"Older brothers tend to take the responsibility thing seriously. Whether you want it or not."
She felt Curtis' scrutiny intensify. "Okay—here's where it gets ugly. I'm going to tell you something . . . and you're probably gonna hate me for it. And—I'll deserve it." His jaw tightened with the effort to maintain his neutral expression. "But, if you could . . . sort of . . . suspend your disgust, I'd appreciate gaining your perspective on something I've lived with for a long time."
Understanding dawned. "Someone else was hurt."
Unable to maintain eye contact, he jerked his gaze to the window. "I—killed someone, MaryJo."
She held her breath when his gaze connected fleetingly with hers, likely expecting censure. Though shocked by the admission, it explained a great deal about the dynamic between the brothers. And maybe—the reason for Travis’ self-imposed walls.
"I was high. I was driving . . . when I shouldn't have. I knew I shouldn't drive."
His voice flat, emotionless, as though fighting the urge to break down. Her mind jumbled with too many thoughts, MaryJo wondered how often he'd replayed the scene in his head. Wished for a different outcome. Wished for that moment back—when he'd made the wrong decision.
"And I hit someone." His voice trembled. "An elderly lady . . . on her way home after a play. It was late. Thank God—she'd just dropped off her grandchildren. But—I drifted . . . into her lane . . . and hit her."
His words hung in the space between them, all the oxygen sucked from the air around them. "Was there anyone else?" MaryJo didn't know what to say. What questions to ask . . . Should she should ask any at all? Or just let him speak. Get the terrible story off his chest.
"My girlfriend . . . at the time. Thankfully, she wasn't injured." He sat back in the booth, seeming to need something to lean on. "We were both high. Actually—I could've sworn-"
Curtis stopped mid-sentence, the faraway expression in his eyes suggesting he was reliving that night, as he’d probably done a thousand times. A lump in her throat, she wondered what he remembered, but wasn't saying. She wanted to give him a hug. Tell him that someday—everything would be okay. But—how could it ever be okay? What did she know? Was she doing the right thing? Making him talk about something so traumatizing?
"After the accident . . . she disappeared." He glanced up. "Not that I blame her," he clarified. "I'm sure it messed her up, too, but I hope . . . she moved on with her life."
"You never saw her again? She didn't . . . visit you in the hospital?"
"I was in a coma . . . Maybe she did." He shrugged. "I assume she went back to college. I always wished I could apologize." Curtis released a ragged breath. "Hell—she coulda sued me. Her parents could have-" His voice trailed off. "But, she just . . . took off."
MaryJo wondered about the girl's parents. They would've kept her far from the nightmare that had just impacted their daughter's life. "So, then what happened?"
"The coma lasted for a couple weeks. I broke a lot of bones. Collarbone. Four ribs," he listed off his injuries in a dispassionate voice. "Punctured lung. My leg was crushed."
Travis. A shiver crossed her heart as she imagined him receiving the news. He would have been terrified. Anguished. And all alone in dealing with it. He would have blamed himself, she acknowledged. He still did.
"I learned to walk again, pretty much . . . because of Travis. He paid for everything." Curt picked up his iced tea and took a sip. "He forced me to get out of bed when I—seriously . . . just wanted . . . to die." His voice stronger now, there was a trace of admiration. "He bullied me through the PT regimen. Moved me into his house so I wouldn't cheat and not do it. He made me eat. Made me go to my therapist . . . when I would've just said 'eff the whole thing'." A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "Thanks to him, I have pretty good use of my leg. You probably saw me limping. That happens when I run."
"You probably didn’t appreciate Travis bullying you."
Curtis shook his head, his laugh without joy. "If I'd been strong enough to punch him . . . I would have," he admitted. "But . . . it took me a few years to finally understand that he meant well. My head was in a terrible place. If it hadn’t been for him, I probably wouldn’t have recovered."
"Do you hate him for that?"
His glance was incredulous. "How did you-" Concentrating on the napkin he’d begun shredding, he gathered himself. "I did at first—because at that point . . . I just—I truly believed it would have been better if I'd died," he confessed. "I’d done the worst thing a person can do—and Travis . . . h-he basically stood in my way."
She glanced away when he wiped his eyes. Her heart pounding, MaryJo wondered again whether she was making a tragic situation worse. She was meddling. She was so not qualified to be offering advice-
"He wouldn't let me give up. Travis forced me to do things that would get me healthy. It sounds backwards, but if I could've escaped him—if I could have . . . gone off somewhere and just . . ." He dropped his gaze, leaving the sentence unfinished. "I would have."
"Travis must have suspected." Heart now firmly lodged in her throat, MaryJo prayed she wouldn't make it worse. Prayed she wouldn't say the wrong thing. Prayed they would move on to something safer. "I can see where you would resent his interference."
"After I recovered enough-" Curtis blinked several times, his voice strengthening. "I had to stand trial. Three years for vehicular manslaughter. I served nearly two." His reddened eyes looked weary. "I've been out four years now. By some miracle . . . I found a guy who allowed me to be his apprentice. Despite . . . everything."
"And this tournament—is a new thing for you?" MaryJo slumped back in the booth, surprised to realize her body had been clenched like a fist. "To honor the woman? Mrs. Marshall?"
"Yeah. She was a retired reading specialist. So—her foundation is for literacy. I've been giving money secretly for the past few years. But, this year—I just wanted . . . to do something more. Out in the open. Not as a way of seeking forgiveness," he hastily added. "Because—what I did was unforgivable."
"Did Travis agree with you on this?"
"I didn't consult him until after I started working on it," he admitted, "but he thinks I should just keep donating anonymously like he does."
"Is this process making you feel better?"
"I'll never feel better." His admission was flat. Dead. Matter of fact. "But—I feel like the only way I can live with myself is to . . . do something that matters. Something useful." He shrugged. "Otherwise, why am I still here?"
The torment in his eyes nearly broke her. MaryJo sifted her jumbled thoughts. The horrific collateral damage. The Marshall family had lost a mother and grandmother. Travis—basically losing his brother. And Curt . . . living—barely, with the knowledge his mistake had taken a life. Trapped in his own guilt and remorse. Unable to move forward with his own life. Releasing a tension-filled breath, she summoned the courage to ask a dangerous question. "Why do you think you aren't worthy of forgiveness, Curt? We all make mistakes. Sometimes terrible ones."
His eyes were empty. "I took an innocent woman from her family. Her daughter. Her grandkids." Tossing his napkin on his unfinished lunch, he leaned back in the booth. "I still get letters. From the girl . . . the granddaughter."
Her heart sinking, she sensed where he would lead. "About the accident?"
"She was seventeen when it happened." He sighed heavily. "She wrote about how she'd never hear her voice again. How her grandmother would never—see her graduate high school. Never see her get married-" His voice cracking, he released a shuddering breath. "And it's all true. I did something terrible that can never be fixed."
"You can't change what's done. But—you can forgive yourself."
His eyes heated with something close to loathing. "Please—don't even go there."
"Did you mean to do it, Curtis?" Her heart pounding, MaryJo took a dangerous step out on the limb. "Did you get high that night thinking you could run someone off the road?"
He recoil
ed in shock, his expression dumbfounded. "Are you insane? W-what are you talking about? Of course I didn't do it deliberately."
Leaning forward, she locked eyes with him, willing him to listen. "Of course you didn't. It was an accident. A terrible, life-altering accident." He was shaking his head, unwilling, perhaps forever, to forgive himself. "Curt—what you're doing now—is appropriate. You're taking ownership of the accident. You're showing respect to her family. You're honoring her memory."
"It's not enough."
"You're trying to make up for a horrible mistake—that's more than most people do." She could see by his expression he wasn't budging. "It doesn't mean you can't have a meaningful life. It doesn't mean you aren't allowed—to smile. To occasionally . . . feel good. To celebrate the fact you survived . . . that you were changed by it."
Turning away from her, he swiped angrily at the tears in his eyes. "I don't deserve that."
"Stop punishing yourself, Curtis. You've been punished enough." With a sigh, she reached across the table, grasping his cold hands in hers. "What if you hadn't been high?"
"What do you mean?"
"Was it icy that night? Dark? Cold?"
He closed his eyes. "It was icy. Winter." His voice was lifeless.
"So—if you'd skidded on ice—spun out . . . and hit her car. Would that have changed the outcome?"
"I contributed to the conditions," he argued.
"Reverse it," she suggested gently, aware she was on dangerously thin ice. Curt could lash out at her, too. And then he'd have no one to talk to. "The other driver loses control on ice. Or . . . has a seizure. And hits you. What is that, Curtis?" Her heart pounding, she waited as he stared through her, his brain unwilling to accept her logic. Any logic. When she received no response from the broken man sitting across from her, she instinctively moved to his side of the booth. "Curt?"
"It's an accident," he whispered.
"Live a bigger life," she urged. "Do as much as you can to help others." Hauling him against her, she gave him an encouraging squeeze. "Prove there was a reason for all this pain. Do all the things you might never have done."
Releasing a shuddering breath, he slowly nodded. "I'll—try."
Returning to her side of the booth, she sensed his need to talk about anything else. "Between the two of you, I don't know who's worse. Travis seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders."
"Basically, we're both messed up. He's felt guilty since he left for college—cuz he left me in the clutches of our scary, narcissist mother."
"I've heard a little about her." MaryJo grew uneasy, torn between violating Travis’ well-guarded privacy and wanting to learn what made him tick.
"I did beg him not to go-"
"You were twelve," she reminded.
Curt shrugged. "I know. But Trav still uses that as an excuse to feel bad for me. As though he’s solely responsible for everything that's ever happened. As though I don't have free will."
She smiled. "That's a big brother for you."
"If I could ever get him to realize he's not responsible for me, that would be a good day. I'll feel more like we're friends—instead of this pathetic loser he has to rescue all the time."
"He really wants your friendship." If she could nudge them closer together, it was worth revealing Travis' wish. "He needs a brother. He told me."
Curt's eyes registered amazement. "Seriously? He's always got such a giant wall around himself, I've never thought of him as needing anyone."
"It sounds as though your mother did a number on both of you."
"She's a monster, that's for sure," he confirmed. "But—Travis always took it from her. Kept going back for more. Provoking her, almost. Like—no matter what she did to him, he would prove how strong he was. As though they were in the ring, goin' fifteen rounds." He shrugged. "Me? I just steered clear of the bitch. And all the step-bastards she brought home to us. When she bothered to come home." He swallowed hard, looking away. As though reliving memories he wanted to stay forgotten. "If she didn't want me, then I didn't want her. End of story."
Absorbing a shiver as it raced across her skin, MaryJo began to see a picture emerging of the Travis she knew. The impulse to be reach out. To . . . consider taking a chance on someone. To contemplate allowing another person entry to his solitary life. Before his rigid discipline kicked in and smothered the urge. The ironclad will that helped him survive his childhood was still alive—and in full force. He would grow skittish. Distant. Not calling. He would give of himself—then think better of it. And withdraw. Unwilling—or perhaps unable to open himself to anyone. "Why do you think Travis challenged her . . . instead of walking away?"
"He has to be in control of everything," Curt announced, his tone matter of fact. "At first—it was to protect me. But later-" He hesitated. "I think—it became a challenge. It was so personal-"
"To Travis?"
"To both of them," he corrected. "Shirley wanted him cowering. Defeated. When Travis defied her-" Curtis looked away. "Maybe he would've ended up like this anyway? But, after battling a monster for a decade-" He returned to shredding the napkin on his plate, agitated fingers seeming to need something to do. "Her vicious whims. Four bastard husbands . . . I can't even count how many lowlife, scum boyfriends in between . . ." He met her gaze, his eyes haunted. "Most of them salivating at the opportunity to . . . beat up on Shirley's lazy, disrespectful, spoiled kids."
MaryJo blinked back tears, unable to imagine what they'd both endured. God—she didn't want to know this. And be unable to do anything about it. "Curt-"
"Hey—we survived, right?" He patted her restless hand on the table. "We moved—all the time. From one shitty dump to the next. Never feeling like anywhere was home. If we made friends, we had to leave them. Most of the time—we never got to say goodbye. We'd just disappear. Leave in the middle of the night." He picked up the iced tea he'd been nursing for nearly an hour. "I just realized—it was probably because we hadn't paid the rent."
Curt's smile was forced. "So, there you have it. The messed-up brothers in a nutshell. If Trav didn't own Tiberius, he could never work somewhere he didn't call the shots."
MaryJo startled. Owned? Wait—Travis owned the software company? A cold feeling settled in her stomach. He'd lied to her. By omission, maybe—but a lie, nonetheless. He wasn't a programmer. He'd been driven to succeed at all cost. It made sense. A brilliant, tortured man who'd defied the odds. But—why wouldn't he tell her? His greatest achievement.
She was left to wonder over the reason. Was she okay to hang out with— but not good enough to cut it with his crowd? She recalled the pretty women at the basketball practice a few hours earlier. Preppy. Perfect makeup. Expensively dressed. Was that what Travis was normally attracted to? Something she could never, ever be? Shame washing over her, she felt the urge—again. To bury her head under a pillow.
A few minutes later, they left the restaurant. Walking her to her car, Curt gave her a friendly hug. "Thanks for today, MaryJo. Most of the time . . . I feel as though I can't talk about it with anyone. But living inside my head . . . makes it way worse."
Despite her tumultuous thoughts, she smiled. "I'm glad you felt like talking with me."
"I promise I'll—try . . . to take your advice. It's not as though I want to feel like this forever." With a wave, he left, calling back over his shoulder. "See you Thursday night for practice."
As she started the car, MaryJo absorbed a shiver. She turned the heat on full blast, knowing it was going to take a long time before she felt warm again.
THEY'D BEEN IN THE restaurant for more than an hour. Travis sat in his car—watching. Stewing. Cold. Fuming. Angry and confused at the same time. Why was he there? Why did he care they were sharing lunch? Why did he care that they hadn't invited him? If he were honest, he'd admit that he was hurt. He'd believed they'd had a great time at the practice. Why didn't Curt want to hang out with him? What would it take for his brother . . . to just . . . like him? He dragged a hand throu
gh his hair. The rational part of him knew. Knew his renewed relationship with Curtis was in the early stages. It would take time to rebuild trust. To feel their way back to friendship. To finally be brothers again. But, damn it. They'd already lost nearly a decade. He didn't want to wait any longer.
They weren't at the hanging-out-without-being-invited stage yet. "Not comfortably there," he admitted. And MaryJo? What did he want from her? "Sex," he said, knowing he was lying to himself. Alone. In his car. "Okay—more than sex," he muttered. What the hell did he expect? Curtis was drawn to her. Hell—every guy on the court today had been drawn to her.
"Because she's great." She was friendly. Her smile invited everyone in. It said—go ahead—talk to me. Her smile encouraged. It said I won't shoot you down. I won't make you feel stupid. And she was talented. She'd played better than half the guys out there—all while laughing off her skill. How many times had he heard her guiding Curt—and then cheering him for his moves, based on her advice? As though she'd had nothing to do with it.
She was competitive—but in a good way. Not the bitchy, I'm-a-girl-and-I-have-something-to-prove way. She was confident—at least about her mad basketball skills. She was beautiful—and completely awkward and humble about it. Which made her even more attractive. Hell, she was hot.
His gaze glued to the door, Travis watched countless people coming and going. None of them Curt. Or MaryJo. Maybe they were watching an afternoon game? Drinking at the bar and having fun. With an aggravated sigh, he caught his expression in the rearview mirror. He looked pissed off. He looked—jealous. But he didn't get jealous. Because it wasn't necessary. Not when there were hundreds of available women out there.
"What are they talking about?" His brother . . . and his—friend who wasn’t his girlfriend. A friend he wanted so badly it kept him up at night. Whose scent made his stomach twist with an insane compulsion to touch her. Whose warmth and friendliness had him questioning stuff he'd vowed never to think about. Things he’d been certain he didn’t need. Like—someone to confide in. Someone to hang out with. Maybe a relationship . . . was something he could contemplate.
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