Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
That’s the first time I see her, a lone tall figure in the distance smoking a cigarette and shifting nervously on her feet. She’s painfully thin with stringy red hair and dressed in tattered jeans and a dirty, oversized L.A. Lakers t-shirt. It’s kind of hard to miss her.
When she catches me looking her way, she moves behind a giant oak. I squeeze Reagan’s hand. He looks down at me and I motion with my chin in her direction.
Once Reagan’s intense green stare locks on to her, everything happens quickly. He immediately drops my hand and strides in her direction. Everyone turns to stare. Even Pastor Peterman pauses the service.
“Reagan? Where are you going?” His mother makes a feeble attempt to stop him, outrage in her voice. She has no clue who her son is.
We all watch as Reagan approaches her with his hands raised. She looks ready to run so I understand the gesture. Her gaze flies between the casket and Rea while he talks. Then slowly, together, they begin walking back to us. Halfway, she gets antsy, her steps sticky, and he reaches out and takes her hand.
I love him. I love him like I never knew I could love someone.
The crowd parts to make room for her, this tall skinny stranger with hollow eyes and weathered skin, and her face cast down––too scared to make eye contact with anyone. With her comes an undeniable smell, and still, Reagan holds her hand.
I love him. I love him for everything he is and even more for everything he’s not.
The skinny stranger gets major credit for bravery. This is an intimidating crowd but she came anyway. I give her credit because she did it for Brian.
Chapter 28
Reagan
“The G wagon is, at best, a second car. Too uncomfortable for everyday use. I always end up driving my S-class,” says one of my father’s asshole friends to the other.
The idle chatter is like battery acid on my nerves. I finish off my whiskey, my third, and glance around from my chair in the corner of the room. Leave it to my mother to have the service at the Beverly Hills Hotel because she “didn’t want people traipsing all over her rugs.”
Priceless.
The only kernel of anything good to come out of this shitshow was Lisa. She refused to come along, but at least she took my number and promised to call if she needed anything. I have to help her. I want to help her. I’m going to get her into rehab. Brian would want me to.
“How are you holding up?” Brock asks. Grabbing a chair along the way, he plants it beside mine and drops in.
I shrug and shake the leftover ice in my tumbler. “I could use another drink.” Alice is at a small table with her friends. She catches me watching her and frowns at my glass.
Brock side-eyes me. “I know you’re in a shit place right now, but getting drunk is not the answer.”
“Do you ever get tired of being perfect?” I can’t help it. The last thing I need right now is anyone giving me advice.
“Good whiskey is always the answer. As a matter of fact, I’ll join you.” Dallas walks over and does the same, grabs a chair, drags it close to ours. He turns his around and straddles it. “Let’s get trashed. I can make a couple of calls and get some Molly.”
I can’t be responsible for that. I’m responsible for too much already and I’d rather not load more guilt on my plate. “I’m not helping you off the wagon. If you wanna get wasted, find your own excuse.”
“Dude––” His brows pull down. “You’re a mean drunk.” There’s no heat to his words. Just Dallas being Dallas.
“I’m not drunk,” I grumble. And convince no one.
“You’re definitely on your way,” Brock argues.
“I know you’re going to law school next year, but could we shelve the debates for today?”
“Reagan,” my father calls from a few feet away. He’s standing next to someone I’ve never seen before. Tall, tight expression, expensive suit. Basically looks like all of my father’s acquaintances. What the hell is he doing inviting strangers to my brother’s wake?
“Care to tear yourself away from your buddies for a minute to be with your family. Dean Sullivan would like to have a word with you.”
Fucking hell. “No, I don’t care to,” I shout back. The entire room goes silent. All hundred or more people turning to watch us. None of which are here for Brian. At the edge of my vision, I see Alice stand.
My father’s blue eyes narrow. “I’m only going to ask you one more time––come here.” His jaw twitches. “And out of respect for your brother, keep your voice down.”
A molten-hot wave of rage breaks over me, turning me blind and deaf and unable to keep it all down anymore.