Chapter 3
THREE
Strange Days
After I leave the hospital, I park my rental car downtown on Fourth Street and start walking.
The heat is miserable under the cloudy sky, and there’s no rain to take the edge off.
I need air-conditioning, and I need a drink.
I need something to focus on besides this incredible apathy.
It’s a total paradox. In the absence of everything there’s this vast emptiness that really does feel like something.
That’s what’s inside me as I walk the streets of downtown Austin.
Sixth Street is nothing like it was when I left. I only recognize a few of the old places, but it’s the name of one of the newer ones that catches my attention. Strange Days.
Strange days, brother.
Bring on the night.
I don’t think this is a coincidence.
Strange days was something West and I used to say to each other senior year. Usually at the end of a day spent smoking weed out at the lake. Or after a cheerleader invited us to a party. Or when we had nothing else to say but still found the need to talk. It was our thing.
Strange days.
I think a lot about coincidence versus fate.
In life, doors open and close. Paths lay before you and you pick one.
Opportunities arise, and you have to make some hard decisions about what you want versus what’s meant to be.
You can tell when you look back on the choices you’ve made—the paths you took—that there were signs leading you in the direction you were supposed to go.
And you either ignored them, or you didn’t.
You’re happy, or you have regrets. But I think there is some kind of plan.
I think there’s a reason why Connor woke up today and not yesterday while I was at the house.
I’m on a path. And it’s leading me back to Westley Miles.
When I push through the door, the bartender looks up from wiping down the bar.
His heavily tattooed arm stops moving. He flips his long dark blond hair out of his face, and he stares for a moment, squinting his eyes.
The flash of recognition I expect, but the grin spreading on his bearded face is a surprise.
He stops his work to come around the bar and greet me. “Hey, brother.”
I’m anticipating a handshake, maybe a pat on the back. But instead, he gives me a hug.
I back out of it after a second or two. West and I were never the kind of friends that hugged. I blamed myself at the time, but I blame him today for forgetting.
“You all right?” he asks, too easily reading the overwhelmed look on my face.
“Yeah, sure, I just wasn’t expecting a warm greeting.”
“I don't mean that, brother, I meant…” His words trail off as his eyes scan the room. “I heard what happened. It’s been on the news.”
Oh. That. “Right. Connor’s pretty banged up, but it looks like he’ll be okay. And I’m fine.”
West regards me like I’m a ticking time bomb. Not wanting to seem too indelicate, I add, “May my parents rest in peace.”
“Or wherever,” he says. And what he’s thinking is what I haven’t said—may they rot in hell.
He and I share a look of perfect understanding like we’ve never spent a day apart.
“Is this your place? It’s nice,” I say, to change the subject and get some distance back.
“It is. Thanks. We’ve been open going on a year now.”
“It's the name, I guess.”
“You remember that?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I remember everything.
“Do you also remember taking off without telling me?”
Here it is. This is more along the lines of what I expected. I nod for him to go on because he’s obviously got more to say.
“I had to find out you were gone from your housekeeper.”
My jaw twitches. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t tell anyone when I left. I apologize.”
“Okay.” He stares me down. There’s something distinctly different about him.
His eyes are darker, more intimidating. He was always the bigger of the two of us, the stronger one.
The far cooler and more popular one. But he was cool in a teddy bear way—like everyone loved him and wanted him in their circles.
Now, he’s sporting a septum piercing and two full tattoo sleeves.
He’s even got a neck tattoo of a spiderweb or something.
He’s wearing ripped jeans that fit his tall, muscular body well, and a mechanic’s shirt with his name on it and everything.
It’s a whole new look for West. I admit, I expected him to take a baseball scholarship and ride that to an MBA and a fancy corporate job, so the bar and his whole rebel vibe are subverting expectations.
“How long are you in town?” he asks.
“I don’t have a concrete plan yet.”
He shakes his head at me. Whether it’s in disgust or dismay is hard to tell. “Well, you're here now. Have a drink with me.”
I sit down on the stool he’s pointing at while he returns to the other side of the bar. I’m not ready for this reunion, but I really do need a drink.
“What’ll you have?”
“Doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re having.”
He pours us each a glass of whiskey on the rocks and comes back around to sit with me.
“What have you been up to?” He gives me another once-over. “Did you make it to college?”
“I did.”
“You finish?”
I nod, focusing on the cubes of ice in my glass.
“With a degree and everything?” he asks.
I nod again.
“And where was that? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I do mind because I know him. This isn’t about my degree. This is about my leaving. “Does it matter? What do you want? For me to explain myself?”
His shrug is casual, but his dark eyes are like icepicks. “You don’t think I deserve that?”
I glare at him, as hostile as I’ve ever felt in my life, and it sucks that all my self-hatred is aimed straight at the one guy in the world who never did me wrong. He deserves more than an explanation, but fuck if I want to admit that right now.
He sighs. Heavy and long. Then he gives my leg a conciliatory pat. “Never mind. Forget it. Take it easy. It’s good to see you.”
I doubt that.
“Even with your attitude. Take a breath. I'll go easy on you. I can see you're kinda jumpy.”
He’s right. I am jumpy, and my attitude sucks. “Just say what you need to say, West. Seems like you've been waiting a while to get the chance. Let’s get it over with.”
He weighs and measures me with his thoughtful eyes, and then he lets me have it.
“All right. You wanna know? Because I don't mind saying it.”
I stare back at him.
He goes on. “Six years ago, you ran off to—where was it?”
“Seattle,” I concede.
“Huh. Seattle. All right. You took off after you'd practically been living at my house for a year. You disappeared without a word. Like I was one of the people in this town you couldn't wait to get away from.”
“It wasn't like that—”
“You bailed. I was your friend, and you ended up doing me like you did everybody else. Like none of us gave a shit whether you lived or died.”
He wasn’t just my friend. He was my best friend. My only friend. We called each other brother because he was everything I imagined a brother should be. He was my world. “You would have tried to stop me.”
“Why would you think that?” His brows draw together like I’ve just said the world’s most unreasonable thing.
“Because I know you.”
“You’re wrong,” he says.
“Am I? You were always the one telling me everything wasn't as bad as I said it was. Like you knew what it was like.”
“I did know.”
“West, you had no fucking clue. None.”
“Yeah, brother. I did.” His words are firm and certain.
I laugh with derision. “You think so? Sorry, but you don’t know shit.” No one does. That’s the fun thing about family secrets. They don’t get out without someone breaking rank, and I know for a fact I never told a soul what that woman really did to me.
But he wants to argue about it. “I know what you told me—what my mom told me.”
“Speaking of your mom…” I down the rest of my drink and stand, fishing my keys out of my pocket. “Maybe you could ask her for me why the hell she gave my dad’s lawyer my phone number. And while you’re at it, ask her how she found it in the first place.”
West looks as dumbstruck as I was to hear about his mother’s involvement. Like I said—there are no coincidences when it comes to him and me.
“You know, for a minute it was great seeing you.” I gesture widely at the bar. “Congratulations on all your success. I hope you have an incredible life.” On those words, I make my exit, exactly like the asshole he’s convinced I am.
And I think he’s probably right about me. He always has been.
I go back to the house, but sleep doesn’t happen. What happens is I spend another night in front of the TV searching for a pattern in all this. The path. The real choice I’m supposed to make.
Around midnight I get a text from Tristan.
They moved Connor into a regular room. 505. Are you ok?
I respond. Processing. I’ll come back tomorrow to see him. Thank you.
He doesn’t text me back, and I’m guessing it’s because he saw how ugly and broken I am today, too.
The sight of my brother sitting up in his hospital bed jars me. I don’t understand the sudden constriction in my throat or the hollow ache in my chest. I assume it’s nerves or pure exhaustion. He faces me with his dark brown eyes—my mother’s eyes.
Our eyes.
His are rimmed with twin violet bruises. Swelling prevents him from opening them all the way.
I hesitate before approaching the bed, but then I do it. Because no one is here to stop me anymore. My hands are where all my nerves are going—they’re shaking bad—so I keep them fisted in my pants pockets. “Hey.”
He says nothing, but there’s no doubt he recognizes me. Guilt is a knot in my chest.
Connor was twelve when I left home. Now I’m staring at an eighteen-year old. His hair is on the longer side and dyed black, like mine was at his age. His lower lip is pierced with two silver studs. I think they’re called snakebites, but they don’t make him look tough. He looks fragile. Pretty.