Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Charlie stares up at the ceiling rafters, tiny lights wound around the beams. “For almost anyone else, your choice would be a smart one. For you, it’s stupid.”
“Thank you,” I say sharply. I’m not sure he’ll ever understand me fully. I like to be in control, and that’s partly why I’m so afraid of an addiction. Of this monstrous thing controlling me.
Walrus hops on his lap, and Charlie strokes the cat. “You’re stupid and you’re strong.”
I give him a look. “Who are you?”
“I am a fractured leg,” he says. “And I’m drugged.” He plants a hand on the bed to keep from sliding off the edge. “I didn’t come here to chat about Vicodin.” Charlie lowers his voice. “I wanted to see how you were doing with the whole Xander situation.”
The Xander situation.
My lungs burn, and he doesn’t break eye contact from me. I don’t see empathy staring back, but I know he’s not asking out of some sort of sick curiosity or to stir up trouble. He wouldn’t do that. Not when it’s about my brother.
“Why do you care?” I just straight out ask.
He opens his mouth and then closes it, rethinking something. He shakes his head and says, “I don’t understand what it’s like to be so desperate for friendships that I’d give my pills away, just so people can like me.”
I want to curse him out, but I’m doing this new thing with Charlie, where I let him talk. Where I wait.
After a short pause, he continues, “But I do understand what it’s like to be a big brother, and your position isn’t enviable.” He angles his head. “If you want to talk it through…”
“Okay,” I say, not hesitating.
His lips part, shocked.
I reach for my half empty water bottle next to my bedside clock. I accidentally knock over one of his crutches.
Charlie lets it clatter to the floor. “You really want my advice?” he reaffirms. “Or at the end of all of this, are you just going to tell me how I can’t relate because my baby brother is only four years younger than me, and yours is seven years younger than you?”
“Charlie, I wasn’t even thinking that,” I tell him. I’ve always valued his opinion, but sometimes it comes after running through barbed wire and dodging explosives. I’m not always equipped for that kind of obstacle course.
I try to unscrew the water bottle cap with one hand.
Charlie watches me struggle and asks, “Are you going to tell your parents?”
I’ve thought that through about a billion times. My mom and dad know that my siblings and I keep some shit just between us. In fact, they like that we all have a close bond, but this is big. And I’m unsure if it’d be worse for Xander, if I let them know. Plus, it’d kill my dad…my mom, and I know they’re strong, but maybe it’s better if I just talk to my brother and get him to stop without involving them.
“I haven’t decided,” I admit. Then I wonder, “If it were your brother, would you tell your parents?”
“No.” It’s a direct and flat no. It leaves more questions than answers.
“That’s it?” I ask. “It’s that easy?” Why am I struggling with this then? There’s a right and wrong path here, and I don’t want to take the one that leaves more wreckage.
He sighs heavily like I’m slow to catch on. “You tell your parents, and it’ll travel to my parents and then reach Aunt Daisy and Uncle Ryke’s ears. You have the six of them involved, and it’ll proliferate into a bigger mess for Xander.” His yellow-green eyes puncture me. “It’s just a conversation with him, right? He loves you. That’s why he calls you every day. Talk to him. He’ll listen to you. Everyone in this family does.”
I hear the bite on that last comment.
He makes everything seem so easy.
Maybe it is. Maybe I’m just overthinking.
“Not everyone listens to me, by the way,” I tell him.
He barely blinks. “I’d listen if you had better things to say.”
I shake my head and finally unscrew the bottle cap—my hand slips and I spill water all over my bare chest and sling. “Fuck,” I curse, picking up the bottle fast. I mop up my wet chest with the comforter. The cold water actually feels good on my hot skin.
Charlie watches for a short beat before eyeing the door. “Seeing you struggle isn’t as entertaining as I thought it’d be.”
“Thanks?” I chug what’s left of my water. A teeny tiny sip.
Stairs creak.
Quickly, Charlie says, “I won’t be heartbroken if you don’t take my advice. It’s there for you to stupidly ignore if you wish.”
“Good talk,” I tell him dryly and pat his hard cast. This wasn’t a particular painful conversation. Progress?
But he also called me stupid today.
So, slow progress.
Walrus skips across Charlie’s lap as my old door squeaks. Being pushed wider open, Beckett emerges and carries two rolled air mattresses that need inflating. My twenty-year-old cousin makes lugging hefty objects look beyond graceful.