friend, and he’d saved me from my own drunk ass too many nights for me to count.
“Alright,” I said on a nod, not willing to argue. I was getting tired anyway, and was ready for the godforsaken day to be over already. I had half a glass of whiskey left and then I’d roll my ass home, crawl into bed, and wake up to a new day tomorrow.
A day that wouldn’t be the anniversary of Dad’s death.
I pulled out my wallet to pay Buck, and once my cash was on the bar, my thumb hovered over the corner of the only photo I carried with me. I pulled it out slowly, eyes scanning the younger faces of my brothers, of Mom, and of Dad. It was the year before Dad had died, when we’d taken a fishing trip to the lake, and we were all grouped together in front of one of our tents, sunburnt and smiling. Mikey was missing a front tooth, his adult one yet to replace the one that had fallen out. Logan and Jordan had their arms slung around each other, Mom standing behind Logan with her hands on his head.
And then there was me and Dad.
I had jumped on his back for the photo, giving him a noogie as the picture was shot. He was full-on laughing, looking up at me, and when I looked at that picture, all I felt was happiness. All I felt was indescribable joy for a family that didn’t know what hardship lay ahead, that had everything they ever wanted or needed.
If I could go back in time, I’d go back to that exact moment and live there forever.
“Two beers, Buck. Whatever you got that’s cold and wet,” someone said from beside me, knocking their knuckles on the bar. I was fine to ignore them, just like I’d ignored everyone else that night, but then I felt eyes on me, and I turned, meeting the gaze of Patrick’s youngest son.
Malcolm was a scrawny kid, just a few years older than Mikey. His older sister was Logan’s age, and she was about the only Scooter that I didn’t hate — maybe because she was sort of the black sheep in their family, acting out in every way possible, down to getting her septum pierced her senior year of high school.
I liked a girl who ruffled feathers.
Malcolm, on the other hand, was long-faced just like his dad, with skin that somehow always looked dirty. He was scrawny, liked to wear his ball caps a little to the left like it was still the 90s, and had a knack for getting under my skin, too.
“Well, if it isn’t the oldest Becker boy,” he spat — literally, spat, the words coming out of his mouth just as a thick wad of chewing tobacco did. He spit it into an empty Mountain Dew bottle, grinning at me with pieces still in his gums, and already, he was trying to push my buttons by calling me the oldest.
It was Malcolm’s way of saying that he didn’t recognize Jordan as a proper part of our family, because his skin wasn’t the same color as ours and some bullshit paperwork said he wasn’t blood.
My pulse kicked up a notch.
“Rough day at the office?” Malcolm asked when he didn’t get a rise out of me.
I blinked. “Fuck off, Malcolm.”
“Ohhh,” he said, raising both hands in a mock surrender as he elbowed his buddy next to him. I didn’t know his name, but recognized him from around town. “Someone’s on their rag.”
His eyes dropped to the photo still in my hand as he rested his elbows back on the bar.
“Ah,” he mused. “I see. You’re crying into your whiskey over your daddy, huh?” He framed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Was it today’s date that that fire happened?” He shrugged, smiling at his buddy. “Guess I forgot.”
Buck slid Malcom the beers he asked for, eyeing me with a warning and a slight shake of his head. “Here are your drinks. Now go play pool or sit at a table far away from here, understand?”
“Aw, come on, Buck,” Malcolm said. “We’re just kidding around. Noah and I go way back. We’re buds.” He clapped me on the shoulder, and every nerve came to life at his touch. “Ain’t that right, Becker?”
“Get your hand off me.”
“Or what?” he seethed.
And I should have let it go. I should have slammed back my whiskey and walked out that damn door. But instead,