44. Graham
Graham
Iwake up at some point in the night, headache gone but a different ache having taken its place. For a brief, flickering moment, I think about going to Serena’s room, but either Travis, Ryan, or both are in there at the moment, and I have no interest in climbing into bed alongside them.
So, instead of seeking out comfort in the form of another body—her body, her hands, her warm lips and soft voice—I head down to the den and find a nice whiskey to take the edge off.
The den is dark and quiet. In fact, the entire house is.
I meant what I said to Serena about traveling. I prefer to be alone. It’s not that I don’t enjoy being around other people—of course I do. But I enjoy it in smaller amounts than others, I think.
By the time we turned in for the night, I was more than ready for some space to myself. Serena’s friends are charming and interesting—like many of the people I’ve met in my travels. But charming and interesting don’t seem to stop me from hitting my social capacity.
In fact, the only person I’ve spent a significant amount of time around, without feeling spent, is Serena.
When I’m with her, I feel alone. Maybe to another person, that would sound like a nightmare.
But to me, being alone is when I’m most comfortable.
It’s almost magical to be able to include her in that.
As I mull over the night, Serena’s friends, and my relationship with Serena herself, I move throughout the den, tidying up the space.
Although it’s late August, there’s a whistle of cool air, a gentle, steady drizzle outside the windows.
I examine the fireplace, find it’s gas-operated, and start it up, waiting for the satisfying whoosh of heat before finding a drink.
Although the man rarely drinks, Travis does a good job of keeping each room stocked with good liquor. I make a whiskey on the rocks and sink down into one of the armchairs, thinking I wouldn’t be too put out to sleep down here.
I’ve gotten used to sleeping in all sorts of places while I’m traveling. On the ground, sitting upright, even in a tiny cot that my legs hung off the edge of. And usually, I’m able to clear my head pretty easily and fall asleep. Troubles don’t usually linger.
Lately, though, I can’t stop thinking about my youngest brother.
It’s not like Alex and I ever had a close relationship, but I can’t deny the pang in my chest at the idea of what I’m doing. Can’t shake the insistent feeling that I’m doing something wrong. That I should feel guilty for being so happy with Serena, especially since she was with him first.
But he didn’t just break it off with her… he hurt her. And from the sounds of it, he was financially abusive for most of their relationship. Asking her to pay rent when the rent was actually free.
My mind turns over the situation again, poking at the places that don’t make sense.
I really don’t understand why Priscilla would cut Alex off from Stephen’s funds.
Sure, she’s always been a little loose and reckless—going as far as to flirt with me immediately following my father’s funeral—but she’s not cruel.
And why was Alex making Serena pay him, even with Travis letting him live there for free?
It doesn’t make any sense. The only thing it boils down to is that he did it as some sort of power thing.
Knowing Serena worked so hard for everything she had, it might have been a type of kink for him—to take money from her when he didn’t need it.
Almost more than anything else, that’s fucked.
Sure, there are a lot of kids who grow up rich and don’t realize their privilege. I was not one of them. From the moment I was old enough to understand, it was like I could feel the exact weight of our presence in the world. The fact that quite a lot of our money came from less-than-savory avenues.
I’d even found the courage—using my mother’s name and legacy—to pressure Stephen into giving more. He’d started Bonnie Beats Hunger in response to me saying it’s something she would have wanted.
Which was true. My mother made Stephen a better person. At least, for a little while.
“What are you doing up?”
I startle, turning to find my brother in the doorway. Of course, he’s wearing a matching set of pajamas, while I’m in an old pair of sweats and a tattered shirt from some festival in Brazil.
“Needed a drink.” My voice is rough from disuse. I clear my throat and try again. “What about you?”
“I have this thing…” Travis pauses, sighs, runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I kept waking up, nervous that my alarm would wake Serena, then realizing she’s not even in my bed. So I just decided to get up, then I saw a light on down here.”
“You’re mental,” I say, tilting my glass toward him.
“Yeah,” he says, giving me a half-grin. A half-grin for a half-brother. “I know.”
Travis moves to the other side of the room and pours himself a tall glass of ice water. The guy is obsessed with health. It’s disgusting.
“Have you given it any thought?”
“What?” Travis asks, and my tired, whiskey-soothed brain reminds me that he doesn’t know what I was mulling over before he came down here.
“Why Priscilla would cut him off.” I finish off the drink. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful he didn’t have access to enough money to fuck our shit up, but I just don’t get it. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person to cut her kid off like that.”
Travis shrugs, “Maybe she realized she needed to do some parenting, at some point.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Alex never had to work for anything,” Travis scoffs. “You think that has nothing to do with how he is now?”
I sigh, close my eyes, then open them and look out the window. Through the gentle, drizzling rain, I can just make out the dimly-lit tree line along the back of the house.
I have to hand it to Travis—this is a really nice place. A good pick. Almost like he could look into the future and anticipate our needs.
He’s always been good at that. Maybe it comes from being the oldest brother.
“Sure,” I relent. “Sure, it has something to do with it. But I don’t think it’s Priscilla’s fault.”
“I don’t think she was ready to be a mother,” Travis counters.
“I don’t think Stephen really gave her a choice.”
He has no answer to that because he knows I’m right. In all of his marriages—even with my mother—it was important to our father that he always had the upper hand. That he called the shots.
Travis sips his water. I stare into my whiskey glass and wish it could magically refill itself. Now that would be hospitality.
Without consciously thinking, I ask, “What are we going to do about him?”
Travis makes a surprised noise, “About Alex?”
I give him a look that says who else?
He makes a grunting noise. “We do nothing. We keep our guardrails in place and hope Priscilla keeps him cut off from the money. What? You want to do something more? Go on the offense?”
I wave a hand, “No. I’m not talking about… this whole thing. I’m talking about our brother. Is there something we can do for him?”
Travis finishes his glass, rinses it out, and sets it beside the sink.
Turning to me, he crosses his arms and says, “Alex was awful to Serena. Downright cruel. Fucked up that record player knowing she wouldn’t have the resources to get it fixed.
He could have just talked to her, and instead he threw her shit on the lawn like a child.
And,” Travis lowers his voice, gaze flicking to the doorway for a second, “I’m pretty sure he was cheating on her with her friend. ”
My brow shoots up, “Her best friend?”
Travis shrugs, which reminds me of Ryan. “Yes. The brunette. It seemed like they’d been together for a minute when they came into the office.”
“Seems like a leap.”
“I’m good at reading people.”
I shift in my seat, take a deep breath. “I know he sucks. I just want to… figure out why. Guess after watching him grow up with basically no parents, I just want to give the guy the benefit of the doubt.”
“You’ve been spending too much time in the middle of nowhere,” Travis says, shaking his head and making for the door. “I’ll tell you what Alex has accomplished—he’s continuing on Stephen’s legacy. Stephen couldn’t recreate himself in me, or in you, but he certainly got it right with Alex.”
And with that, Travis knocks twice on the door frame in a sort of good night before he slips off into the hallway. I listen to his footsteps as they retreat down the hallway.
Ten minutes later, after the whiskey and conversation, I’m able to drift off in the leather armchair, fire crackling cheerfully beyond my feet.