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My shoulders drop. “Come on.”
“It’s Tank and Fury.”
“Fine. Parents?”
“Our father is dead and our mother is in a residential home.” He says it with no emotion whatsoever.
“I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask if your mom is okay?”
“She has dementia. Late stages. Some days she recognizes us, others she doesn’t.”
I wince. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s life.”
“And your father?” I ask, more curious than I should be.
“Murdered.”
I balk at the shiny paintwork of the hood. Again, there was no emotion in there. None at all. “I’m so—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he grunts. “Justice was served.”
I press my lips together, knowing that justice did not come from a judge. “By you?” I ask.
“By Tank.”
“How?”
He laughs a little, and I roll my eyes. He thinks I’m thirsty for blood. Worryingly, he might be right. “He took off his head with a sword.”
“Oh. Prison?”
“Yes. But not for that.”
“And you?”
He sighs. “If Tank sleeps, I sleep. If he eats, I eat. If he laughs, I laugh. If he goes to prison, I go to prison.”
I smile. “It’s cute how close you are.”
“We’re twins, Beau. We have no choice.”
“Stop playing it down. You couldn’t live without each other.” I poke him in the back. “You don’t have to be all macho with me.”
“Could say the same for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, stop trying to prove to the world, and more importantly to James, that you’re always a-fucking-okay.”
I pout. “Iamokay.”
“You’re full of shit, Beau,” he grunts. “Full of fucking shit.”
Recoiling, I wonder if he is right. Of course he’s right. Peace is a seesaw. Up and down. Glimmers here and there, threatening to complete me and give me that elusive eternal serenity. I’m a fraud, more to myself than anyone else. Even when I thought the root of my darkness was gone, there was something else to bring me back down to earth. Something else to channel my misery into.A miscarriage. “I’m just trying to—”
“Make James feel better? It ain’t working, Beau. You’re fooling no one but yourself.”
