Every Night

by Lexy Timms

  But, all that guilt would quickly drain away whenever my mother would open her mouth.

  “You still working that job?” she asked.

  “You mean owning my company? Yes.”

  “Whatever. Please tell me you’re at least taking a corporate seat.”

  “Nope. Still pretty hands on. Working on a job site now, actually. I told Drew we were going to add a commercial property branch to the company and expand beyond residential properties.”

  “Expansion. That sounds exciting,” my father said. “Any rental properties? You know, ones that might bring in more money for you.”

  “We haven’t gotten it off the ground yet. It’s still in its infancy. I’m working on this art gallery in the southern part of San Diego. It’s going to be the first in our portfolio that we’ll use to advertise our services.”

  “Oh, an art gallery. Will they have Degas and Monet? Oh, I bet we could donate one of our pieces. Maybe the Rembrandt upstairs?” my mother asked.

  “Actually, it’s a newly-local artist. She paints and sells her artwork and delves into art therapy. Really has a passion for helping the community around her express themselves through art,” I said.

  “Oh,” my mother said. “How quaint.”

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful,” my father said. “Did you cut the artist a deal? You know, to nail down the client?”

  “Yep. She was appreciative of it, and it got us on board,” I said.

  “See? That’s that keen business mind I keep telling you about, Dorothy. Our son’s got a good one on his shoulders,” he said.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “All right, Michael. We hear you,” my mother said. “You can calm down now.”

  I had to excuse myself from the table. I couldn’t stand the way my mother was so fucking close-minded. An art gallery only had her attention if expensive works of art hung on the walls like their fucking hallway that guided you toward the damn bathroom. Rembrandt and Van Gogh hung from the walls like they were fun little ornaments, decorations to sigh over before getting to the more important stuff. I’d stared at this artwork in awe as a child and had tried to mimic the brushstrokes and colorings. I learned how to shade on my own simply by trying to mimic those pictures, those beautiful pieces of heaven.

  The more I looked on the walls, the more I realized something. There was prized artwork and decorations, a few pictures of my mother and father, and a couple pictures of me. But there were empty spaces, areas where the wall was a different color.

  Pictures had been actively taken down.

  There were no pictures anywhere of my brother, and I had to hold back my vomit as I rushed to the bathroom.

  I threw the door closed behind me and vomited into the sink. They’d gotten rid of them. All of them. Like he didn’t fucking exist. Like he’d never been born to this earth. I’d never noticed it before, but then again, I’d never attempted to elongate dinner beyond what I could possibly stand anyway. I hated walking through this house. I hated the memories it bombarded me with. I hated remembering how John and I used to run these halls together with the nanny chasing after us as she tried to keep us from making a mess.

  The memories alone were enough to choke a horse, and as I threw up the last of my dinner into the sink, I rinsed my mouth out and cleaned up the area around me.

  I gave myself a good, hard look in the mirror. They were my family. My parents. I had to make it through dinner. Just dinner and then I could excuse myself from dessert, telling them I wasn’t feeling well. I loved my family. I really did.

  It’s too bad I had to keep reminding myself of that fact.

  I meandered back out to dinner where my parents finishing their plates. I sat down and took a few bites, trying to stomach the food as my mind began to whirl. My father talked aimlessly about the current state of the San Diego real estate market. He asked me questions about my new projects, about how much the homes I built went for and what kind of profit I made from them. He asked me if I’d thought about renting them instead of selling them, bringing in a guaranteed monthly profit I could rely on to expand even more.

  And that segued into a conversation with my mother that almost blew my head through the roof.

  “Speaking of poor business decisions,” she said, “are you still giving charity jobs to hobos?”

  I had to put my hands in my lap so no one could see me balling up my fists in anger.

  “Yes, Mom. I’m still instilling community outreach into my business,” I said. “I’ve even taken a couple of them on as permanent employees once I trained them and cleaned them up.”

  “You know that will never bring your brother back. It’s just your guilt driving that sort of thing. It really is a poor business model,” she said.

  “Dorothy, I believe that’s enough,” my father said.

  “Look. We tried to talk him out of those hideous tattoos, and it almost cost him his career, Michael. The least we can do is intervene now before his emotions completely sink his business.”

  “Well, I’m not the one actively removing the presence of John out of my life, so I’d be careful with the next words you choose,” I said.

  “Beg your pardon?” my mother asked.

  “The pictures. You’ve removed all of them containing John like he didn’t even exist. I might be reaching out into the community because of what he went through in his life, but at least I’m not trying to act like the black sheep of the family didn’t exist.”

  “Bryan,” my father said.

  “And for the record, the mere fact that I’m a successful business owner disproves your theory about the negative value of tattoos,” I said.

  “I’d like to scrub them off with steel wool,” she said, murmuring.

  “I’m a law-abiding citizen with a very successful career co-owning the premier up-and-coming construction company in all of California. I reach out to the community and try to revive it by pulling from the most underutilized workforce in this country, the poor. I’ve had requests from all over the state wanting our crews to come in and develop some of the lands they can’t seem to do anything with and to revive communities that have sunken into turmoil. And I did it all with these tattoos you seem to think so rudely of,” I said.

  “The tattoos simply make you look bad, regardless of your business success,” she said. “I gave birth to such a beautiful boy, and you marred your body with these ugly things.”

  I had to take a deep breath in order to regulate my blood pressure. The chef tried to sit dessert in front of me, but I simply waved him off. I had no intentions of staying any longer in this house. I didn’t have to tolerate my mother speaking to me this way, and I sure as hell didn’t have to tolerate my father trying to shut me up while she did it.

  I didn’t give a shit as to whether or not she liked the tattoos, but I’d be damned if I was going to sit here and listen to her degrade and shit on my plan to help the homeless.

  Just because she thought she was better than everyone else didn’t mean I had to sit here and listen to her preach her twisted truth.

  “And anyway, everyone who is able-bodied proves themselves,” my mother said. “People who are homeless simply deserve it. Handing them jobs they don’t deserve or interview for simply perpetuates their dependence on us. Those who have become successful because we didn’t succumb to the pressures of life.”

  “I am not giving handouts, mother. I am taking them on with strict rules they have to abide by. If they don’t follow the rules, they get fired. Simple as that. They work full days, earn their paychecks, and learn a trade in the process that they can then use to get them off the streets. I’m not handing them jobs, I’m giving them a chance to do what you just talked about.”

  “And what is that, my dear?” she asked.

  “Prove themselves. I’m doing exactly what you both taught me to do growing up, provide opportunities for hard-working people who recognize the fact that they’ve made mistakes.”

  Silence descended upo
n the table again as my parents sent their desserts away as well. We all sat there, sipping our expensive wine while the tension slowly grew between the three of us. Despite all that occurred, despite everything with John and all the values they raised us with, they were stuck in this insane mindset that permeated the upper-class arrogance of this area of the country. They lacked empathy and respect. They lacked the ability to have mercy and put themselves in other people’s shoes. It was that same lack of desire to help and care for and love that had pushed my brother out of the house and onto the streets.

  It was that same lack of respect that pushed my brother all the way to Los Angeles.

  It was that same lack of caring about anything other than how shit reflected on them that resulted in my brother overdosing in the streets instead of being helped by the people he should’ve been able to trust all his life, especially the two people who should’ve taken him in when no one else would.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I said as I stood.

  “Going so early?” my mother asked.

  “I am. Got an early morning on the job site,” I said.

  “We’re proud of you son,” my father said.

  “I know you are,” I said as I pushed my chair in. “Mom, however, still needs a bit more work on her script.”

  I heard her scoff as I headed for the door. I threw it open and didn’t bother shutting it behind me, making my way to my truck. I wanted to get to the site early in the morning to test out a few of my theories for the outer design of the gallery. It would help to get my mind off all the things that had been said tonight and all the emotions that rattled my stomach.

  It would help me rid my mind of the fact that my parents were actively trying to remove all memories of John from that house and from their lives.

  I drove away from the house with my father’s face receding in my rearview mirror. I knew he wanted to fix things. I knew he wanted to make things right. John had been his baby boy. The prematurely born child he sat in the NICU with for weeks. The first time John had ever wrapped his finger around my father’s hand, it was while my father was wearing gloves.

  He had been so fragile then, and my father had tried to protect him as much as possible.

  He wanted to fix our family and fix what was left of it before he lost his only other son too.

  He just didn’t know how to do it, and quite frankly, neither did I.

  Chapter 12

  Hailey

  I ended up making the most of the storage space out back. The guys had been out here working for two solid weeks, and things were coming along nicely. Bryan didn’t seem to have any other issues with the men he’d employed, and the guy he brought in to replace the one he fired was an absolute sweetheart. He always made sure he was doing the right thing and would talk about his wife every chance he got.

  It wasn’t until later I found out his wife had passed on the streets, and my heart bled for him.

  I was able to fit a little chair into the storage space in the corner. I had tossed a blanket over the boxes of paintings, putting another little barrier between them and the elements. One by one, I started looking through them. They were paintings I had done of things that had inspired me on my journey to find this place. There was a picture of an open field with a horse running in the background while a man chased after it. The greens and yellows all bled together, painting an autumn landscape as the man shouted at his horse to come back.

  The freedom of the horse made me smile, even if the man was in such distress trying to get the stallion back into his stall.

  The fluid muscles of the brown and white stallion had caught my stare. I had been walking along the road, making my way back to the small town where I’d rented an attic for a while. To this day, that was my favorite stretch of road to walk, a barren road in Texas with nothing but farmland, animals, and gravel roads to lead you home.

  Then there was another painting I’d done of a row of three-story townhomes in the middle of Nevada. They had all been painted different colors. One was pink. Another was blue. One was halfway between purple and green, and to this day I’m still not sure what color they were painting over. Some of the windows were busted out and the concrete in front of the houses was cracked and growing with weeds, but there was a beauty in all of it. The beauty wasn’t only in the colors but in the fact that the ground had been slowly penetrating through one of the harder, manmade substances, a foundation we seem to trust with our road systems and our driveways, our homes and even our biking curbs.

  And yet, those weeds had found their way through its vulnerabilities to climb into the light and claw their way to the sunshine.

  There was a beauty in its strength I couldn’t ignore.

  Then, there was the one I hadn’t finished yet. It was the pose I simply couldn’t get out of my head. The one with Bryan holding up his beer. I was able to perfect his tattoos, mimicking the shading and geometric shapes just right. I was able to do more detailing on the beautiful muscles that covered his body, now that I’d seen him up close and hugged him against my skin. I ran my fingertips over the crude outline, my eyes focusing on the searching, wandering look in his eye I remembered from that night. I still wanted to know what he had been searching for as he scanned out over that memorial service.

  I felt a hitch in my throat, and I tried to swallow back my tears.

  When this gallery was finished, everyone would be able to witness this beauty. They could appreciate the strength of the weeds and the colors of the neglected buildings. The freedom of the horse despite its owner yelling at it to come back. The vulnerability behind Bryan’s eyes. The sensuality of the curves of his muscles. The mesmerizing aura of his tattoos.

  Their truth, both beautiful and sad, would be able to influence anyone who came in to witness them.

  I heard someone approaching the storage unit, and I quickly covered everything back up. I slid the paintings back into their boxes before I pulled the sheet back over them. A knock came at the door, heavy but still tentative with curiosity. I stood up and threw it open, smiling when I saw Bryan’s eyes come into view.

  And then I noticed he was sweating.

  In a tank top.

  “Hey there, I was looking for you. I’ve got some ideas I want to run by you for the outer design of the building. You got a moment?” he asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Um, could you help me, though, for a second? You said that little back room is ready, right?” I asked.

  “Yep. Got the light and switch installed like you wished. We finished up that sheetrock yesterday. It’ll have to be painted, but—”

  “Perfect. Is there any way you could help me get a couple of these boxes in there?” I asked.

  “You sure you want to put them in there even though we still have to paint?” he asked. “I’d hate for anything to get ruined.”

  “They won’t be in there forever. I can slide them along the floor once I actually get them in there,” I said.

  “Where’s their final destination?” he asked.

  “Eventually, the back of my car, but I’ll settle for that room for now.”

  “We could put them back there now,” he said.

  “The sun will stream through, though, and alter the paintings. The more weather-tempered I can keep them, the better,” I said.

  “Makes sense. Sure, I can help. Just show me which boxes you want me to move.”

  “It’s only two. I can get the smaller one, but that bigger one I need help with.”

  I pointed them out to him, and he bent over to pick it up. The way his beads of sweat rolled down his back, it painted a picture I wouldn’t have protested to explore. His muscles rolled as he bent down, his arms flexing and his sweat glistening against his tanned skin. There wasn’t a divot on his skin I wouldn’t enjoy dancing my fingertips along, and there was a part of me that wanted to reach out and brush the beads of sweat away from his forehead, so I could feel my skin against his.

  I felt my body heating up as he grasped the bo
x. His hands were large, easily lifting the box in his hands as my eyes traveled down his body. His back was full of chiseled muscle waiting to be explored by someone’s tongue, but the moment his tank top rode up a little more, I froze.

  He had a tattoo on his lower back, and it was a picture of a cabin in the woods.

  It was akin to the cabin painting he wanted to claim as his own.

  In that very moment, my heated blood froze. My body that had been pounding for this rippling, sweating man stood rooted to its spot. That tattoo he hadn’t designed, but it wasn’t possible for it to be the same as the picture John had painted. That tattoo was a bit faded, a good few years older than the ones he had on his arms.

  His first tattoo.

  “Hailey, you comin’?” he asked.

  I was ripped from my trance and saw his eyes dancing around my face. His shoulders glistened in the hot San Diego sun as my eyes trailed down his chest. His tank top was glued to him. Laying into every single dip his muscles had to offer. His broad chest was on display, and his abs flexed against the thin cotton material. In that moment, I wanted to reach out to him, pull him into me, and simply bask in the strength of his body. There was a beauty to him that stemmed beyond the carnal. I wanted to paint him in every single position. In every single type of light. With every single backdrop he could afford.

  Then I wanted to paint him with my tongue.

  “Yes. Sorry. You just ... hoisted that thing right up, didn’t you?” I asked, giggling.

  “It pays to be strong,” he said, grinning.

  I picked up the smaller box and headed behind him into the building. We dropped both of the boxes down onto the small table I had moved into the art room, and that’s when I got my first look at the finished product. The sheetrock was up, and it had already been painted in a thin coat of white paint. It reminded me of the white that begins a canvas right before an artist takes control.

  And I had an idea.

  “Bryan, I think this room’s just fine without another coat of paint,” I said.

  “You sure? I figured you’d want the walls in here to match the walls out there,” he said.