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Suddenly, as I stand there waiting for my brother, I get a feeling of regret washing through me.
What am I doing?
This is his life. His escape. His safe space. And I’m here infiltrating it like I have some claim to every aspect of his life just because he’s my brother.
Isaac doesn’t owe me a damn thing, and Theo Virgil might as well be a stranger to me.
Just because my life is a mess doesn’t mean I need to bring any of that into his. He’s safer with distance. I’m always so concerned about keeping everyone safe, but this is one instance when walking away is how I protect him.
Before I’m spotted, I quickly back away from the fence. Pulling the cap farther down on my head, I shove my hands in my pockets and turn to make my way back to my car.
This was stupid. I’m an asshole for even coming here.
“Theo! Theo! Over here!” The girls cheer excitedly, flashes illuminating the night sky as they take photo after photo.
And I can’t help myself. I have to at least look. I need to lay my eyes on him, even if that’s all I do.
So I turn.
His head is tilted down, with a cowboy hat hiding most of his face. The brightness of his smile stops me in my tracks. He approaches the fence line, beaming at the women. With shoulder-length brown hair and a rugged blue jean jacket, he looks like a star. He looks like he was made for this.
“Hey there,” he says in a Southern drawl with a mixture of confidence and shyness. I smile to myself as I watch him interact with his fans.
They gush over how much they love his songs, and he blushes in return, thanking them for coming.
As I watch from across the street, I try to find traces of my little brother inside this country music star. He’s there. In the dimples in his cheeks. The way he fidgets with his hair. The way he looks right into their eyes when they’re talking to him.
For a moment, I’m at peace. I don’t need anything from him to feel better. He doesn’t need to acknowledge me or let me in. He’s happy. And I refuse to ruin that.
So, with that, I turn away from him and head toward my car.
I only make it three steps before I hear his voice call…
“Caleb?”
Fifty
Caleb
21 years old
My arm is in a sling, and I’m lying on my couch next to my brother Isaac. There’s a football game on, but I’m not paying much attention. Instead, I’m scrolling on my phone, trying to get used to doing anything with my left hand.
I hate the way meds make me feel, but the pain is worse. The screws in my arm are at least keeping it steady, but the bones in my hand will have to heal on their own.
I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.
“Wanna playGran Turismo?” Isaac asks. “You could probably steer with one hand.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile, and I force one in return. Ruffling his hair, I reply, “Nah. Thanks, though.”
When his gaze drifts down to my blue and swollen fingers peeking out of the cast, he winces. “I hope I never get in a fight. Does it hurt?”
Staring at my little brother, the image of him going through what I went through makes me sick. His face pressed against the concrete. Cruel feet stomping on him. Relentless kicks against his rib cage.
Bile rises in my throat.
I want to tell Isaac that it wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter.
