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“Hey,” I say, not yet entering the room.
“Come in,” he invites me, but it’s not particularly friendly.
His voice is flat and lifeless, and I hate that this has drained him. Fletcher is always full of life and fun.
I sit on the bottom of the bed, head hung. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Me, too, because nobody should have to feel the way I do right now.”
“Would you have wanted to know a long time ago?” It occurs to me he might wish he was still blissfully ignorant. “Or maybe never? I guess that’s something someone in my position can’t know.”
He tosses the football thoughtfully, but it reveals no wisdom. “I don’t know.”
We sit in silence for what feels like a good two minutes, but it’s clear neither of us are leaving. We’re just two men, searching for words. There aren’t enough apologies in the world to excuse me from keeping this from him and breaking the trust between us. But what’s more important to me now than all of that is making sure my brother knows he’sours.
He stares into space as I talk, twirling his football in his hand.
“Fletch, the man who raised you is your father. I am your brother, and even though you might be considering disowning her at the moment, Mom will always love you more than life itself. Where you come from isn’t nearly as important as where you belong.”
His gaze flicks to mine. It’s deep and meaningful, and I’m not sure my brother and I have ever looked at one another like this before. He’s still silent, but something tells me he needs my words more than he wants to say his own.
My words are so meaningful they nearly burst my heart when they leave my lips. “I’ll be here for you. Always. I’m here for you.”
He nods a few times, staring at me carefully, then averts his gaze to the wall in front of him again. “Thank you.”
“If it were up to me, we’d talk about this for a while.” I wish I could get him talking, venting, anything.
“Yeah… I’m not really ready for that. I don’t want to say things I don’t mean or that I’ll regret. I need to process this, you know? I’m angry. I’m sad. I just… I can’t even articulate what’s going through my mind right now and I’ve learned it’s best to say nothing when that’s the case.”
I wish so hard we could talk all night until he and I are totally right. Until I get his forgiveness. But sometimes suffering is the way to cement change, and in this instance, it’s my penance. Fletcher needs time. So time is what I’ll give him.
I stand. “I love you. Just want you to know that in case I haven’t said it enough.”
He gazes at me, and there’s a glint of lightness in his eyes. “I don’t think you’ve ever said it.”
Can that be true? How could it be when I mean it from the pits of my gut? “Well… I said it now.”
His nod is like some sort of confirmation. I turn to leave.
“Hey,” he stops me. “Mom told me about Jolie and Chloe.”
“Yeah, you couldn’t write this shit.”
“Well… I need you to get the girl. No matter what happens to me, you go get your girl. I don’t want you living in secret because of me. Because, well… I love you, too.”
A lump forms in my throat, because only now do I realize Fletch is right. We’ve never really used these words before. Where we’re from, vulnerability in men is a very recent development. In our house, we let each other know how we felt by sharing a last piece of cake or punching the guy who talks bad about the other. This?
I feel horrible for thinking it, but it’s true. Hearing my brother tell me he loves me, knowing Jolie is my ride or die… all this ache is causing tiny fractures in my heart, and when they repair, I know it will be bigger than it was before.
My lips pull up in a grateful half-smile.
His face mirrors mine, and somethingwarm fills his eyes. “At least one good thing needs to come of this. You’re lucky she still likes you now that you’re old.”
I blow a laugh out of my nose. “I really am.”
I leave the room and shut the door behind me. My back hits the oak, and my chin falls to my chest. It’s done now.
I just hope the truth really does set us all free.
