“What?” I respond.
“Got anything to drink? I’m havvinng a rough night,” he says.
It’s a testament to my incredible self-control that I’ve never beaten the crap out of my brother.
* * *
Morning comes and I’m sitting in the kitchen with my coffee, just waiting to see which version of my brother greets me today.
I like to think Chris is a decent guy if you look past all the cons and swindles, the pyramid schemes and the fake lottery tickets. There’s also that fake ID scam he ran a few years back, but his computer guy had trouble with simple math and often ended up making people younger on their ID than they were in real life.
Under all that, I like to think his heart is in the right place. I like to think it, but that doesn’t mean I’m naïve enough to believe it.
“Hey bro,” Chris says, coming into the kitchen. “I think I remember throwing up on your back porch last night. Did I?”
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I guess I got a little carried away.”
I’m waiting for the sales pitch.
He’s taking his time, though, slowly walking past me toward the coffee maker. “Where do you keep your mugs?” he asks.
“Top cabinet to the left of the stove,” I tell him. “How long are you planning to stay here this time?”
“Straight to business, huh?” he says, reaching into the cupboard and pulling down a mug.
Chris is what I’d look like if I stopped going to the gym and started going to the bar, plus a few years. My shoulders are broader, and I’m a few inches taller at 5’9”, but we’ve both got the same dirty blond hair and the same perma-smirk on our mouths from years of listening to parents make promises we knew they’d never keep.
Every time he shows up, I keep telling myself that I’ve got to keep going along with it, that I should kick him out or call the cops or something. I can never bring myself to do it.
When we were younger, though, he really looked out for me.
Coming from the particularly dysfunctional background that I do, I was an easy target for some of the larger kids in class. For years, though, Chris always had my back. I still got the crap kicked out of me on a pretty regular basis, but Chris took a lot of punches so I wouldn’t have to.
After he dropped out and moved out, though, I had to learn how to take care of myself, hence…
“We can’t keep doing this,” I tell him. “You’re my brother, but I think I’ve been more than patient—”
“I know, I know,” he says, waving me off as he walks back over to the coffee maker and fills his mug. “We’ll talk. Just let me get some coffee in me, otherwise I can’t be held accountable for whatever unintelligible nonsense comes out of my mouth.”
He replaces the carafe on the hotplate and takes a big whiff of his coffee.
“All right,” he says before taking a sip, “let’s discuss the terms of my provisional residency.”
I have a feeling he’s going to be here for a while.
Chapter Six
Driving the Train
Ash
Mason’s been hiding something.
Ever since that night I called and he said his brother was passed out on his couch, Mason tenses up whenever I so much as bring up the notion of going over to his place. Maybe it’s something to do with his brother or maybe his brother’s not even there. Either way, he’s been going to increasing lengths to keep us from ending up there.
Present moment, Mason and I are taking what he pitched as “a long walk through the city.” It sounded great until we got out here and I remembered how old, ugly and run down so much of this town is.
“So,” I start when we reach a gap in the conversation, “tell me more about your family. How many siblings do you have?”
It’s best to be tactful in situations like this.
“Just Chris,” he says. “You?”
A car drives by, rattling loudly as the muffler dangles, barely held in place at the back.
“Why are you trying to keep me away from your house?” I blurt.
There goes the tactful approach.
“I told you,” he says. “My brother’s been staying there and things aren’t exactly stable with him.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Chris is one of the more complicated parts of my life,” I tell her. “I’ve found it best to keep people away from him as much as possible. He has a way of separating the kindhearted from their money.”
It’s starting to look like Mason’s not as single as he’s making himself out to be.
“I don’t like being the jealous type,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish the thought without flat out accusing him of something.
“You’re the only woman I’m interested in,” he says.
“But am I the only woman that you’re seeing?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says. “I’m really not the two-timing type.”
“I guess I’d just feel better if you weren’t so adamant about keeping me away from your home,” I tell him.
“Well,” he says, “if it’ll help, we can go there now.”
That was easier than I’d expected—maybe a little too easy.
“Why are you okay going there now when you weren’t before?” I ask.
“You know,” he says, “I’m really starting to get the feeling you don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that,” I tell him. “It’s just that I’m not sure I believe you.”
He laughs.
“All right,” he says. “I just want to warn you that Chris can be a little hard to deal with when he’s been drinking and he was working on a bottle when I left. Just remember that he’s my brother, okay?” he asks. “He’s not me.”
With that, we change directions and head for his place. We don’t talk much on the way. When we get to his house, though, I start to believe what he’s been telling me.
There’s a man sprawled over the porch swing in front of Mason’s house. The man’s wearing nothing but his boxers.
“Great,” Mason mutters. “Could you help me get him inside?”
“That’s him?” I ask, over the drunken man’s loud snoring.
“That’s Chris,” Mason says. He smacks Chris a few times moderately on the cheek, waking him, at least partially, from his slumber.
“Heey, buddy,” Chris mumbles. “I’m just catsching some winks. I’ll be outta your way in a minute.”
“Come on,” Mason says, grabbing one of his brothers arms and pulling the latter upright. “Let’s get you inside before my neighbors start complaining.”
“I’m goood,” Chris says and tries to lie back down, but Mason’s still got his arm. Chris pivots, what appears to be unintentionally, out of the porch swing and Mason has to grab him so he doesn’t fall to the ground.
“Come on, Chris,” Mason grunts, trying to lift his brother to a standing position. “You’re kind of making me look bad.”