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Our reckless personalities and totally inappropriate sense of humor were identical. The only difference between us was in our appearance. In school, I was dubbed “Pretty Boy,” which I hated, and Nate was “Tadpole,” a nod to his tall, lean stature.
Physically, I’d taken after my father, thick and built like a lineman. Nate took after our mother. Gaining muscle was always a challenge for him, but he was as fast as lightning. He was constantly underestimated and also wicked smart, and he used both to his advantage. Me? I was a bull in a china shop. Whatever I did, I went in guns blazing every time. He and I both had tempers, but my brother knew how to control his. I admired that.
One day, he told me he admired me. It was the first time I’d felt real purpose in my life. That day, I made a vow to never let him down.
Nate and I spent every day after school playing “war” in the woods that surrounded our trailer home. Usually, I was the bad guy and Nate was the good guy. But some days, we would band together to fight unforeseen adversaries. For these very dangerous missions, Nate and I created our own sign language. Codes, we’d called it, a stealthy form of communication only he and I knew how to decipher. Our codes would bring down the enemy every time. I still remembered every single one of them.
After high school, I went into the Navy, where I became a SEAL. When Nate graduated and opted out of following me into the military, I pressured him to apply to the CIA and FBI. It was because of me that he got an interview with the CIA. I’d called in several favors. Nate was hired immediately and quickly worked his way up the ranks.
I had no idea he was pursuing a career in clandestine service. He didn’t tell me because he didn’t want me to worry.
We didn’t see much of each other after that, but we talked or texted every day, even while on missions.
The day Nate died, I had just arrived home from a particularly rough mission in South America. I had a broken arm, two cracked ribs, and second-degree burns on my legs. I was sitting in the hospital waiting room when my mother called me with the news.
The weeks that followed are a blur. The years, really.
All the rumors Leo had heard were true. I did go MIA. I left everything. My job, my mom, my life.
In the middle of the night, I packed a bag, drove to the airport, and took the first flight out without telling a single person. I landed in the Galápagos Islands where I drank every day until I passed out, did every drug known to man, and fucked countless women.
Looking back, that’s where I lost myself. The lines between right and wrong became blurry. Guilt, and all emotions for that matter, were suppressed with chemicals instead of being properly dealt with. Grief was deadened to a dull ache, alleviated by whatever whore I’d dragged home with me that night.
For the first time in my life, my brain just kind of went on cruise control. There was no mulling over the past or worrying about the future. I was dead inside.
I did consider killing myself. In fact, if Astor Stone hadn’t called me, I’m sure I would have. With that single call, my entire life changed.
I still have nightmares about the things I did in Zambia, on my first mission as a mercenary for Astor Stone. That mission served as a release for me, for the rage I’d suppressed. I’m not proud of it.
Nightmares still plague me about the first time I saw my mother, after having abandoned her for years. So vivid that sometimes, I feel like I have gone back in time and am right there, standing in my mother’s living room all over again.
* * *
“Please, let me help you,” my mother begs as she sobs on the couch, blinking up at me through endless tears. “Please help me help you. I found a great therapist, highly recommended for PTSD. I’ll pay for it. I’ll pay for you to go to therapy.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“You need something, Justin,” she snaps, pulling a handful of tissues from the box one of her church friends crocheted for her.
It readsthis too shall pass.
“Nate’s been dead for three years. Three years. And yes, it still hurts every single day, but I make an effort to keep moving forward, to move on. You,” she jabs a long, bony finger in the air, “you, on the other hand, are just stuck in a deep black hole. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
She drops her head in her hands and collapses into sobs again, but I feel nothing.
“This is my fault,” she mutters through the tears. “I should have been there for you more after Nate died. I should’ve made sure you were okay. I should’ve done so much more.”
A minute passes. I remain silent and still, wishing I were anywhere else in the world.
Finally, she looks up, and when she sees I haven’t left the room, that I am just standing there watching her cry, she snaps. Her eyes go mad and her trembling body surges off the couch.
She stands toe to toe with me, and for a fleeting moment, I remember the woman she used to be before Dad left her.
“Do you want the truth?” She sneers at me. “I don’t know you anymore, and I don’t want to know you. You’ve become a cold, callous, heartless man. Do you know that your old SEAL buddies called me to tell me they were worried about you? Your ex-girlfriend, Leslie—that lovely girl you dated a few times and then dropped for no reason—she told me she was scared of you. Actually scared of you! Said you’d scream out in your dreams, that you were violent. Hell, Justin, I don’t even know what you do for this private investigation company you work for. I don’t want to. If this is the man you are going to be for the rest of your life, I don’t want any part of it. I can’t take it anymore. You are not my boy anymore.”
Her knees buckle and she drops onto the couch, wailing, heaving sobs, gasping for air.
Without a word, I turn around and walk out the door.
