the guilt I carry from that night. Doesn’t understand that while I may not have forced Dad to drive that car, didn’t pour the alcohol down his throat or actually cause the accident, I played my part, and because of that, I’m doing the only thing I can to repent.

“Jag. I promise you, this isn’t a big deal, okay?”

“What Dad did…”

“Enough,” I snap, running out of patience. “This is my choice. I’ve got plenty of money, Jagger, you know that. What I choose to do with it is my fucking decision. Leave it.”

He raises his eyebrows at me, obviously taken aback by my tone. I may be a grumpy shit, but I rarely snap at him.

Guilt washes over me. He’s just concerned, I know that, but I’m used to being the one to take care of him, worry about him. I’m used to being the one to question his actions and the consequences of them. Something about him reversing the roles doesn’t sit right with me.

“I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“It’s fine,” he says, waving my outburst off as if it was nothing. He tilts his head to the side and remains silent for a moment. I can practically see the wheels in his head turning as his mouth pulls into a smile. “Where are you rushing off to?”

“What?” I ask defensively, taken aback by the abrupt change of subject.

“You’ve been busting your ass to get this shit done since the moment you walked through the door, after staying out all night, which you’ve never fucking done, might I add. So where are you going?”

“Out.”

“You dating someone?”

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