This is it. These minor exchanges are enough to keep me hoping.
Leo is a dick. I know that. He does immature shit and says mean things. But there’s this constant nagging in the back of my mind that tells me something is off whenever he flings one of his barbs. A whisper of a voice begging me not to give up on him. And then I get a glimpse. Maybe it’s a genuine laugh or a throwback to our childhood together, and I wonder if there are still some parts of my brother worth saving.
The bartender sets Leo’s drink down, and I watch him throw it back like water.
“What’s up, Loony? You need help or something?” He stares at me, calculating.
And just like most things with Leo, there are layers. Would he help me if I had a problem?
Probably. Maybe.
Would he judge me?
Probably. Maybe.
Would he charge me for help?
Probably. Maybe.
But I’ve never asked him for help. Because when we were kids, I never had to ask. He knew what Dash and I needed, and he did his best to get it. Then a switch flipped, and it was just me taking care of things.
Leo turned into someone I fought against to keep Dash safe. Which meant I brought none of my problems to my twin and he stopped trying to solve them on his own.
“I don’t need help.” I sip more of my ginger ale and study my brother, looking for more hints. For more cracks.
Leo flexes his shoulders and kicks the heel of his boot against the barstool, agitation in all the lines of his body. “Like I said, I’m a busy man. Want to get to the point?”
“Do you know why I’m in town?”
I watch him lose every hint of aggression in an almost-eerie display of mood switching. He twists on his stool and lounges back against the bar, not a care in the world.
“I heard you in the house. Death in the family, huh? Old Granny bit the dust?”
My teeth ache as I clench my jaw, and I stare off to the side, blinking rapidly.
Damn Leo. Damn him and this bullshit front.
At least I know how to get through it, even if it means using words sharpened to hurt.
“You sound like our father.”
Someone who didn’t know my brother might think he wasn’t affected.
But I see the tense muscle in his neck.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he mutters.
Disgust, pure and toxic, courses through my veins at the idea that Leo wouldn’t care if he grew into that man.
“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, with you working for Uncle Mike. Like father, like son. Should I watch what I say around you? Flinch if you move too fast? You going to show me how bigof a man you are with a fist to my face?” With each sentence, my voice grows harder, and I stare deeper into eyes the same dark shade as mine.
“He doesn’t do that anymore,” Leo says, but his words lack conviction.
“Only because the coward knows he can’t win.”
If Bill Lamont went for me like he used to, I’d break his arm. And maybe a few other bones, just to drive the point home.
I almost wish he would.
