“You were being honest. It’s not like I’ve never thought them myself. Hell, I’ve thought things that were so much worse. It’s something I’m defensive about. I just don’t like hearing them from other people. Double standard, I know, but you know how it is with siblings.”
I do know how it is with siblings.
His apology goes a long way, but it’s still hard to trust someone like Brandon Nix with my career. I decide to take a page from his book and be brutally honest. “I don’t really like you, and I’m fairly confident the feeling is mutual. We don’t have to like each other, but if we both want to keep our jobs, we need to help each other. If I can’t come up with a reason we’ve been seen together, I’m done forever. The positive spin of a charitable venture may put you back in good graces and take you where you want to go. Do you think you can put on a show and work with me on some benevolent undertaking that will help us both out?”
It feels amazing to say what I’m actually thinking and feeling, instead of keeping it all bottled up.
Brandon keeps looking in his lap. I’m half tempted to stand up and look to see what’s so interesting, but I also don’t want to invite any lewd comments from him. Also, standing up seems like a lot of work at this moment.
“What do you say?” I gently nudge.
“We need to get this out there fast, don’t we?”
I am thinking about my meeting in three short days. “Yeah, but it’s probably too little too late for me. I’d like to try even so. I have nothing to lose at this point.”
“It’d be nice to create our own organization, but that seems like a lot of work. Maybe we can find an already existing charity and see if we can get involved?” Brandon muses.
He makes a good point. “Can you reach out to your agent or manager and ask them if they can research for you? And then maybe reach out on your behalf? I don’t have an agent, but if you can get your foot in the door, you can throw my name in it too. I’m willing to do whatever.”
Brandon’s laugh is low and bitter. “My agent is the most unlikeable fuckwad you’ve ever met. He hates me, and there’s no way in hell he’d want me to do something that doesn’t net the both of us a fat wad of cash.”
I want to school my reaction, but that takes more energy than I possess. “Tell me how you really feel.”
Brandon takes a deep inhale, indicating a tirade is on the way. While part of me would like to know, a larger part of me wants to die right now, so we need to stay on task.
I interject quickly. “Just kidding. Let’s just pick something on our own then.”
“What’s wrong with your brother?” Brandon asks abruptly.
Concussion or not, his words are like nails on a chalkboard. “Nothing’s wrong with him.”
Brandon rolls his eyes. “You said he had a terminal illness. What was it again? Something with muscles? I was only half listening. And what’s his name?”
Brandon is like so many people who don’t realize how it sounds when he asks what’s wrong. Benj as a person is perfect. Benj’s muscles are another story.
“Benjamin. I call him Benj. He has a disease called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. The nerve cells in his spinal cord that control his voluntary muscles don’t work, and it causes his muscles to waste away. It’s a genetic thing. When he was born, the life expectancy for his type was maybe upper twenties to early thirties. He’s thirty-two and doing so well apparently that he can go on a cross-country road trip with his girlfriend.”
“Can he walk?”
“No, he never could. He used to be able to sit on his own, but he’s gotten weaker as he’s aged. He uses a power wheelchair and will 100 percent run you over if you get in his way. His spine is super curved, and that can have a negative impact on his lungs and breathing. He can feel everything normally, and his cognition is super high. He’s way smarter than I am.”
“Okay, well your sob story is much better than mine.”
I’d take offense, but this is Brandon Nix. I don’t think he even knows what it means to think before you speak. On the other hand, he’s been surprisingly kind tonight, so maybe I’ll cut him some slack this one time.
“I think I should be the judge of that. What’s your sob story?”
He pushes his glasses up on top of his head, pulling his hair off his face. “I don’t have a sob story.”
I smile at his glib attempt at denial. “Your sister’s a recovering addict and you said your mom was dead. Of course, there’s a sob story.”
“You mean like the time my mom and sister were visiting me for my last U18 tournament and my sister was a new driver, but she was pretty good. They were just out driving around between games. It was the middle of the day. They were T-boned by a drunk driver and my mom was killed. Jess was hurt but also saw our mom die a gruesome death, and it messed her up. She became addicted to the pain pills they prescribed her because of her injuries.”
My lips form a small O. “I’m sorry.”
“Listen, I don’t want your pity.” He stands up and begins pacing.
“I’m not giving you pity. I’m just saying I’m sorry because it’s a sucky thing to have happened. Just like having a brother with a genetic mutation that robs him of movement while keeping his brain totally functioning. It sucks. Sometimes there’s nothing more to say than that.”
