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That bit of information eases my suffering a tiny bit. “I was just… worried about him.” No point denying it.
“Yeah, me too.” Billy nods, holding the clipboard to his chest. “He didn’t say when he’d be back.”
My shoulders droop, and I almost forget Remi standing right beside us. “Was he close to his aunt?” His low voice has a nice resonance.
I blink away the mist from my eyes and give him a sad smile. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Remi is thoughtful a moment. “When my wife died… you remember? I wasn’t up for talking to anyone. I just wanted to be alone. Then after a little while, I couldn’t stand being alone.”
It’s a nice sentiment. I wish it made me feel better. “Thanks, Remi. See you around, Billy.”
“No problem.” Billy actually looks sad for me. I reach out and give his arm a squeeze. “If I hear from him, I’ll tell him to call you.”
Even though it changes nothing, it’s nice to know somebody’s rooting for us. I mean, in addition to Ruby. Someone who Gray might listen to… although, I have no way of knowing if Gray listens to Billy.
More time passes. My texts to Gray have become a daily journal of my life. I send him a text letting him know what the weather is like. I send him a text telling him the Jag is running so smoothly. I send him a text saying I’m going to the lake house to clean out Danny’s things…
Cleaning out my brother’s old room is a task I put off for too long. My dad won’t let us touch anything in the main house in town, but the items in his lake house room are simply gathering dust.
Empty boxes are arranged around the bedroom. When I open the closet door, his scent hits me right in the face, and I have to sit down. For a moment, I think this might be a terrible idea.
I walk downstairs and start opening and closing cabinets. When Gray and I were here, we drank the bottle of red wine I’d ordered from the grocery. The cabinets are bare except for a box of crackers and a can of soup left from that order.
The refrigerator only has the rest of that loaf of bread and cheese. A few cans of soda are in the drawer below. Opening the freezer, a sad smile curls my lips. An old bottle of Skyy vodka sits in the very back.
“Way to go, Danny,” I mutter, pulling it out and turning it in my hands.
It’s cheap and old, but does vodka go bad? I pull down a tumbler ready to find out. I pour it straight over ice before stepping to the radio and switching on the streaming service.
It picks up right where we left off last time. Sam Cooke singing on the radio about bringing your love home to me. Snatching up my phone, I type another text to Gray.
Me: At the lake house cleaning. Wishing you’d show up at my door again.
That night has a different meaning to me now that I know about his PTSD. I realize now the panic he was fighting, the flashbacks. At the time, I only saw the fire in his eyes, his desire when my robe opened and he saw my body for the first time in so long.
My nipples tighten at the memory. It was wild and fierce and demanding, and I needed him so much. I need him now.
With a sigh, I take a long drink of the clear liquor. It only burns a little going down, and I walk slowly up to my brother’s room again.
I gather his clothes into bags for donation to the Goodwill. I keep a few items back for memory. The pictures I put in a box along with his football trophies.
Gazing at those old group photos, I smile at the guys scowling, doing their best to look tough. Gray’s image makes my heart beat faster. His steely eyes burn at me from the past. I was so in love with him back then, but he didn’t notice me until he went away to college.
Blinking fast, I hope history repeats itself.
Perhaps by going away, he’ll remember me again?
Several hours pass. Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, Al Green, and more filter through the radio as I finish boxing up the past. The last thing I find on the very top shelf of Danny’s closet takes me by surprise.
It’s a black leather-bound journal, and it looks ancient. I never knew my brother to keep a journal, and I walk over to sit on his bed and look inside.
At first I hesitate. Is it violating his privacy to read it now? I decide it’s not, since he’s not here to care. Cracking open the cover, I trace my finger over the handwriting.
“Who writes anything down anymore?” I whisper to myself.
At the same time, I guess I make my therapy notes on paper first. I think it helps to organize my thoughts.
The first entries are pretty basic stuff. He’s pissed about football practice. He thinks he was on the bench too much.
