“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 needed 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.
Chapter Nine
"YOU SEEM TENSE today," Dr. Travetti commented breathlessly. She had been running late again, and I was already seated in her office when she'd arrived. I watched her as she situated her mug of coffee on the table between our chairs.
"I bet you paid big bucks to develop those killer people-reading skills," I muttered sardonically, crossing my arms and slouching in my chair.
"Oh, I love when we start the session off with some sarcasm. I know it's gonna be a good day."
I nodded approvingly as my lips curled into a smirk. "Nice, Doc. I'm teaching you well."
A moment of silence passed as she sat and crossed her legs, assuming her professional position. I liked her more when she was rushing and out of breath. When she was more relatable, more human. I thought, if I was a therapist, that's what I’d do. None of this suit-and-tie, stick-up-the-ass bullshit. I'd get on the level of the people, meet at a cafe or some shit, and talk like a friend and less like a doctor.
But I'd never be a therapist. I couldn't even save myself—how the hell could I save someone else?
"So, I was thinking," she began, finding a comfortable place in her chair, "maybe we could pick up where we left off last time. Our session was so short, and I had to cut you off so abruptly ..."
"I'd rather not," I replied curtly.
"Well, I really thought we started to make some progress, so I thought ..." She shrugged innocently.
I shook my head persistently. "You know, Doc, I'd really rather talk about my shit-show of a weekend, if that's okay with you."
"Oh," she gestured for me to continue, giving me the floor, "of course. Go ahead."
"Shane mentioned me on Instagram and got me a whole lot of attention. Then, I went to the club and read one of my poems," I told her.
Her eyes widened with intrigue. "You've never shown me one of your poems."
"I don't keep them," I informed her with a nonchalant shrug. "I write 'em and toss 'em out."
"That's pretty sad," she commented.
I snickered. "Why is that sad?"
"You're never proud and want to keep them?"
"Nope."
"Okay," she nodded slowly, absorbing. "What made you decide to read this one, then?"