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“Because we all want to believe that we’re not as powerless as we really are….control is an illusion, dude. Give yourself a break.”
As if the funeral for my best friend’s brother wasn’t bad enough, the wake is worse. The ballroom at the Beverly Hills Hotel is packed. Your usual Beverly Hills crowd of well-dressed douchebags. Most of them doctors, like both of Rea’s parents.
His dad’s a heart surgeon and his mom’s a dermatologist. As far as I can tell, both of them are assholes and I’m entitled to say that because I haven’t seen either one shed a single tear over their son. Over the years, I’ve met them a few times. Enough to conclude that they are cold to the bone. Mine are certifiable and Rea’s are barely human. I don’t know who has it worse.
I nurse my soda when I really want to be nursing some good whiskey. It’s been that kind of day.
“How are you holding up?” I hear Brock say to our friend who’s barely hanging on. Brock plants himself beside Rea, watches him drain his third glass of whiskey.
“I could use another drink,” Rea answers, shaking the empty tumbler.
“I know you’re in a shit place right now, but getting drunk is not the answer.”
“Do you ever get tired of being perfect?” Rea says to Brock. I don’t blame him. Mother has high standards, and the rest of us often fall short.
“Good whiskey is always the answer,” I interrupt. Grabbing a chair along the way, I drop it near theirs and straddle it. “As a matter of fact, I’ll join you. Let’s get trashed. I can make a couple of calls and get some Molly.” Damn, I miss Molly. I haven’t touched it since before the night we beat Long Beach––or anything else for that matter. A day like this might warrant invoking a time-out.
Reagan aims a fed-up stare at me. “I’m not helping you off the wagon. If you wanna get wasted, find your own excuse.”
I got about a million of them and not a single one would make me feel better the morning after. It’s then I realize I can’t keep making the same mistakes and getting the same results.
“Dude––” I know he’s hurting. I know he’s hit his breaking point so I joke––like I always do. “You’re a mean drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he grunts.
“You’re definitely on your way,” Brock argues.
“I know you’re going to law school next year, but could we shelve the debates for today?” Rea fires back.
Something behind me draws my attention. Turning in my seat, I catch Dora, who’s sitting with her friends at one of the cocktail tables, watching me with an expression I can’t discern.
“Reagan,” Dr. Douchebag Dad pages his son. He’s got a rod shoved so far up his ass his chin never comes down. His dad conducts a brief and disgusted examination of me and Brock. “Care to tear yourself away from your friends for a minute to be with your family. Dean Sullivan would like to have a word with you.”
Reagan’s face gets red. I’ve never seen him look so pissed. “No, I don’t care to,” he snaps.
The entire place goes deadly silent. Heads swivel. All hundred or so people in attendance turn their attention our way. Bailey stands and starts to walk over, and I shake my head at her. This has been a long time coming and I don’t want to see her get caught in the line of fire.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time––come here.” The fucker grits his teeth. “And out of respect for your brother, keep your voice down.”
Rea recoils as if he’s been punched.
“Me? All I’ve ever had was love and respect for him. Can you say the same, Dad?! Do your friends know that you cut him out of your life, out of the family, years ago? That you haven’t seen or talked to him in three years?!”
“Reagan,” Dr. Mom chides. Standing, she advances on him.
“––that you had him arrested for trespassing when he showed up at the house. Do they know that you don’t give a fuck that he’s dead?!”
His mother grabs his arm. “Outside, right now!”
“Why?” Rea shouts, shaking her off. “Am I embarrassing you?”
“Yes,” she grits out.
One big happy family. It makes me think of mine. I haven’t spoken to Brenda since the night of my accident. Shortly after that the bullshit apologist texts and voicemails started. When they got to be too much, I blocked her.
“The junkie son is dead!” Reagan shouts at the top of his lungs. My boy is finally letting it all hang out and it’s about time. Something had to give and it was either this or his mental health.
“Murdered for his sneakers. Sneakers I gave him”––he pounds on his chest––“The ones I insisted he wear because I was worried about his feet. He was stabbed eighteen times for them!”
