It was only when Regina stumbled upon Savannah’s letter tucked into a copy of the first romance book she read did reality dawn. For the first time in my life, my acting skills were above par. Savannah believed every lie I spoke. She thought I had moved on.
She had left me.
Shaking my head to rid it of disturbing thoughts, I return my focus to Chris. Today isn't about Savannah. It is about Chris.
“Noah lives with his friend Jacob.” I keep my tone low, hoping my confession that I’ve been keeping an eye on his brother doesn’t re-spark his agitation.
I’m not watching Noah from afar because of my job. I watch him because the slap I witnessed him endure four years ago wasn’t the only one I’ve seen. Noah’s mom is a female version of my dad; she just abuses her teenage son instead of her partner. In a way, that makes her worse than my father. Children are innocent, no matter what.
“He’s with Jacob?” Chris asks, his voice unlike any I’ve heard. He sounds lost, void of a soul.
Unable to speak, I nod my head.
“How long?”
I lick my dry lips before replying, “Permanently, a couple of months. But he’s been back and forth for years.”
“Good,” Chris huffs out in a groan, his eyes fixated on someone behind my shoulder. “He’s better off there.”
Snubbing his mom’s request to sit down and talk, he exits his family estate with as much gusto as he entered it. After dipping my chin in farewell to his mother, I follow after him. It is times like today I wish I were a vindictive person. She doesn’t deserve my courtesy, but I can’t stop myself from issuing it.
Our drive back to Chris’s desolate house in the middle of Ravenshoe is made in silence. I have a million questions I want to ask and another million I want to answer, but easing his anguish is more important than settling my curiosity, so I keep my mouth shut.
I know from the stories Chris shared over the years that the man he mentioned when confronting his mother is his grandfather. Chris said although his infamous nickname was given in jest, the title suited him well. He was grumpy, but in a way Chris couldn’t help but admire. . . and emulate him. Even without having a drop of the same blood, Chris’s personality mirrors his father’s old man.
I stare down at my hands, wondering how long Chris has known Trevor isn't his father. Was it something he's always been aware of but never shared? Or was it only just unearthed? Is it the cause of his addiction? Or merely another piece of shit added to the pile he's been accumulating the past few years?
A couple of years ago, I would have only needed to look into Chris’s eyes to seek answers to my questions. Today, I am stumped. Chris has never been family-oriented, but up until four years ago, that didn’t extend to Brax and me. Things changed when Michael died. The stronger Chris’s grief became, the more he pulled away from us. He is still the same mischievous man he’s always been, just a watered-down, heartbroken version.Kind of like me.
My eyes drift from my hands to Chris when he says, “That house you saw—that big ugly pile of bricks and mortar my mom puts above anyone—she doesn’t even own it.” He chuckles. It is a painful, tormented laugh.
“My mom kissed Grumpies’ ass for years, and what did she get for it? Nothing. Not a single fucking thing.”
He turns his pained eyes to me. "I'm not even his grandson, yet he still left me one-third of his estate. An even share. Everything he owned was divided between Michael, Noah and me."
He shakes his head while looking at the clapboard home he is pulling his rusty, beat-up sedan in front of. “I live in this shithole while my name is on the deed of a property with a greater land value than I’ll earn in a decade.”
“Then do something about it. Have her evicted,” I encourage. No parent should suffer the loss of a child, but Chris’s mom is milking it for all it’s worth. She didn’t grieve her youngest son; she plotted how she could benefit from his death.
Chris purses his lips. “I considered it when I saw her strike Noah after Michael’s funeral. I even contacted a lawyer about it. But she had just lost her son. . . She was grieving. I couldn’t kick her out. She had nowhere to go.”
His eyes reveal his hesitation. “She also promised it was the first and last time she’d ever strike Noah.” I hear the rattle of his heart when he asks, “It wasn’t, was it?”
I want to save him the pain, but I also don’t want to lie, so I shake my head. Chris’s face scrunches up as he struggles to compose himself. He does a good job. If it weren’t for the pained moan simpering from his lips, I’d be none the wiser to the anguish swallowing him whole.
“You can fix this, Chris,” I assure him.
“How?” he asks, his short reply incapable of hiding his torment.
“We’ll. . . Brax and I. . .you’ll. . .”Come on brain, now is not the time to fuck up.“We’ll always be here for you, Chris. Brax and I will always have your back.”
He barely swallows a sob. “And what about Noah? Who has his back?”
"You do." When the absolute agony in his eyes doubles, I stumble out, "And me. He'll have me as well. You're my brother, Chris. That means Noah is as well."
He wipes the contents from his nose onto his long-sleeve shirt before muttering, “You’ll look after Noah? Treat him like your brother?”
I nod. “Yes. Always.”
