Twelve

 

Conner

 

I don’t go home.

I hook a left at the end of the block instead of heading straight. Gilroy’s sits on the corner, a two-story brick building that was probably built around the same time Sam Adams was tossing tea into the harbor.

It’s been in our family for damn near a hundred years. Been a bar for sixty-five of them. My grandparents lived over it until they died, passing within a year of each other. The apartment stood empty until my cousin moved in after he graduated from college a few years ago.

Sitting in front of the heavy metal security door he installed is a white panel van with the logo for Gallery Blu stenciled on the side.

Gallery Blu is where Cari used to work. It’s where Patrick went last night for the art benefit that featured a series of painting she did of him. Why I had to cover his bar shift for him.

Leaning against the buzzer, I laugh when I hear him shout, fuck off! through the open second-story window. I keep buzzing until he appears at the window. “Are you deaf?” he says, glaring down at me. “I said fuck off.”

“Welcome to Boston,” I say to a couple of worried-looking tourists, rubber-necking their way down the sidewalk. “Have you met our most eligible bachelor?”

Surlier than usual, Patrick snarls and flips them off. Watching them hurry across the street, he aims his glare at me. “You’re a dick.”

“A well-established fact,” I say, squinting up at him. “Come on, Cap’n, let me in. I’m just gonna keep yelling.”

He disappears from the window, and a few seconds later, the door lock snaps open, and I’m off the street. The door is off its hinges at the top if the stairs. When I walk in, I see the reason why.

“Don’t say a word,” he gripes at me, head bent over a clipboard, dragging a pen over in long, heavy sweeps. Next to him is a stack of paintings, wrapped in brown paper, almost as tall as he is. “Not one, or I’ll throw you out the goddamned window.” He clips the pen back to the board and shoves it at the squat, balding man standing in front of him, his eyes wide and ping-ponging between the two of us. It’s a normal reaction to seeing us together for the first time. Most people think we’re twins.

“He’s my cousin,” Patrick snaps before he can ask. Digging into his breast pocket, he yanks out his wallet and pulls out a few bills. “Thanks,” he mutters, pushing the money into the man’s hand. Even when he’s a surly asshole, Cap’n still a nice guy. The guy unhooks his hand truck and is gone a few minutes later.

I watch while he circles the stack, hands dug into the pockets of his dress slacks like he’s trying to find an angle of attack. Finally, he looks up at me. “You gonna ask me what they are?”

“You told me not to say anything,” I remind him, earning myself a string of curses. “Besides, I don’t have to ask—I already know.” I tap my my index finger against temple and smirk. “I’m smarter than the average bear, remember?”

Patrick peels off his three-thousand-dollar suit jacket and tosses it on the bare subfloor. He’s had a hard time matching the original hardwood. “Yeah,” he says, shooting me a pissed off look while he jerks his cufflinks loose. “Well if you’re so damn smart, maybe you can tell me why I just blew a million bucks on a bunch of painting of myself eating fucking cereal and doing laundry.”

“Because you’re a narcissist,” I say flashing him a grin that feels hollow. Feels like a lie. Looking at him is like looking in a mirror. I know how he feels. I know what it’s like to love someone who left you behind.

He laughs, the sound harsh and humorless, jiggling the cufflinks in his hand for a few moments, like he’s considering fast-pitching them across the room but then he stops and looks at me. “You look like shit.”

“I look like you,” I tell him and this time he laughs for real at our running joke. “Late night. Early morning.” I still don’t sleep well. Never more than a few hours at a time before my brain gets restless and started shaking me awake. I’m on thirty-six hours of no sleep, and it’ll be closer to fifty before I close my eyes. Once I do, I might get an hour or two for my trouble.

“I heard from Ryan. Henley is coming.” I don’t know why I say it. Why I told him. Maybe because if anyone might understand what I’m feeling, it’s him.

“When?” he slips the cufflinks into his pocket. And just like that, he’s done feeling sorry for himself. Done griping and bitching about being left and being hurt. If he can do it, so can I.

“Tomorrow.” I pass a hand over my face. “We’re meeting downstairs for lunch.”

“I wasn’t kidding about you looking like shit,” he says, flipping up the cuffs of his sleeve, rolling it up in near perfect turns. “Why don’t you go home. Get some sleep. I’ll cover you tonight.”

If I go home now, sleeping is the last thing I’ll do. I either fuck myself stupid or drink myself blind. That’s how this works. How I get out from under the weight of her. “Appreciate the offer, Cap’n,” I say, forcing a grin. Pushing it deep. Making it real. “But it’s Ladies Night—and I never miss a ladies’ night.