Page 17 of Lies and Other Drugs

Youngblood wanted me to keep digging and find out all his secrets. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you. Cancel your plans. Oh, and I’m not calling you Youngblood,” I said. That was William’s thing, and for some reason, my obsessed brain didn’t want his thing. I wanted my own.

“Yeah? What are you calling me then?” His upper lip quirked up.

“How about Young?”

“That’s an awful name,” he replied, the ghost of a chuckle bouncing in his chest.

“It’s better than Blood.”

We both went silent for a moment. He didn’t look like a Young or a Blood. He looked like a rose. Or a bird.

“Okay. Young it is.”

Chapter 10

Noah was sober when we got back, and I was admittedly disappointed. I could handle him when he was drunk. I’d been navigating addictions my entire life.

William’s addiction to life.

My mom’s addiction to pills and pain.

My addiction to feeling nothing at all.

But he was sober and perfect and attentive. Asshole. “You going to eat your dinner?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I said with a sweet voice. Push push push away, pretty soon he wouldn’t stay.

“Babe, that’s having the opposite effect on me than you’re intending,” he said in a smoky voice that sounded like sex.

It was odd, having a normal dinner in Samuel and Young’s home. “You like to be called Daddy?” I asked. Noah coughed, adjusted his pants with a jolt, then stood up to grab another bowl full of spaghetti. He looked tired, his hands shook a bit, and I was certain that the open bottle of wine I put out was making him anxious.

If I were more self-aware, I’d probably see my trick for what it was. I’d be able to connect my need for his failure with all the times my mom failed me. I’d be able to say that I was self-destructive because I didn’t think I deserved someone sober. I’d be able to count the number of times—three—that I’d ruined something good in my life. But he was the therapist, right? It washisjob to tell me all the ways my mind was fucked up. And yet, not once had he called me out on it. Not once had he asked about Young or Samuel or coming home.

“Tell me something about William,” he ordered before sitting down. I frowned, was this a date or a session?

“He was depressed.” I wasn’t sure why my mind immediately jumped to that. Maybe it was the same reason I kept replaying the last night I’d ever had with him.

I grabbed my phone and flipped through my photos until I was staring at the one I took before we each went off to college. The one of him at the docks behind our house—the photo thatshouldhave been plastered all over the news and been put up at his funeral. The light was shining on his strawberry blond hair. His bright eyes were dull. His smile seemed forced now. His cheeks perched in that inauthentic way I used to know so well but had been choosing to ignore.

“I’ve stared at this photo a million times, and not once have I seen a depressed man. But now that I know? Damn, Noah. My brother was sad. How did I miss that?” I could see through my mother’s act. My stepfather’s money. Noah’s alcoholism. Samuel’s smirk. Young’s tears. And yet I couldn’t see myself in William’s smile.

“I once read somewhere that the world is just made up of everything we want to see,” Noah said in that annoyingly introspective way I’d come to expect from the sober version of him. “You wanted to see your brother happy, so that’s what your brain focused on. It’s not your fault.”

“He still didn’t kill himself,” I said, knowing for certain that no matter how sad he was, he wouldn’t have done that. I might not have known about his depression or Young, but I knew aboutthat.

Noah nodded before standing up. He then wordlessly headed to the spare bedroom where he and I would later probably fuck. I was banking on it. I was also hoping Samuel would have to listen to my moans and think about our night before.

While I was daydreaming, Noah came back to the kitchen with a box of paint supplies and plopped it at my feet. Every painting tool possible was scattered throughout the box. My fingers itched to reach out and touch the brushes, trail my fingers over the blank canvas.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“When was the last time you painted?” Always a question with a question. Typical. For a shitty therapist, he sure had all the tricks down.

I opened my mouth to answer him then immediately snapped it shut. I couldn’t actually remember the last time I physically picked up a brush, dipped it in paint, and created something meaningful. I’d painted in my mind. Came up with entire worlds where I was killing and dancing. Streets of blood. A night sky that looked like family.

Noah observed my expression for a moment longer. “That’s what I thought. Paint me a picture, Babe,” he said without a care before leaning against the kitchen island and crossing his arms over his chest. That pet name was annoyingly cute. At least it was better than calling me kid.

“Okay. Call your ex-wife and tell her you love her,” I said. I wasn’t the only one facing my demons today. Painting brought me joy, and I didn’t deserve that. Not while my brother was hiding his depression with a man named Young who had beautiful eyes and kissable lips.

---