Chapter Twenty
Dax
I move through the pat-down like a zombie, holding up my arms so the guard can frisk me before I shuffle through the metal detector in a daze.
I’ve visited my brother in prison a million times before, but it feels different this time.
“You look like shit,” Paul says the instant he sits down across from me at the battered metal table.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “You’re fucking ugly, too.”
Brotherly affection at its finest.
Paul laughs and leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “Love you, too, baby brother. So, who pissed in your cornflakes?”
I can’t believe this is the conversation we’re having less than five seconds after I arrive for my weekly visit. Then again, it’s all I’ve thought about for the last twenty-four hours. I take a deep breath, considering whether to confide in him.
Keeping secrets is part of what fucked you over with Lisa.
“It’s no big deal,” I mutter at last. “Broke up with some chick I’ve been seeing.”
“Some chick.” My brother snorts like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I have to admit, the words sounded dumb coming out of my mouth. “Man, you’re the worst liar ever. You wouldn’t be sitting here acting this fucking miserable over ‘some chick’”—he lifts his hands in dramatic air quotes—“who didn’t mean shit to you.”
I sigh, not wanting to get into this, but not sure I have any choice. “Look, it’s no big deal. We were seeing each other for a while, but now we’re not. End of story.”
That’s such a blatant lie I can’t even look at him when I say it. From the disgusted snort across the table, I can tell he’s not buying it. “Whatever, dude. What was her name?”
“Lisa.” My chest tightens as I say it, and I hate myself even more. “Lisa Michaels.”
“Lisa Michaels,” he repeats. “What did you do, fuck her sister or something?”
“What? No! Are you crazy?”
Paul barks out a laugh. “Maybe. I’m in prison, aren’t I? Think it’s too late to do an insanity plea?”
The fact that my brother is being so jovial about this makes me feel shittier. Like it’s possible to feel worse. What kind of asshole shows up and dumps his relationship woes on a guy who’s been stuck behind bars for the last three years?
“I didn’t fuck her sister,” I say. “Can we please talk about something else?”
Paul shrugs and drops his hands to the table, spreading them wide on the chipped black metal. “Sure thing, man. What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Read any good books lately?”
That gets a good laugh out of him, and I find myself smiling a little, too. It’s been our inside joke for years. One nobody but a couple of dyslexic degenerates would find funny.
“Hey, you remember that time the principal sent notes home with us about how we were a couple dumbshits who couldn’t read and needed to be in special classes,” Paul says. “But we couldn’t read the goddamn forms and neither could dad, so we ended up shoving them in the burn pile?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, darkening again. “Great childhood memories. Almost as good as that time dad shot our dog.”
My brother stops laughing and frowns at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I roll my eyes and rub my palms across the table. “Killer. You remember Killer, right?”
“Of course, but Dad didn’t shoot him.”
“The hell he didn’t,” I growl. “He loaded him up in the truck and drove away with his gun. When he came back, no dog.”
Paul looks at me, then shakes his head. “Man, that’s really what you thought all these years?” The pity in his eyes makes me feel worse, which is saying something, since I already feel like shit. “Dad always had his gun, idiot. That doesn’t mean anything.”
I roll my eyes, not willing to let my brother sugarcoat things. “So what do you think happened?”
“I don’t think,” he says. “I know. I was there. I was hanging out at the bar with a fake ID when the old man showed up asking if anyone wanted to buy a wolf dog.”
I stare at him, not sure whether to believe the story. Part of me wants to. Wants it desperately, more than anything. “What happened?”
Paul shrugs. “Bartender said sure, his kid had been bugging him for a dog. Traded fair and square for a fifth of Jack.”
I stare at him while my brain spins with this new version of history. I want to believe him. I do believe him. Why would he make this up?
“Why didn’t you say anything? To me or to dad or—”
“What, and risk getting my ass whooped for hanging out at a fucking dive bar at sixteen?” He shakes his head. “Besides, how the hell was I supposed to know that’s what you thought? You never said a damn thing.”
He’s right. My habit of hiding shit that makes me feel bad isn’t my most admirable trait, but I’m still processing the dog thing, so I don’t have time to think about it.
“Killer didn’t die?”
“Well, probably at some point,” Paul says. “It was more than twenty years ago. Dogs don’t live forever.”
I grunt and scrape my hand over my chin. “Hell, he probably ended up in a dog fighting ring or something.”
“Jesus, man.” Paul reaches across the table and whacks me on the side of the head. That gets the attention of a guard, who starts toward us with a frown. I wave him off.
“It’s cool,” I assure him. “Brotherly love, not assault.”
The guard shakes his head. “Watch it.”
“Roger that.” I salute him, then turn back to Paul. “What is your problem?”
“You, dumbshit.”
He’s the only person who can call me that and not have me take it personally. Am I an asshole for being so touchy about that? It’s just a word, after all. Words aren’t exactly my strong suit.
Paul is still talking, so I order myself to pay attention. “What is it with you, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always have to come up with the worst-case scenario. You know what your problem is?”
I sigh. “No, but I figure I’m about to learn from a guy doing six years hard time for robbery.”
“Yeah, well sometimes the people who’ve screwed up the most have the best lessons to offer.”
Okay, he has a point.
“Can’t argue with that,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over the spot where my chest has started to ache. Has been aching for the last twenty-four hours. “Fine. What is my problem?”
“You can only see the worst-case scenario. There’s no happily-ever-after as far as you’re concerned.”
“So?” Not a very mature response, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Why’d you and your chick split up?”
“Because she’s a high-society snob who thinks I’m worthless and stupid.”
Paul rolls his eyes. “Did she actually say that? Did she tell you, ‘Dax, I’m a snooty socialite who’s too good for you, and oh, by the way, you’re too dumb to pour piss out of your own boot?’”
I fold my arms and try to stare him down. “Not in so many words, no.”
Paul shakes his head again, but he’s starting to look mad. “You jackass. You’ve got every chance in the world right now to have everything—the cool job, the money, the smart, hot girl.”
“I never said she was hot or smart.”
“Please,” Paul mutters, studying my face so intently that I want to glance away. “You wouldn’t be this broken up about her if she were a dog-faced idiot.”
I grunt again to concede the point, so Paul keeps talking. “You’ve got everything going for you, and you’re going to piss it all away because you’re too fucking chicken to believe you could have any of that. To believe you deserve it.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Is there any chance he’s right? That my jailbird thief of a brother has a point?
I swallow hard, not liking that direction of thought. Not wanting to admit I might be wrong.
I also don’t like the words on the tip of my tongue, but I say them anyway. “I’m scared,” I whisper. “So fucking scared, man.”
It’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud to my brother. Maybe to anyone, ever. I expect him to laugh out loud, but instead he reaches across the table for an awkward sort of fist-bump.
“I know,” he says. “Believe me, I know. We lost Mom, then Pop, then Dana. You think I don’t know how much it sucks to make up your mind that you’re gonna care enough about someone that it’ll rip out your fucking guts to lose them?”
I nod, swallowing back the tightness in my throat. He knows. My brother might be a criminal, but he’s pretty damn wise. “I guess.”
Paul sighs and leans back in his chair. “Look, man. You’ve got to at least try. Maybe you can’t have it all, but maybe you can. You sure as fuck have opportunities I’ll never get. You’ve gotta make something of that shit.”
As pep talks go, it’s not the most eloquent. It’s nothing you’ll hear in a self-help seminar, but those words resonate with me. Or maybe it’s Paul’s encouraging expression.
“You think I could fix things?” I ask. “Maybe have another shot with Lisa?”
This time, he does laugh. “You’re asking for love advice from guy who’s been showering with a bunch of other dudes for the last three years?” He shakes his head and cracks up at his own joke, but then his expression softens. “Yeah, man. I do. I really do.”
It’s enough for me. That hope, that stupid nugget of hope. Seeing it laid out before me on this battered table is like the best gift I’ve ever been given.
“Thanks, man,” I tell him. “I really hope you get out on appeal soon.”
“Why, so you can hit me up for love life advice all the time?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’ll sit around drinking coffee and talking about our feelings.”
“Maybe form a book club,” he adds, and we both bust out laughing again.
As the guard signals us to wrap things up, I stand. So does Paul, and we embrace each other in one of those awkward bro hugs that’s only permitted at the end of a visit.
“Now go on,” he mutters, slapping me hard on the back. “Go out and get your girl back.”
I nod and look him in the eye, determined to do whatever the hell I can to follow his advice. “I’ll give it my best shot.”