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My eyes widened. “What, all of it?”
He nodded miserably. “All the rent and more besides. I’m sorry. I’msosorry. I was such an idiot. And I know how hard you worked. I… I wanted to figure out a way to get it back so you’d never have to know. I didn’t want you to be mad.”
“Mad? I’m not mad, Pollux. I’m fucking gutted. How could you behomelessand not tell me? And not ask me for fucking help?” My hands shook as I tried pulling him up from the sidewalk. He reeked of unwashed body, and his clothes were filthy. “Where’s your stuff? We’re going home.”
He shook his head, but my usually cheerful, talkative younger brother shuffled out of the alley after me, meek as a puppy. “No stuff. Sold all the stuff. Sold my phone, too, last week.”
PJ seemed numb. Tired in a way that implied he hadn’t slept well in weeks… maybe even longer. The only information I’d gotten from his drunken former roommates at his old apartment was that he’d moved out earlier in the summer andthey hadn’t seen him around campus since. One roommate had mentioned seeing PJ with an older guy—maybe a boyfriend, hard to tell—the previous semester, and I’d wondered if my brother was shacked up with some guy.
I hadn’t imagined him alone. On the street.
“Daydreamer. Your art supplies? Your clothes?”
“Sold it all.”
“Why?” I whispered.
He took a shuddering breath. “Don’t make me tell you. It’s too embarrassing, Flynn. I can’t… I don’t want…”
I led him back to the garage where I’d parked my truck. “I’m your brother. You can tell me anything.”
But it was only a few moments of silence, once I’d finally buckled him into the passenger’s seat and started the engine, that he finally spoke again. “I fell for a scam,” he admitted. “One of my professors said I didn’t have what it takes to be a career artist—”
“Bullshit,” I snapped. “What the fuck? What professor tells someone that? And your talent is incredible, PJ. It’s why the school gave you a scholarship!”
He waved a hand listlessly through the air. “Whatever. I don’t care anymore.”
“One person said bad things and it caused you to drop out?”
“I didn’t drop out. I…” He swallowed. “Ifailedout because I stopped showing up. I found out about a gallery show—you know, a way I could prove I have what it takes—and I got conned into spending more and more time and money setting it up.” PJ sighed. “It was a scam. To get money out of desperate art students. And it worked on me because I was stupid. Can we… not talk about this right now. I’m hungry and tired, and I just… I don’t want to think about art ever again. I just want to go back to the Retreat and forget about everything.”
“Yes, of course. Let’s get you home,” I said, biting back the million questions I had for him. Instead, I ducked into a deli to grab sandwiches and drinks before settling him into the truck and heading home.
PJ fell asleep an hour into the drive back to Honeybridge. Even with the windows down in the truck, the cab still stank of him. It made my chest hurt thinking of both what he’d had to go through in the past couple of months and why he hadn’t felt like he could reach out for help.
PJ had always been like his twin, sunshiny and idealistic. Both PJ and Castor had somehow gotten all of Willow’s artistic qualities and all of Huck’s chill, which meant seeing PJ broken and sad was terrifying to me.
I’d always been able to count on PJ’s happiness and simple devotion to his painting. Unlike Castor, whose shyness held him back from pursuing his singing, or Georgia, whose brashness had led her to move to LA for a music career with no preparation, I’d thought PJ had the perfect combination of confidence and natural talent to make it as a professional artist. It was why I’d worked so hard to support his move to Boston to get his art degree.
After hearing him say he was done with art forever, I knew something was seriously wrong. I wanted to sit and talk with him until I could set his head on straight about this again. But I didn’t have time right then. I needed to hop in the truck and get to Brew Fest before the first press event started.
Alden had sworn up and down, the couple of times that I’d been able to find a phone and call home, that everything had been transported to the festival and was waiting for me. “Stop worrying,” he’d said. “Trust and believe.”
I hadn’t had the time or brainpower to demand more details. Obviously, things wouldn’t be as well prepared as they would if I’d done the setup, but I’d have to make the best of the situation.
By the time I pulled into Honeybridge, the sun was beginning to lighten the gray sky behind me, and I was desperate for coffee. Thankfully, McLean was already up and waiting at the Retreat, Lily by his side, ready to greet PJ with a worried hug and guide him to the shower to clean up.
“PJ,” I called as he crossed the bathroom threshold. He stopped but didn’t turn around. “You… you scared the shit out of me today,” I admitted softly. “I wish you’d called me. Called any of us. I might have been mad—okay, Iwouldhave been mad—but I would have gotten over it fast because I love you. You don’t ever need to be ashamed to ask for help from the people who love you. Okay?”
PJ’s shoulders slumped, and he nodded. Then he shuffled the rest of the way into the bathroom.
Once he closed the door behind him, I sighed.
“Is Daydreamer okay?” Mac asked. He moved toward the kitchen, where the scent of glorious, glorious coffee called.
“He will be. Eventually,” I said grimly, kneeling down to rub Lily’s ears. “We’ll make sure of it.”
“Right.” McLean poured coffee into a to-go cup and handed it to me. “Because it’s okay to accept help from people who love you,” he said pointedly.
