Chapter 38 Keller
THIRTY-EIGHT
Keller
Krewe Financial Losses After Disruption: When parades or balls are canceled, krewes often absorb significant financial losses tied to float construction, venue deposits, and pre-purchased throws.
Because most organizations are privately funded through member dues, these disruptions test both the stability and loyalty of the krewe’s internal structure.
My hands know where they're going before my brain catches up. Not home. Not the office. Not any of the places I've built to contain my life.
Ten minutes later, I pull up to Cain's new house. The porch light glows warm against the fading dusk.
I kill the engine. Sit in the driveway. What the hell am I doing here? I told him before I met with Quinn that I'd come check out his new place. But I'm in no headspace to be happy for him.
But I also know I need my brother. He's the one who lives fast and messy, the one who doesn't calculate every move three steps ahead. He might actually be the one who could understand what it feels like when life throws a variable you never saw coming.
I get out of the car and walk toward the door.
Cain opens the door before I knock. He's wearing a faded LSU shirt and jeans, barefoot on the hardwood. His hair sticks up on one side.
"Keller." He blinks. "You look like shit."
"I can always count on you to build me up. You're not looking so hot, yourself."
He steps back to let me in. The house smells like fresh paint and takeout. Boxes still line the hallway, half unpacked.
"Beer?"
"Yeah."
He disappears into the kitchen. I stand in his living room, looking at nothing. A couch, a TV still sitting on the floor, and a guitar that’s propped against the wall.
Cain returns with two bottles and twists off the cap on mine before handing it over.
"Deck?"
I nod.
The back deck is small but private. Two chairs, a view of his neighbor's fence, and string lights overhead that flicker every few seconds. We sit. The night air wraps around us, thick and damp.
Cain takes a long pull from his beer. Waits.
He's not going to push. That's not his way.
"Quinn's pregnant."
The words hang in the humid air between us.
Cain lowers his bottle. His hazel eyes catch the string lights. "Yours?"
"Yeah."
He nods slowly, but doesn't ask for details. He also doesn't crack a joke, which I appreciate. I know that takes extreme self-control on his part.
"Four months." I take a drink. The beer tastes like nothing. "She told me tonight."
"How are you feeling about it?"
How am I feeling?
I laugh. It sounds hollow even to my own ears. "I have no idea."
Cain stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles. "That's big."
We sit in silence. A dog barks somewhere down the street. The string lights flicker again.
“I want to tell you something I've never told you.”
The words sit between us for a second before I decide not to take them back.
Cain glances over, brow tightening. “Are you about to tell me about your secret fetish? Because if so, I'm good. Best to keep those things to yourself.”
I ignore his sarcasm.
“A couple of months ago, I went to Savannah.”
He frowns slightly. “Uh huh…”
“To find the man in those photographs with Mom. The ones you found in Dad’s office.”
Recognition flickers. “Oh, right, the old photos. And that receipt and hotel key?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once, waiting.
“I tracked him down. His name’s Charlton Grant. He's a preservation architect.” I take a slow pull from my beer and set it on the deck rail. “I went there ready to confront him about the affair.”
Cain’s head turns sharply. “The what?”
“The affair.” I look straight ahead instead of at him. “I thought Mom was cheating on Dad. I thought that’s what she and Dad were fighting about the night she died.”
The words hang there. I’ve never said them out loud to anyone.
Cain goes very still. “You thought Mom was having an affair?”
“I heard them, Cain.” My jaw tightens as the memory presses in. “I woke up to them yelling at each other, so I came out and sat on the top of the stairs. They were both screaming, and Dad accused her. He told her to get out. That's why she left that night.”
Cain doesn’t interrupt.
“She got in the car, and she never came back.” I swallow. “So I assumed he was right. I had so many emotions about it. About her betraying him and us, about him pushing her out, and her leaving upset.”
“Does anyone else know this? You never said anything.”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because what was the point? She was dead. Dad never talked about it. After that night, he didn’t talk about much of anything. He just… hardened.” I shrug. “I decided that was proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That love turns on you. That if you let someone close enough, they betray you or leave. Or you shove them out before they can.” I glance at him. “And then you become an angry bastard.”
The air on the deck is suddenly heavier.
Cain studies me. “And what about Savannah? What did you find?”
I exhale slowly. “He’s gay, Cain. He's been married to his husband for twenty-something years, and they have a kid about to start college.”
Cain blinks. “You're kidding.”
“There was no affair. Mom hired him for a restoration project. A surprise for Dad’s fiftieth birthday. That’s all it was. Professional meetings and design plans. Nothing else.”
The silence stretches.
“Jesus,” Cain says quietly.
“I built my entire life around a story that wasn’t even true.” I finally look at him. “I protected myself from a betrayal that never existed.”
Cain leans back, wood creaking under him. “You were eleven.”
“Exactly. For basically my entire life, I thought our mom cheated and that love was worthless. I kept a lot of anger bottled up inside, but I worked so hard not to become bitter like Dad. It was like two parts of me warring inside constantly.”
“That's fucked up.”
I stare out into the dark yard beyond the deck railing.
He studies me without speaking for a few seconds, probably thinking I've completely lost it and wondering why I'm dumping all of this shit on him now.
“So what are you doing with all of this new understanding now?” he finally asks.
“Who the fuck knows?” I stare out into the dark yard beyond the deck. “I'm a grown ass man, now. I'm already formed. You can't unbake a cake.”
The admission shocks me. I honestly hadn't thought about it, but the realization that I am who I am is jarring.
“Sure you can,” he says dryly. “You just throw it out and make a different one next time.”
I snort. “That might be the dumbest metaphor you’ve ever used.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Plus, you came up with the cake metaphor, I just went with it.”
“At least I can let our mom rest in peace,” I finally add. “All of that fear and anger is still there, it's just shifted. I guess I can add guilt to that.”
Cain tips his bottle back and sets it on the deck rail. He studies me with an expression that is not pity or accusation.
“You’ve been carrying that alone since you were a kid,” he says. “That does something to a person. I'm not going to deny that. But now you know, so don't let it define you anymore.”
“It made things simple, actually,” I reply. “Love hurts, and you don’t depend on anyone. Simple.”
Cain watches me carefully. “Well, now you know that isn't the case, so you can not live that way. Simple.”
I run a hand over the back of my neck. “I wish it were that simple, Little Bro.”
He nods slowly. “I hear you. But it kind of is.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “This is who I am. The tables. The distance. The way I keep things contained. I don’t know how to be different.”
“That’s what you do,” Cain says. “It’s not who you are. You can do things differently.”
I glance at him. He holds my gaze without backing off.
Quinn sneaks up into my mind, her laugh, the weight of her hand on my thigh. I was different for a minute. Until she reinforced everything.
Cain leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and turns his face toward me. “Keller, I'm no expert on love and relationships, but I know you can have a relationship. Mom wouldn't want you living closed off and afraid.”
"I have plenty of time with the female persuasion, don't you worry," I demure, suddenly uncomfortable with the seriousness of our conversation. We don't usually go this deep.
“Fucking and loving aren't the same thing.”
"Who is this guy?" I ask, trying again to loosen the moment, reverting to our regular joking dynamic.
“For what it's worth, I know you really loved Quinn. And I know what she did hurt you. It reminded you of this fucked up narrative you had in your head. But she didn’t lie to you,” he says evenly.
“She did her job. You didn’t like where it landed, so you closed the door before it could get complicated. You don't have to keep it closed.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve been punishing both of you for it.”
I don’t have a good comeback for that.
“There's too much water under the bridge between us. Too much time.”
“There's never too much water under the bridge. It's just a matter of choosing to forgive.”
“I swear to God. I had no idea you were so deep. Did you become some kind of philosopher in New York, or something?”
Cain doesn't answer right away. “I know we joke a lot.
And I love our relationship. But you're confiding in me, and I want to give it to you straight.
You've been through some hell with all this, carried it for a long time all by yourself.
I just don't want you to let it wreck everything going forward.”
The yard is quiet except for the hum of insects in the dark. I think about the way Quinn looked when she told me she was pregnant, how she was steady and matter-of-fact, not manipulative. She truly was there for my benefit, to let me know, and had no other agenda.
I push it away.
“Did I mention that I punched him?” I ask with a smirk.
"Punched who?"
"Charlton Grant. I walked into his office and hit him before I knew the truth.”
Cain’s mouth curves faintly. “That's very Stone of you.”
“It felt good.”
“I'm glad you got it out, I guess. Poor guy.”
I stare out into the darkness beyond the porch light. The anger that lived in that memory is thinner now, less like a blade and more like a scar.
The truth about my mother doesn't erase the night she left. It doesn't change the accident or give back what we lost. But it does remove the betrayal I built my life around. Now, without that betrayal, the walls I justified look less like protection and more like habit.
Cain stands and gathers the empty bottles. “I’m grabbing another. You want one?”
“Yeah.”
He heads inside, the screen door closing behind him.
I put my feet up on the edge of the bannister, listening to the night.
The air carries a faint trace of jasmine from somewhere down the block.
Tonight, the memory it pulls forward is not the fight or the slammed door.
It's my mother laughing in the kitchen, flour on her hands, music playing too loudly.
The past isn't a warning anymore. It's something I survived.
And survival is not the same thing as living.