When I reached the sidewalk, I realized I'd been followed. I groaned internally, squeezing my eyes and turning around. "Look, I really—"
"What did you think?" she interrupted meekly, and I opened my eyes.
"What?"
"My poem. I wanted to know what you thought."
I cocked my head, suddenly frustrated and ready to be done with this night of trying new things. "It was good," I answered half-heartedly, hoping it'd be good enough.
But Audrey smiled and saw through my bullshit. "Tell me what you really think. Please?"
"Why?"
"Because your opinion matters."
I scoffed, finding it hard to bite my tongue and keep the demons buried beneath my skin. "No. It really doesn't."
Audrey cocked her head and stared at me with too much sincerity, emotion, and way too much affection and care for someone who didn't even know me. "Of course, it matters, Blake."
I was crumbling, succumbing, as my shoulders relaxed and my hands found the confines of my pockets. With a begrudged sigh, my shoulders shrugged and I said, "You're talented. That's what I think."
Audrey smiled and released a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I’m sorry, I was just so blown away by yours, I needed to know what you thought of mine."
I nodded. "I get it."
"I'll let you go, now that I've made myself seem like a psychopath." She laughed nervously with self-deprecation, as one hand tucked a strand of fly-away platinum hair behind her ear.
"You're fine," I assured her. "I'm just not very good company."
The apples of her cheeks were highlighted in a glowing shade of pink as she said, "And I come on too strong."
I let my lips curl into a smile. "You're fine," I repeated, and she replied, "So are you."
Chapter Eight
MY PARENTS HAD invited me over for Sunday dinner, and while I normally wouldn’t have welcomed any extended amount of time with them, I was in desperate need of a distraction from my night with Audrey.
I hadn’t slept well Saturday night, with thoughts of her and poetry and otherworldly eyes keeping me from finding a deep slumber. And Sunday morning hadn’t proven to be much better, with the regular stream of new Instagram followers coming in, constantly reminding me of what had started it all—that girl and her tattoo.
To say I’d been shaken was an understatement.
I walked into the house and was welcomed by the warm and fragrant scents of pot roast, asparagus, and garlic mashed potatoes. They triggered my nostalgia, remembering a time when my parents regularly cooked these family dinners. That was so long ago, a lifetime even, but now I remembered those times like they’d happened yesterday. Back then, the house had been full of laughter and love. Not a single one of us had any reason to be unhappy. But that was before.
Now, the scents were there, but the laughter was missing. The love was stifled and damn near nonexistent. The house moaned beneath my feet with every ounce of agony my family had felt for the past couple of decades, and I recalled a moment from a few years ago, where I’d wondered, if I’d ceased to exist, whether it would make it all better.
I shook that thought away and walked into the dining room, where I found my father wrapped in an awkward conversation with Jake. Their interactions always left Dad with a pained expression on his face, like he’d rather lay on a bed of hot coals than engage in any way with my brother. I hated him for it—Jake couldn’t help the way he was, and he was still the man’s son. Dad could’ve made more of an attempt to treat him like it. But I didn’t expect he ever would.
“Oh, look!” Dad exclaimed, turning to face me with relief and gratitude. “Blake’s here!”
Jake’s face lit up at the sight of me. “Blake, I gotta show you the new plane Dad got me! You gotta see it! You wanna see it now?” He began to stand from the table when Mom bustled into the room, wielding a plate of asparagus and a bowl of potatoes.
“You’ll sit down right now, Jakey. No Legos until after dinner,” she commanded. Her eyes lifted to mine momentarily as she placed the dishes down. “Hi, Blake.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Glad you could make it.” Her tone was so dull and curt, she felt more like a stranger and less like my mother.
“You need any help in there?” I nudged my chin toward the kitchen.
“Um,” she stilled awkwardly, wiping her hands on her shirt, “well, I guess you could cut the meat, if you don’t think you’ll hurt yourself.”
“I can manage.”
She looked skeptical but didn’t say anything as I followed her into the kitchen. I set to work carving the roast, while she busied herself by fetching a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and taking it to the dining room. She made sure that she wasn’t alone with me for any length of time. It was just as well; we’d only argue, anyway.
When I was finished, I carried the platter of meat to the table, only to find Jake meandering around the room and my mother relentlessly scolding him for not sitting down. He stopped at the table and grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit and proceeded to tap it against the wall.
“Jacob!” Mom shouted, smacking her hand against the tabletop. The glasses and dishes rattled with the impact and Dad winced. Coward.
In a battle for control, Jake continued to stand by the wall, tap tap tapping the banana until the tip was chipped and ruined.
“Jacob, if you don’t sit down right now—”
"Hey, buddy," I finally intercepted, rounding the table to take the banana from his hand. His stare was centered on the bowl of fruit and he reached for another piece, an orange, but I was quicker. Dropping the banana on the floor, I reached for both his hands and held them in mine. "Hey. Look at me."
Jake turned and met my gaze. His eyes flitted up to the crown of my head, and they dropped again. I saw in them the mirrored reflection of my own, along with an anger, a cool helplessness, and my gut was surrounded by dread. Call it a twin connection, intuition, whatever—I didn't need to ask my parents to know he'd had a bad day.
"You okay, buddy?" I asked.
"He's fine," Mom answered for him, exhaustion evident in her tone.
"We had a bad morning," Dad added. "Mickey got sick, and Jake—"
"Mickey's not sick!" Jake wrenched his hands from mine and grabbed the orange from the bowl, throwing it across the room. "Mickey's fine! He's not sick!"
"Really, Paul, you had to get him started again?" Mom hissed. I quickly glanced over my shoulder to catch her palms laying over her face and her shoulders hunched forward.
Jake was on a rampage now. He was squeezing another orange in his fist, breathing heavily and close to tears. Ignoring his mood or what he might do to me, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. I hugged him tightly, felt his body's tension drop, before his arms went limp at his sides and he shuddered with a sob.
"M-Mickey's not sick, Blake," he cried against my shoulder.
"No, he's not, buddy. Mickey's fine."
"He threw up, but he's not sick."
I nodded, rubbing my hand in small, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. "I know, Jake. It's okay."
Mom and Dad sat, silent and staring, as I calmed my brother down. It's how it'd always been. Dad would pretend everything was fine, while Mom would get frustrated, and it'd be up to me to fix it. And sure, they hadn't purposely dropped the responsibility into my lap. But maybe it was simply that I was the only one who could settle his mind and bring him back to reason. I did wonder though, if it pissed them off that they were rendered so useless by me, of all people.
I asked Jake if he was ready to eat, or if he wanted to take a moment to breathe in his room. He chose to be alone, to find his happy place with his blocks, and I let him leave, much to my mother’s disapproval. Now, alone with Mom and Dad, I sat at the table and resumed the motions of dinner, taking and cutting my food, as they kept their eyes on their empty plates.
"Aren't you guys hungry?" I finally asked, stuffing my face with a heaping forkful of potat
oes.
"He's out of control," Mom blurted, and my eyes darted to bore into hers.
“Huh?”
“Your brother!”
"He's no different than he's always been," I defended him in a way that also felt like I was defending myself.
"And what does that tell you, Blake?" she snapped, instantly heated and vengeful.
"You tell me, Mom. You're the one bringing it up."
"Well, it tells me he's not getting any better! You wanted him in that damn school, and what good is it doing?”
"You want him to hear you talking about him?" I gritted out bitterly.
"Come on, Blake. He doesn't even understand what we’re saying," Dad brushed it off, shaking his head.
"Oh, no?" I laughed darkly. "He's not a fucking idiot, Dad."
"Blake, watch your mouth," Mom snapped, her tone cracking like a whip, and I slumped against the back of my chair, shaking my head and wishing I hadn’t come. Wishing there was some way, any way, for the two of them to leave the two of us alone.
Dad sighed, folding his hands on the table. “We’ve just been wondering if we’re shelling out the money for this place for nothing. That’s all. No reason to get so defensive.”
Defensive ... The good doctor had accused me of being defensive, and hell, maybe I was. But Jake was being attacked, and shouldn't I defend him?
"He's fine," I replied with finality, turning back to my food. I popped a piece of pot roast into my mouth and chewed, but I wasn't tasting it. The only flavor in my mouth was the bitterness of accusation, because between the lines, between every one of their words, was the reminder that I had failed my brother.
"Well, we're not sure he is," Mom said, her tone cold.
I dropped my fork, submitting to my anger as I turned my attention back to her. "Why? Huh? Why all of a sudden? It's been almost ten fucking years, so why now?"
Mom shook her head and turned to my father as she shoved away from the table. "I need some air. I can't talk to him when he gets like this."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Mom." I rolled my eyes and shook my head.
Without a reply, she left the house, closing the door noisily to ensure I knew she was gone. Left alone with my father, I decided I wouldn't be the first to speak. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. I steepled my hands and stared ahead, at the wooden china cabinet, so clean and bright. It made me think of my own furniture and how much more comfortable I was with all that black paint and dark wood. My mind wandered to what felt like every criticism my parents had ever shot my way. They hated my style. My tastes in clothing, furniture—even my career. I was the rebel, and they were the disapproving parents, waiting for their boy—their only normal child—to grow out of his little phase.
I shook my head, sending the thoughts away. I was too fired up, too angry, and making something out of nothing. I needed to calm down and go the fuck home. But how could I when Jake was upstairs, also trying to calm down? I needed to be there for him. I needed to fight for him.
"Blake."
I closed my eyes to the cabinet. "Dad. I think I'd really prefer to not talk right now. Okay?"
He sighed but wouldn't budge. "This wasn't meant to be an attack. We've given it plenty of time. But it's not helping, and—"
I turned to him with fire in my eyes. "So, what, then? What do you want to do with him, huh? You want him to sit in this fucking house doing nothing all day, like he used to?"
Dad's throat moved with a deep, slow swallow. "We were thinking we should look into other options."
"Oh, yeah? Like what? What other options have you thought of that I haven't already considered?"
"Maybe an assisted living facility, or—"
"You want to send him away?" My hands dropped to the table with a thud and I stared at my father while the anger burned my eyes. Tears I'd never let fall formed, and I blinked them away.
"Not away, Blake." Dad scoffed and ran a hand over his balding head. "For Pete's sake, you make it sound like we want to get rid of him or something."
“Oh, I know that’s exactly what you want,” I accused, shaking my head. “You don’t even deal with him now!”
He shook his head but I couldn’t miss that blink of shame that passed over his eyes. “Blake, he’s out of control. These tantrums are hard to deal with and you know it.”
“I don’t seem to have any problem calming him down.”
Narrowing his eyes, he jabbed, “Well, that’s great for you, but you’re not with him all the time, are you?”
“Maybe I should be,” I snapped back. “Maybe he should come live at my place. Then the two of you could be done with both of us. How would you like that?” I hardly knew what I was saying, but as the words spilled out of my mouth, the more I liked the idea.
“Well, we think this is the option we should explore,” he replied curtly, not even entertaining the thought of Jake living with me. But why not? He’d be happy there. I’d even allow that damn dog to live under my roof if it meant Jake would be out of this house for good.
“And you know what I think?” Dad spoke, proving he wasn’t quite finished.
“Oh, here we go,” I muttered.
"Knock it off," he scolded me. "This angsty, the world hates me attitude of yours was acceptable when you were sixteen, but guess what, pal? That ship sailed a long time ago. You're a man in your thirties, for crying out loud, and it's about time you acted like one and owned up to your bullshit. You can start by shutting your big mouth and listening to me right now."
He pointed at me from across the table. "You are not Jake's parent; we are, your mother and I. I know how much you love your brother and how much you take responsibility for him. But you've done so much—too much, if you ask me. We're thinking maybe it's time we tried something different for a while. And maybe we could all use a break," he lowered his finger and tapped my arm, "including you."
Scoffing, I shook my head. "A break ..." I nearly choked on the concept and scrubbed a hand over my face. "I don't want a break, Dad."
"You're miserable."
"I'm fine."
He folded his arms on the table. "Are you? When was the last time you went out, Blake? When was the last time you had a girlfriend?"
"I went out last night," I grumbled between my teeth.
He sighed, rubbing the palm of his hand against his chin. "You know what I mean. You're still young. You don't need to carry the world on your shoulders like you owe it something. Live a little, for once."
He rubbed his hand against my arm and patted. It was the period on the sentence. The end. He stood up, looking down at the pot roast with regret.
"Sorry about dinner," he muttered apologetically.
"It's okay," I brushed it off, shrugging. It wasn't the first time one of Jake's outbursts had spoiled a family meal and it probably wouldn't be the last.
“I’m going to talk to your mother,” he announced, standing from the table. “Maybe she’s calmed down.”
“Okay.”
“You’re a really good kid, Blake. You have a big heart,” he added hurriedly, like he’d been harboring the sentiment and needed to say it aloud before he combusted. Then, he scurried from the room, leaving me alone.
I didn't feel like a good kid, and even more than that, I didn't feel like a good brother. My parents had seen my efforts as an experimental failure, and hell, they were right. I'd failed them, and more importantly, I had failed him.
You're fine.
So are you.
Last night with Audrey felt light-years away. I held onto the memory now, gripping onto the frayed edges of something I knew I wasn't. I wasn't fine, and I wasn't good. I was a poser, a failure, a miserable excuse of a man.
Live a little.
The voice of my father echoed, clattering around in my brain with his plea. Get a life, get laid, get a girlfriend. Did they think they were doing this for me? Did they think they were doing me any favors by sending my brother away? Because what they failed to realize was, Jake need
ed me as much as I needed him.
I didn't know who the hell I was without him.
***
"You hungry, buddy?" I leaned against the doorframe of Jake's room, watching him build a Lego castle. Jake nodded his response, too in the zone to respond verbally. "You wanna eat in here tonight, so you can keep building?"
Excitement lit the dark in his eyes, and he grinned, big and happy. "You betcha!"
I nodded, smiling. "Just for tonight though, okay?"
I went to the kitchen and made a plate of food for him. When I returned, Jake was sitting on his bed, TV remote in hand. He was changing the channels, finding something to watch while he ate, and when he landed on Toy Story, the remote was dropped to the bed.
"Don't make a mess, okay? Mom and Dad will kill me." I set the plate on his nightstand as he nodded. "You need anything else?"
He shook his head and started to eat, when he stated, "They want to give me away."
Jake was a lot more perceptive than my parents realized sometimes, and I cursed under my breath that he'd heard.
"It's okay, buddy. They were just talking."
"You want me to go, too?" His eyes, identical to mine, lifted and pinned me to the place I stood.
"No, Jake. I don't want you to go."
He studied me quietly, as though he could see the uncertainty in the statement. My words had been flimsy, unsure, and I hated the thought that he could tell.
"You're yellow," he stated, his tone flat and unmoving, before turning his attention onto his food. He focused on eating and watching the movie, and I left the room.
Back at home, I went to my room and grabbed the book I kept about aura colors. I flipped through the pages in search of yellow, and when I found it, I read through the different shades and their meanings. Jake would never be specific. He would never discern if my color was dark or light. But it didn't matter as my eyes fixated on one word.
Hope.
Warrior Blue Page 8