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Being around him had instilled me with this addictive, thrilling kind of fear. Fear of him or myself, I wasn’t sure. But it had raced through my veins like a drug, and now that he was gone, I felt drained yet twitchy, hungry for the next hit.
“Damn,” I said under my breath. Then I shook my head, breaking free of whatever hold he’d had on me.
I started down the hall toward my apartment and bit my lip. Tonight had been straight-up trippy. That’s all there was to it.
After digging my key from my purse, I unlocked my door and used my shoulder to power my way inside since it liked to stick so much. Then I tossed my purse on the couch, which doubled as my bed and went straight to the kitchen to hunt up a cup for the soda and then microwave the chicken noodle soup in a ceramic bowl.
Once I had everything prepared, I used one of Miguel’s school books to double as a tray, and I piled everything on top of it before carrying it down the hall. Even before I reached his door, though, I could hear him coughing inside. He was shifting restlessly in bed as I toed my way into his room.
“Bubby,” I murmured softly, going to him and sitting on the edge of the bed next to his arm and placing the textbook tray on his nightstand. The light from the hall spilled over his sweating features as his eyelids fluttered open.
His head rolled limply my way. “Gabs?”
“Hey,” I whispered, smiling softly as I reached out to check his brow. He was still burning up. “I got you a little something to help with your fever.”
Popping off the cap of the Tylenol bottle, I sprinkled a capsule into my palm and held it out to him. “Here.”
He took the pill and placed it between his teeth, waiting to swallow until I handed him the cup. When he tipped his head back and took a drink, I nodded, smiling as my chest filled tight with emotion.
His eyes lit with surprise as he lowered the cup and licked his lips. “Sprite,” he said, probably because he’d been expecting plain water.
When he took another, longer drink, I shook my head, sniffing out my amusement only to warn, “Not too much, though.” We didn’t want his blood sugar levels to get too high.
The kid loved anything sweet. It really was too bad he’d ended up with diabetes.
When my throat went closed with regret, I ignored the sensation and reached for the bowl. “And there’s chicken noodle soup too.”
“Really?” Sitting up for that, he came to life a bit more as I handed it over.
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“Mmm,” he mumbled, sighing in delight as he took his first sip. “But so good. Got any crackers?”
My lips twitched. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
I gave them to him next and watched as he ate everything. He savored each bite, closing his eyes and humming through the swallows, and I decided that the shit I’d done tonight had been worth it. Right or wrong, it didn’t matter. Miguel was what mattered. And he was smiling as he handed his empty bowl back to me before settling back into bed to tuck his hands under his cheek and close his eyes.
Even knowing the risks this time around, I think I would’ve done everything the same a second time. Even try on that dress.
I’d looked damn good in that dress.
Gathering the empty bowl and cup as my brother almost instantly fell back to sleep, I stood and left him to his rest. Then I retreated to the kitchen to clean the dishes. I didn’t hear the whimpering down the hall until I turned the faucet off. When it morphed into a low moan of distress, I sighed and started toward it.
Bypassing Miguel’s door, I crept uneasily toward the second bedroom and set my hand on the doorknob a full five seconds before twisting it open and peeking inside.
Papá was also sleeping fretfully, shifting on his mattress and making sounds like a wounded animal.
I wanted to go to him, wake him from his nightmares, and ask if he was okay. But he always snapped at me when I did that, telling me it was just phantom pains before ordering me to leave him alone again.
It’d been a year since he’d lost the lower half of his left leg in a logging accident, and he seemed to have only gotten worse since then, the physical pain probably being the least of hi
s problems.
Aside from a missing limb, he’d also been laid off from his job, because one-legged lumberjacks weren’t exactly a thing. Then we’d gotten so far behind on rent because there’d been problems with insurance—we still hadn’t seen any help from them—and the bills had piled up so high that we’d gotten evicted from our last home. And now that all three of us were relying solely on my paycheck from Trudy’s, Papá seemed to lose his will to live altogether.
I had no idea how to help him. Shutting the door, I retreated to my sofa bed in the living room and slumped down with a heavy sigh. Papá had never had as much trouble supporting the family as I did. He’d made it look so easy and effortless. But I felt like I struggled every day, through every bill.
I worked my fingers to the bone, trying to keep up. And the more I tried, the further we seemed to slip behind. What the hell was I doing wrong?
