4 Sterling Darling—Zach Bryan
Sterling
Darling—Zach Bryan
Steam curls from the rim of my cup, which holds a puddle of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. Perfect. I’ll be damned before I let Leo put any milk or sugar in my morning brew, despite his insistence on “fixing” my low-effort breakfast habits.
The winter morning is peaceful and silent. Not even the birds have dared to leave their warm cocoons to brave the February chill. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears as I stand in the cottage’s frosty garden, watching the world wake up.
I wanted silence when Tompkins made his stupid-ass comment after one too many drinks in the pub last night. That’s why I stormed outside. He should know better than to mention her name.
Instead, I got some damsel in distress plunging her hand into my chest and ripping my heart clean out with her panicked hazel eyes. I don’t know what possessed me to approach her, but I couldn’t walk away after seeing her collapsed like that.
“Sterling! You out here?”
A sigh spills out of me. Great. Here we go.
“Morning, Leo.”
“Fuck, it’s freezing out here.”
I’m sure someone called him and ratted me out after I left the pub. He’s my adoptive brother, yet I find myself being his charge to look after. Even though I was an adult when Ma plucked the poor sod out of foster care.
“You’re up early.” Leo clicks the door shut behind him.
“Got another job with old man Melville this morning.”
“Still down at the library?”
“Yeah, some maintenance work on the exterior. Standard winter stuff.”
“Bet he’s a pain in the ass to work for.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” I sigh wearily.
Feet haphazardly shoved into a muddy pair of boots, Leo looks like he rolled straight out of bed in his baggy tee and workout shorts. I knew he’d track me down. I was lucky to avoid him when I returned home.
“So, that idiot Tompkins texted me.” He levels me with a searching look. “What happened last night?”
“Nothing,” I heave out.
“He said you stormed out after yelling your head off.”
“The asshole should learn to stay out of my business. All I wanted was a quiet drink after a long day.”
“You should know better than to bite back. He’s a dick when he’s had a couple.”
“I reserve the right to call him a piece of shit when he runs his big mouth.”
“What did he say this time?” Leo rubs his goose-pimpled arms.
“Something he shouldn’t have.”
“About—”
“Yes,” I cut him off.
“He didn’t mention that part.”
“Yeah, clearly.” Sarcasm drips from my tone.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Swallowing a mouthful of tea, I study my sleep-mussed brother. Blood or not, he’s earned the title in every way that counts. Especially since I moved back home a few years ago. I just wish he didn’t insist on being our guardian angel.
His haircut is sticking up in all directions, and his nose ring is crooked, matching his half-open ashtray eyes. Despite having the appearance of a carefree twenty-six-year-old, he shoulders the collective burden of our fucked-up family. How the hell is that fair?
“Sterling?”
“Just leave it. I don’t want to talk about that asshole.”
“He’s your friend.”
“Not after the crap he pulled. I’ve had it with him.”
“You don’t mean that . . .”
“I do—he’s an insensitive jackass, and I’m done wasting time on people with the emotional intelligence of a fucking pebble.”
Fingers clenched around the steaming cup, I trace the thick metal that encircles my ring finger. Everyone else knows better than to bring up the past. It’s an unwritten rule the whole town usually respects. Not even Ma dares to venture into that territory.
“Alright, fine.” Leo sighs with a headshake. “How about you help me with Fletcher instead? I tried to talk him into seeing a therapist again, and now he’s remodelling the bathroom.”
Tea shoots down my throat when I snort on a mouthful.
“Not funny,” he mutters.
“Kinda funny.”
“I’m worried about him. I’ve found a therapist who will make accommodations for his condition. It isn’t a reason for him to bottle up all the shit he went through.”
This isn’t the first time Leo has attempted to strong-arm Fletcher into getting professional help. The man simply prefers to take his emotions out on our home with a drill and a jackhammer.
“Until he’s well enough to get a job, the remodel is keeping him busy. I don’t see why it’s a problem.”
“Because he’s one bad day away from imploding,” Leo argues.
“We’ve tried talking to him. He won’t talk to us, even if he could.”
“He can access all kinds of rehabilitation programmes and even speech therapy through the military. They have people trained for this shit. I don’t understand why he won’t access support.”
“That’s his call, Leo. We can’t force it.”
“But I want to help him.”
Turning to walk back inside, I pause to clap his bicep. “You can’t fix us all.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.” He shakes his head.
“Aren’t you?”
“No! Christ, you’re starting to sound like Maverick.”
“Then maybe we both have a point. Stop being a mother hen and leave Fletcher to it.”
“You’re deflecting,” Leo accuses. “This isn’t about me.”
Right, because it never is. We’re the screw-ups, and he’s the solution. It’s that black and white in Leo’s mind regardless of his reasons for treating us like broken toys.
“We don’t need to have this argument again. I’m going to work.”
“Sterling . . .”
“Goodbye!” I call with faux cheeriness.
“At least try taking him to work with you!” he calls after me.
“Okay, okay. I’ll give it a go. Fucking hell.”
“Thank you!”
Inside, my third and final roommate is sipping coffee at the farmhouse dining table. Firelight from the cottage’s stove bounces off the sides of his skull, visible beneath a dusting of fine brown hair shaped into a military buzz cut.
Despite being home for a few months, Fletcher keeps the cut pristine. Old habits die hard, I suppose. He’s always clean shaven, too, even when he’s bleary eyed from lack of sleep or barely able to make a coffee with quivering hands we pretend not to notice.
“Morning, Fletch,” I mumble.
He doesn’t spare me a glance.
“Got plans today?”
Shrugging is his only reply.
Here goes nothing.
“I could use a hand at the library if you’re free.”
Staring into his cup, Fletcher doesn’t react, though the nerve in his badly scarred neck pulses like a live wire. Beneath his plain cotton tee and sweatpants, his burn-marked body is still. A frozen pillar caught eternally in some conflict we can’t see or hear.
“It’ll be just like the good old days. Me and you. How about it?”
Not even a glance.
There was a time that my childhood best friend would be the first to suggest some stupid adventure. He’d even let my new baby brother come along once he was old enough to join our wild nights out in the city. Fletcher was the life and soul of the party back then.
But that person didn’t come back from his last military tour with the RAF. When he joined, we were all so proud of him. I mean—it’s the Royal Air Force, for fuck’s sake. He worked so damn hard for the honour and trained for over a decade to become a military pilot.
It lasted for his first couple tours.
Then a broken stranger returned to us.
We’ve done our best to make him comfortable while he’s adjusted to his new reality. Losing his squadron and his voice ripped Fletcher’s entire world apart. The medical discharge from the military was the fatal blow.
But as winter wears on, he doesn’t seem to be healing or even improving. Nor has the crippling insomnia eased. When he does sleep, his nightmares are fucking ghastly. The man can’t scream or shout, but the violence can get extreme. We’ve replaced a lot of furniture since he came home.
“C’mon, Fletch. It’ll be fun.”
Still he stares into the open flames, the twitching vein in his forehead providing the only indication that he’s alive at all. Frustration bubbles inside me, tripping an invisible switch on my patience.
“You need to get out of this house. Join the world of the living again.”
Nothing.
“Give me something, man. Nod. Write me a note. Fuck, I’ll take a blink at this point.”
The reaction I’m praying for never materialises. Excruciating tension reaches a fever pitch, and my fist curls, thunking against the kitchen table.
“Goddamn, Fletch! It’s been four months. I know this is a hard transition, but you didn’t die in that desert. It’s time to stop acting like it.”
As soon as the words have burst free, I regret my harshness. Fletcher surges to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the flagstone floor. I’m only marginally taller than him, despite being four years older at thirty-three, but he packed muscle into his stocky frame long before he enlisted.
He squares off against me, his pale-blue eyes offering a snapshot of snow-swollen winter skies. The ghostly translucence belies little to no emotion, even as his body language screams of self-defence. Only I’m not the enemy. Not here. Whether or not he sees that is another issue.
“Please let us in.” I refuse to duck his stare. “Let us help.”
His washed-out stare flicks behind me to where Leo pads into the room. Yet neither of us warrant further acknowledgement. Fletcher turns, precisely tucks his chair back into place, then strides from the kitchen with regimented steps.
I deflate, a headache brewing at my temples. “Shit.”
“That went well,” Leo observes.
“You told me to talk to him.”
“Talking doesn’t usually involve a standoff confrontation. You need to learn some tact.”
“Since you’re the expert here, take one for the team and talk to him yourself,” I snarl back.
“Trust me, I’ve tried.” He rubs a hand over his chin. “Short of pinning him down with a pen and paper to make him communicate, I don’t know what else to do. I thought he might listen to you, though.”
“Apparently not.”
Draining the rest of my tea, I snatch a banana from the fruit bowl on the table and move to leave the house. Fletcher will have to wait. I still have a business to run, and my contracts won’t fulfil themselves.
“Sterling?”
“What now?” I snap back over my shoulder.
“You can’t give up on him. He needs you.”
“What about what I need, huh?”