“Okay,” he replies, copying my half-hearted nod. “Alright. Good.”
I eye him with caution when he undoes his seatbelt and clambers out of his car. Although we’ve been at odds most of the day, now it feels ten times stranger. I want to say his lukewarm response to my pledge is normal, but there is a weird feeling twisting my stomach, warning me to remain cautious.
I stop shadowing Chris up the cracked sidewalk when the rumble of a motorbike sounds through my ears. Air whizzes out of my parted lips when I spot Brax’s Harley gliding down the street. My response is one a man hiding from insurgents would give when spotting a Boeing XE-15 bomber in the sky. I am relieved beyond belief.
The cavalry has arrived, but instead of being strapped with AK47s and nuclear bombs, his saddlebags are loaded with Chris's favorite whiskey and spicy buffalo wings.
* * *
“Has he been like this all day?” Brax asks, dumping a dozen empty bottles of beer into the trash can at the side of Chris’s house.
I follow the direction of his gaze. “Yeah. Other than an unexpected trip to visit his mother’s house, he’s been sitting on that couch all day,” I reply, peering at Chris through the torn lace curtain of his living room.
Feeling our inconspicuous gawk, Chris lifts and locks his eyes with us. The accuracy of his stare is shocking. He didn't even scan his surroundings. I want to say the past ten hours has cleared the angst from his eyes, but unfortunately, that isn’t the case. They appear as lost now than they were earlier today. If only I could read him as well as I can Brax, then I'd have an idea what is going on in that head of his. He keeps his emotions as tightly locked as a bank vault. He is impossible to crack.
Incapable of returning Chris’s haunted stare for a moment longer, I return my eyes to Brax. “Did he tell you what happened this morning?”
Brax scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Somewhat? He didn’t really make any sense. He mentioned something about a house belonging to Noah? And that he’s got a plan to make things right.” You can see the confusion on his face. “Other than that, he slurred the rest of his words.”
Brax’s tongue delves out to replenish his dry lips while he contemplates how to ask, “Is he only intoxicated?”
I freeze for barely a second, but it is long enough for Brax to see the truth in my eyes. He can read me as well as I can him.
“Fuck. .. What’s he on?”
I shrug. “I didn’t get a good look at it before I flushed it down the toilet.”
Air puffs from Brax’s nostrils. “You flushed his stash down the toilet?”
I glare at him, stunned by the humor in his voice.Now is not the time for laughing.
"Come on, Ryan, don't give me that face. I know what today is. I know what he's been through, but it's also been four years. His grief should be easing, not getting worse," Brax says, his voice more mature than his twenty-two years. "You've gone through just as much shit, but you're not walking the same path Chris is."
“This is different—”
"How?" Brax asks with raised brows. "His dad was an alcoholic. Your dad was an alcoholic. His mother is fucked in the head. Your mother is fucked in the head. He lost his brother. You pretty much lost yours. You are two men dealing with the same shit, but you got up and dusted off your shoulders. Chris hasn't even attempted to move past the first stage of grief."
“We can’t force him to move on—”
“Why?” Brax interrupts again, his voice not malicious or rude. He is genuinely confused.
“Because that’s not how grief works. Just because you’re told you shouldn’t miss someone doesn’t mean you don’t. There is no suitable timeframe to overcome the loss of a loved one. For some, it can take months. For others, it is years.”For fools like me, it could be eternity.
I grow uneasy I said my last sentence out loud when the worry on Brax’s face doubles. It is only when I notice his focus is on something behind my shoulder do I take another breath.
“What is it. . .?”
My words trail off when I notice the sofa Chris has been occupying the past ten hours is void of his backside. I'm not going to lie; I'm surprised he can walk. My dad's veins pumped more alcohol than they did blood and even he would have had a hard time functioning after the copious amount of scotch Chris consumed this evening.
“He’s probably just hitting the can,” Brax surmises. “I’d rather him use the bathroom than make the mess he did last year. I swear I can still smell his piss in my carpet.”
“Yeah, probably,” I reply, struggling to ignore the knot in my stomach.
“Ryan. . .” Brax warns in a low growl when I push off my feet and head back into Chris’s house. “If he thinks you’re babying him. . .”
He stops talking when he hears flowing water.
“He’s taking a shower?” Nothing but shock resonates in his tone. One of the first things Chris abandoned when Michael died was his showering regime.
