by Rea Frey
Noah laughed again while the lights of the train flashed down the tracks. They illuminated his younger brother, and just for a moment, turned him golden.
“Train!”
Noah smiled and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “I told you it would be here.” He glanced at his watch. “Right on time too.”
The train thundered closer and blew stale air into the jammed underground lair, as people texted, fisted dog-eared paperbacks, and held loud, personal conversations over the rumble of the approaching car.
As the train neared, Wyatt tipped back on his heels again—in gummy tennis shoes he refused to throw away—and then as quickly as he’d ever moved, darted forward three short steps, extended his arms, and took flight off the platform.
Noah watched him lunge, too stunned to reach for him in time. A woman beside him screamed. The timing—never Wyatt’s strong suit—was perfect as his soft body, built on a lifetime of Cheetos and Cokes, intersected with a sickening thunk into the front side of the train. His brother disappeared with the screech of brakes. “Wyatt!” He called his name in a futile attempt to retrieve him, to rewind, to go back just a few seconds. Time cracked apart, froze, shattered. Noah tried to move, but he couldn’t. He could physically still feel his brother standing right next to him, smiling and laughing. He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t have jumped.
Chaos erupted around him. People murmured and gathered in tight clusters while the train squealed to a violent shudder on the tracks. Noah’s skin warmed and turned hot. He collapsed to his knees. He had to be dreaming. He’d just told Wyatt a joke. He’d laughed. He’d been excited for New York and SNL. No, no, no. Had Wyatt made some kind of horrendous miscalculation? Had he gone momentarily insane? He couldn’t have done this on purpose.
He glanced again at the train, his eyesight blurred by tears. He couldn’t imagine what they would have to do to remove Wyatt’s body from the train, like gum stuck to a shoe. Noah vomited from the image, the blue frosting and cake batter splashing back onto his own wet cheeks.
People huddled around the front of the train, snapping photos and calling for help. Finally, someone crouched down and touched his shoulder with acrylic nails. Her perfume wafted into his nostrils, and he gagged.
“Sir? Are you okay? Do you know that person?”
He sat back on his heels. “It’s my brother,” he croaked. “My brother just killed himself.”
He said the words, but he didn’t believe them. He’d spent his entire life devoted to helping his younger brother function in society—teaching him to read, to communicate, to handle loud noises and confrontation, to be nice to waiters, to play ball, to drive, to vote—and now he was dead.
In minutes, the police arrived, and he stood on rubbery legs. He replayed those last moments in an attempt to understand what must have been running through his brother’s mind. In the car. At the condo. Eating cake. Earlier in the day. There’d not been a single sign of distress.
Officers flanked him on both sides and escorted him away like a criminal. He glanced to the front of the train and saw his brother, broken apart like an egg. Oh, Wyatt. He fell again, dry heaving.
How would he ever explain this to his family? He would be blamed. This would forever be his fault. The teacher. The mentor. Noah, who always knows best. He closed his eyes as pain assaulted every part of his body.
“Sir. Are you alright? Sir?”
He ignored the officers and glanced again at the front of the train. He vomited again from the sight, the loss, and the shock of losing the only person he’d ever really loved.
There was no life without Wyatt.
Not for him.
30
lee
The hot steering wheel singed the palms of her hands as she drove. She’d woken up so excited about the photo shoot last night, and now this. What was she supposed to do with this?
She screamed and banged the wheel. Her mind drifted to the first time Shirley and Harold must have kissed. His lingering looks. How they were probably in his bedroom right now. Her mother’s bedroom. The betrayal stung. Shirley was always so secretive. About men. About her family. About her past life.
But this wasn’t about being private—this was her father. Though Shirley had taken such a visceral interest in Lee’s life, getting involved with her father seemed unstable, sick. It made her realize that she might not really know who Shirley was. Best friends didn’t do things like this to each other.
She wound down Lebanon Pike toward Mt. Juliet and then back again, wondering where she could go. For the first time in her entire life, she wanted a drink. She’d stayed away from it like the plague. Her father was an addict. What if she was too? Alcohol had taken away so much: her mother and brother, her father, even Shirley for a period of time when she was addicted to drugs.
She roamed the neighborhood. Lee remembered going on long walks around the neighborhood with her mother; water fights on humid days; picnics beneath their ancient weeping willow; driving to Whitt’s Barbecue and feasting on hot, juicy sandwiches. They were snapshots in her brain, a series of quick images from their brief years together.
She circled the lot of her father’s favorite liquor store and parked. She was a regular, buying his beer every day like clockwork. The tinkle of bells above the door welcomed her. She waved to Dan behind the register and then stopped with an icy realization: she’d spent years bashing her father for his choices, but she was the one enabling him with every six-pack she brought home. With every month that passed where she let him slide on helping with the mortgage. With never insisting he move out of her house—the house she paid for.
She was as much to blame as he was.
She bypassed the beer and let her fingers trail across the random bottles. Over the years, she’d become an observer of other people’s habits around alcohol. How they used it as a reward—even a crutch. She assessed the brown and clear liquids aged inside thick glass. If she were to drink, what would she choose?
Even the thought of drinking sent her into a tailspin of grief. Her mother’s beautiful face flashed through her mind, and she almost turned and left. Instead, she trailed by the vodka and bourbon and balked at the absurd prices. She hated the smell of liquor. Beer reminded her of her father. Cocktails were too much work. Wine? She turned down the aisle with various grapes from expensive regions. Wine was healthy, wasn’t it? She’d just read an article about wine being good for your heart. She plucked a blend from the bunch. Her fingers shook, and before she knew what she was doing, she walked to the register. Dan smirked and hopped off his stool to ring her up.
“The old man trying something new today?” He tucked a greasy strand of hair behind his ear.
Lee rocked forward on her elbows. “Not for the old man.”
He lifted the bottle. “Thought you didn’t drink.”
She didn’t drink. She never drank. Her whole adult life, people told her to loosen up, to live a little, to come out for a drink after work, but she refused—so much so that people stopped asking. No one understood. Alcohol hadn’t ruined their whole lives, hadn’t stolen their entire family. For most people, alcohol was social, celebratory, happy. She looked at Dan and somehow felt guilty. “I don’t.”
He rung her up without question and lowered the wine into a paper bag. He twisted the top and dropped her change and receipt into her waiting palm. A jolt of anxiety expanded through her chest. What was she doing? Alcohol wasn’t the answer. She gripped the bottle in her arms as she stepped outside. The weight of it felt dangerous. She turned back toward the entrance. Did Dan accept refunds?
In the car, her fingers hesitated before she screwed off the top and sniffed. As the glass cooled her fingers, she thought again about Shirley and her father. What a mess her home life had become while her professional life was finally gaining traction. She took a small sip and was surprised by the taste.
She sucked the spare drops from her lips and opened up Facebook on her phone, typing in Shirley’s name. She looked fo
r any connection to her father, any signs or clues she’d missed. He had an account he rarely used, and she constantly asked why he was even on there. Was it to be a voyeur into Shirley’s life? Did they send each other messages?
She reviewed her friend’s wall and noticed that a mutual friend was asking about a party in a few days. Shirley had mentioned it in passing. She clicked on the details. She needed to talk to her. Shirley owed her a conversation, an explanation. Did Shirley miss her own father? Was she just lonely? Or maybe she’d finally run out of men. There had to be a logical explanation for what was happening. Yes, she felt betrayed, but Shirley was also her best friend.
The anger loosened as she took another sip. Was she allowed to sit in her car, drinking like this? She screwed the top back on and wedged the bottle underneath the seat.
She had an entire day to kill. She couldn’t go back to the house. She locked the door and began to walk. She thought about Shirley. How sexual she was. How powerful. How unapologetic. How free. How she could get anyone she wanted, whenever she wanted. She never thought about consequences or what could go wrong. But she was such a contradiction. She said she wanted to be more like Lee. That Lee was going places. That she wanted to be more responsible. But she did nothing to show that she really wanted those things, or that Shirley would ever be anyone other than what she’d always been: reckless.
As the alcohol laced her system, something stirred. It was time for a change. It was time for her to create her own life. She’d become almost dependent on Shirley’s attention. While it had inflated her ego at first, she now realized it was a subtle power move on Shirley’s part. She wanted the career Lee had. She wanted the house Lee lived in. She wanted to look just like Lee. She wanted her father. Had Lee simply enabled Shirley to want more of her family, instead of paying attention to her own life? Maybe that was her purpose in life—to be an enabler.
She shook her head and headed back to the car. Lee needed to reclaim who she was—independent of both of them. Her mother would have wanted more for her—to be bold and brave, to find love, to find herself.
She unlocked the car, pulled out her phone, and rechecked the details of the party. Maybe she’d show up at the party in some hot outfit and let confidence lead the way. It would be the perfect place to be noticed. Being noticed came before being loved.
She’d show Shirley. She’d show her father. She’d show herself.
She started the car and drove to Percy Priest Lake. She fished the bottle of wine from beneath the seat and walked to the water’s edge. She cleared her mind, sat on a rock, and began to drink.
31
noah
When he got back from Wyatt’s funeral, dreary from the late flight, he showered, made a double shot espresso, and walked to the basketball court to drop in on a pickup game. Hadn’t he just been on the court with Wyatt for his birthday? He could still see the way his brother had excitedly gripped the ball, clumsy in his dribbles, but whooping with joy at every attempted shot.
He replayed the fight he’d had with his parents before he flew back. They’d confessed Wyatt had been showing suicidal tendencies for months, but they’d never uttered a word. He felt betrayed they hadn’t warned him. It was dangerous to take his brother on a city outing where anything could happen.
Noah had worked with his fair share of suicidal students over the years, but Wyatt hadn’t displayed any of the signs. At least not with him. But he had with his parents, and that’s what mattered. He could have saved his life if they’d warned him. He could have prevented it. Wyatt could still be here.
The court was littered with shirtless, sweaty regulars. He laced his shoes and waved at Phil, an acquaintance he sometimes grabbed a beer with.
“You in today, Banks?”
“Yep.” He stretched his arms over his head and heard his back crack.
“Cool. Four on four.”
Noah’s body was stiff from the flight and lack of sleep, but he ignored all the twinges and immediately fouled Charles, a loudmouthed show-off who loved to dunk.
“Take it easy.”
“You take it easy.” He was itching for a fight.
“What the fuck, Banks? Chill.” Charles passed the ball back to Phil. “It’s a game, dude.”
Noah wanted to slam the ball in his face, but backed off and took a breath. “Just pass the ball.”
Charles passed the ball, and Noah ducked around him to sink in a three-point shot.
“Ooh, look who came to play.”
Phil passed the ball to Stewart, who passed it back to Noah.
“Something like that,” Noah said, taking another shot and missing it. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Wyatt with his arms spread like wings. How he’d wanted to be weightless. How it must have felt to be dragged across the train like something caught in a grater.
In one second, his beloved brother was there, and then he wasn’t, and no matter what he did, how many games he played, how much he worked, how angry he was at his parents, or what punishment he doled out, it didn’t change anything. Wyatt, his brother, his lifeline, his purpose, had taken his own life.
He kept seeing his mother’s shattered face as he stormed out of their condo after the funeral. He knew his parents blamed him, and it felt like being stabbed in the fucking heart. He carried the burden of witnessing such violence—not them. He would never forget how beautiful his brother had looked on that platform, and then after, as he was carried away by the wind.
He needed to shut off his brain. He lost himself in the game, ending three points ahead of the other team. He squirted water into his mouth at the side of the court and wiped his face with a towel.
“Nice game, Banks,” Phil said, clapping him on the back.
“You too.”
“Why don’t you come to my house tonight?” Phil asked as he removed his T-shirt and tugged on a clean one. “It’s my birthday.”
“Oh yeah? Happy birthday.” Noah thought of Wyatt’s birthday party and his blue lips as he licked frosting from a spoon.
“Lots of chicks, right, Phil?” Charles added as he stuffed his shoes into a bag.
“You seeing anyone, dude?” Phil asked.
Noah shook his head. “Nope.”
“Come then. It’ll be fun.”
He hadn’t told them what he’d just been through. The suicide. The guilt. His parents’ blame like a whip. For one night, he needed to feel something other than this all-consuming, gut-wrenching anguish. The thought of getting blackout drunk was the only thing that sounded appealing. It beat sitting in his condo by himself.
“Sounds good, man. Thanks.”
“Cool. I’ll text you the details. Good game.”
Noah slapped hands with the guys and watched them walk away. He collapsed on the bench. The exhaustion, the trauma, the flight, the drive, the funeral, and the game smashed into his body. He glanced at the time and wondered if it was too early to start drinking.
He’d go home, take a shower, and hit the pub. A few beers before the party couldn’t hurt.
32
lee
Lee checked her makeup again in the mirror, fluffed her hair, and walked up the stone steps to the gorgeous bungalow. Shirley’s client, Christy, was throwing a party for her boyfriend’s birthday. Hopefully she’d slip right in as though she belonged. Fake it until you are it, Shirley always said.
Lee snorted as she entered the house and battled her thoughts. Shirley had literally taken that statement to a whole new level. She’d faked living Lee’s life, when what she really needed to focus on was staying clean, standing on her own two feet, and getting away from her father. Why didn’t she see that?
Bodies pressed into all corners of the house. Music blared, red Solo cups clenched in almost every fist. Lee hunted for any familiar faces but saw only strangers. She felt the customary urge to turn and run, but she squared her shoulders and went to get herself a drink. She’d never understood the draw of alcohol, but in the last twenty-four hours, it had taken th
e edge off. She felt more relaxed. She felt like she could do anything.
She shot Shirley a text and waited for her reply. What would Shirley do in this situation? Before Harold, she’d seek out the hottest guy in the room and have sex with him. Lee scoped out the men, spotting a few cute ones, but no one she’d want to take her clothes off for.
She got another drink. She’d already downed an entire bottle of wine earlier, alone in her room, while she listened to her dad and Shirley whisper through the thin walls. Probably talking about her, figuring out what to do. She couldn’t think about them. The noises. The intimacy. The reality of what they were doing with each other. This entire train wreck had pushed her and Shirley’s relationship into dangerous territory, and she wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to recover. She poured herself a shot of something. She tossed it back, that lighter fluid sting warming her throat.
She checked her phone again. Sorry. Not coming. Have fun.
Lee resisted the urge to chuck her phone out the window. Instead, she fired off a text. Get here NOW. You owe me. We have to talk.
The ellipsis blinked at her, then disappeared. Lee gritted her teeth and wondered if she should just go home. It was too loud, and there were too many distractions for her to even think clearly. Instead, she walked to the middle of the living room, where a few girls danced by the couch, giggling and rosy-cheeked.
Lee began to tilt her hips left and right to the music. She locked eyes with some guy on the couch and let the alcohol numb her mind as her body sprang to life. She lifted her hands, ran them through her hair, and moved her body in ways she never had in public, soaking in the approving looks some of the men shot her way.
She danced until she was sweaty and drunk. She lurched back to the kitchen and realized she could barely keep her balance. She bumped into someone’s back, turned, and apologized.
A hand on her shoulder forced her to turn, and she struggled to make her eyes focus.