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“We’re getting there. Rafe’s a great guy.”
“He said the same about you. Get a room, you two.”
Ash blinks at me, a frown threatening, but then his gaze clears and he laughs. “Motherfucker, Ty.”
“That’s me.” I sip at my beer. “So how’s it going? You look much better.” Easy to do. He’d looked half-dead at the ER and even later, at Dad’s funeral, and the memory twists my stomach.
“I am. Everything’s in working order.”
Emotion clogs my throat. I swallow it down. “Good. And your lessons? When are the GED tests?”
He turns the bottle in his hands. “Have a lot of catching up to do. Not quite there yet.”
Shit, I don’t mean to stress him, get him all defensive. Way to go, Tyler—first chance you get to talk to him, and you make him wish he’d never made the effort.
“What about you?” he asks. He has Dad’s eyes, but the rest of him is all Mom. He has her mouth, her nose, her brows. “Been okay since that night?”
I raise a brow at him. “What night?”
“At Damage.”
Oh that night. Damn. “Yeah, I’m great.”
“You’re not a good liar, Ty. You never were.”
Ash sees right through me, so I lift my beer and take a long drink. “Getting better.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
I put my bottle down. “Talked to Rafe. He says I just have to slog along, exercise and eat. Keep afloat until the symptoms go away. Says a doctor can’t help me at this stage.”
Ash nods. “What about a psychologist?”
“Not sure.” I can barely talk to my brother, and I’ll spill my guts to a stranger?
“It helps,” Ash mutters, and I itch to ask if he’s seeing one, when he says, “Why do you think Dad left those boxes for us?”
My breath catches. The boxes with the teddy bear, the knife and the birth certificates. “I don’t know.”
I’ve thought about it. Is it Dad’s way of pleading guilty? Of giving himself in, even belatedly? Is it just a madman’s trophies—mementos of favorite moments?
“Do you think…?” He swallows. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Am I like Dad?”
A loaded question. I know what he’s asking. Not about the physical appearance, that’s not what he’s worried about. His eyes are flat, his face blank, but his hands betray him, tearing at the label of his beer bottle, scrunching up the strips of paper.
“You’re nothing like Dad, Ash. Unless you started killing puppies when I wasn’t looking.”
He lets out a soft snort. “I’ve been thinking, you know, about what you said back at the hospital… What about your father? Who is he?”
My back stiffens and the muscles in my legs lock. “A boxer, ex-buddy of Dad’s. He wouldn’t tell me his name. I asked Mom, but she didn’t wanna tell me, either. I wanted to meet him, just to see what sort of guy he is. Moot point, I guess.”
Ash accepts this with a nod. “And Uncle Jerry... How was it, living with him?”
“It was okay,” I say carefully.
“You said he was crazy.”
Did I? “He was hooked on all sorts of pills. He was unpredictable and high out of his mind most of the time, so yeah...”
