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“He wanted to hurt me. Had nothing to do with you. I wasn’t gonna drag you into that and get you hurt.”
“Fuck.” Ash kicks the sofa and turns toward me. He jabs a finger at me. “You don’t get to make such a call. How old were you when he started?”
“Seventeen. He rarely lost control before then.”
“Fuck.”
I shrug. “He always had a beef with me. Always thought I wasn’t his. Turns out he was right.” I rub my chest, try to regulate my breathing. “Never thought he’d touch a hair on your head. You were perfect in his eyes.”
Ash gives a sharp bark of laughter. “That sick asshole. Well, after you were gone, you were the perfect one, and I was the worthless bastard.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fucking psycho.”
But he looks devastated. I can read his face—he hasn’t changed so much. Until now, he believed Dad could be saved. That drinking could explain his behavior. That maybe if he was good and patient and took it without a word, Dad might stop.
I thought that once, too.
“Ash. Let’s go.” I push off the wall and in my turn haul my brother out of there. “You shouldn’t have come. This was my thing.” My nightmare. My demons.
“Bullshit,” he mutters. “I had to see this, too. Had to know, man.” He shoots me a pained glance. “Had to understand.”
“And do you now?” I growl as I open the front door and lead us out into the fading, weak sunlight.
“I’m starting to,” he says quietly. “Goddammit, Ty, I’m starting to.”
***
Ash splits as I climb on my bike, but not before he tells me we should meet for drinks during the week. I look at him go, pretending to fiddle with my gloves.
When I judge Ash is far enough not to see me, I slump forward and draw a breath, then let it out slowly.
Christ. I can’t fucking believe it. After all this time of doubt and remorse, I have my little bro back in my life. Granted, it’s baby steps, but steps nevertheless. Hell, I’ll go drink acid with him, if that’s what he asks of me.
Plus, I survived the visit to the past. Yeah, so my heart may still be racing and cold sweat has stuck my shirt and sweater to my back, but I walked out and I’m still alive. Haven’t gone raving mad, either.
That’s no small victory. After years of dreading this moment, it’s now over and done with.
Is it now? a voice mutters in the back of my head.
I scratch my cheek. I need to shave. Need to put myself back together. I feel itchy all over, scattered. Victory or not, seeing the place where my dad tortured me isn’t doing any wonders for my mental state.
Shoving the cell into my pocket, I pull on my gloves and helmet and head home. I open the door to my apartment and wince. Bare, cold, impersonal. Like my life.
I open the windows anyway and sit at my laptop. Lots of work left to do, and I see a couple new emails from customers requesting I design their websites. Timing is good. I don’t have to work at Damage tonight.
Yet my brain refuses to oblige. I can’t concentrate. My thoughts circle from Ash to the basement, and from the basement to my past, and from there to Erin. Always coming back to her.
Fuck this. I can’t sit still right now. I’m full of nervous energy, and I need to spend it before I start breaking stuff.
I end up on the floor, doing push-ups, sit-ups, crunches, you name it. Pushing my body as much as I can, sweating out useless adrenaline. Dad taught me how to exercise. He had this idea I would follow in his footsteps in the ring. That was until he decided I wasn’t his son and didn’t deserve to be trained by him anymore.
Fuck him anyway. I survived. I came back.
Shit.
I stop in the middle of a push-up, my middle cramping. Maybe I’ve done enough. I’m dripping sweat, and my every muscle trembles. I shower, and then I emerge with a towel around my hips in search of clean clothes. I pull out my last clean T-shirt and underwear, and tell myself tomorrow I’ll go to the laundromat and then buy food. Fix this place. Put order to the chaos.
Weren’t you going to leave?
Hell. Returning to my laptop, I manage to put in some hours of work. Next thing I know, I’m frozen stiff, and my vision is blurry. My body aches with the need to rest, and the throb behind my eyes tells me I can’t put it off any longer. I have to crash, come what may.
