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I shrug. “A while.”
Jet grunts. “Is he doing drugs?”
“Probably.”
“Fucking hell.” Jet takes a long swig from his beer, grimaces. “We need to get him into rehab.”
“I can’t force him, Jet. Or Mom.” I swallow bitterness. “You think I haven’t tried to convince them both?”
“What did Xavier say?”
“That I could go fuck myself with a rusty fork.”
Jet’s brows go up. “Creative.”
My brother, the firecracker. He’s funny as hell, and he’s a good guy. The kind of guy who helps old ladies cross the street and remembers people’s birthdays.
That was before the drugs. Now he’s a fucking asshole. And I know this isn’t really him. I practically raised the kid. But how can I get my real brother back?
How the fuck do I keep him from dying?
***
Jet says he’ll talk to Joel and Candy about this, try and find a solution, and we part ways. What else is there to say? I just hope he has more ideas than me. I ran out of solutions long ago.
Meanwhile, my head feels like it’s screwed on wrong. Apart from my worry for Mom and X, I don’t know what I’m doing with Brylee and Ryan.
I made out with Brylee.
And then I made out with Ryan.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.
Except Ryan walked out on me, like every time before, like he did with Brylee. Maybe we should band together against him.
I almost choke to death with laughter. Disgruntled housewives vs. Ryan Dawson.
Jesus Christ, Rid.
Then I think I should feel bad for making out with Ryan—but I remember that he’s still the one she wants, and I want to put my fist through the wall.
I asked her out.
She never replied, which is as good as a big fat NO.
I got the message loud and clear. Ryan is still her number one. I may be a close second, but I won’t make the cut.
So why did I pick a fight with Ryan—and ended up getting off together? Why was I so pissed at him? Why did I kiss him like my life depended on it?
I wish I fucking knew.
Just like I don’t know why I find Brylee waiting for me outside my building, in the freezing cold of night, wrapped up in her coat and scarf, only her eyes showing.
“What are you doing here?” I open the door and haul her inside. “You’re gonna get hypothermia and die. Why didn’t you call me first?”
“You’re in a good mood,” she mutters and follows me to the elevator. “I don’t have your number, and I’ve only been here for two minutes. I promise I’d have gone back to my car and left if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”
I smile in the dimness as the elevator creaks its way up and finally reaches my floor. “Good.”
