the granite countertop between them. “I can’t write when I take them.”
Baxter eyed him with doubt. “Yes, you can. I’ve seen you write with them.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You’ve seen me type words and string sentences together, but there’s no story, no imagination. I’m writing shit. And when I’m off the pills, the ideas are pouring in.”
“So talk to Dr. Cates and switch to something else,” Bax said, shrugging.
Gray gritted his teeth and spoke through them. “I don’t have time for that.”
“What do you mean?” The worry in Bax’s voice spiked. “Do you think it’s growing? Are your symptoms changing? When’s your next scan—”
“Bax.” Gray raised a brow at his brother. “You’re a twenty-six-year-old man, not a fifty-nine-year-old woman. Please don’t turn into Mom.”
“Answer my questions.”
Gray studied his brother. Bax used to be the fun one. Growing up, they’d all had their roles. Gray, the wunderkind, shutting himself in his room and writing plays and poems and short stories as early as third grade. He’d needed to be the observer, not the entertainer at the dinner table. That had been Bax’s job, telling stories, doing impersonations, and charming their parents and the occasional guests — anything to amuse Cecilia while still shielding her from the attention of others. Their little sister — the painfully shy baby of the family — could forget her self-consciousness when she watched Bax command the spotlight.
But that was so long ago.
Bax belonged in a space that rippled with laughter. Half the people Gray considered friends had really been Baxter’s friends first. They flocked to him, drawn and held by his warmth and humor. The playful mischief in his eyes had dimmed when they’d lost Cecilia, but it hadn’t died. Looking at his brother across his kitchen, Gray realized he hadn’t seen him laugh in weeks.
And this was his fault.
“I don’t think it’s growing,” he lied. “Everything’s the same as it was two months ago. The headaches. The vision. And if I take my medication, the seizures—”
“When’s your next scan?” Bax asked again.
He didn’t have time for this. He needed Bax to leave. He needed quiet so he could make the most of the hours before he took the seizure pills. No distractions. No disruptions. No people. Gray sighed. “Next month.”
His brother stared at him, wheels turning.
And Gray suspected he wouldn’t like whatever Baxter would say next. He braced himself. He’d likely urge Gray to go back to Dr. Cates sooner. Run more tests. Waste more time.
It wasn’t going to happen. He had to write.
“You need to hire someone to look after you.”
“What?!”
Baxter’s face brightened as the idea gained appeal. “Like a home-health aide or an adult sitter.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Even though this earned him a smile — the first since Baxter had walked through his door and seen the bruise — Gray wasn’t joking. He’d die before he let an adult sitter into his home.
The indignity, he thought with a shudder. The annoyance.
“Of the two of us, I’m not the one with a broken brain,” Bax jabbed.
“It’s a meningioma,” Gray leveled. “It might give me seizures and headaches and one day stop my breath, but it’s not ever going make me agree to a…a… babysitter.”
“An adult sitter,” Baxter corrected, his smile growing. “And you forgot the part about memory loss.”
“I wish some of that would kick in right now.” Gray glared at his brother. “I’d like to forget this whole conversation.”
“You need to hire someone. To help out — if nothing else,” Bax said again. “If you’re not going to take your seizure medication as prescribed, someone needs to take care of you.”
Gray pointed to the door. “Go. Go back to New Orleans. Aren’t you Vice President of Sales? Shouldn’t you be at Blakewood Imports right now?”
“Vice President of Sales and Marketing.” Bax gave him an evil grin. “See, you’re forgetting already.”
Gray shook his head. “That’s not funny.” Ten minutes ago, he would have welcomed Bax’s jabs and gallows humor, but the threat of a caregiver was worse than the prospect of death at twenty-eight. He needed to get Bax off this bent before he started thinking about doing real damage. Blakewood Imports was a huge corporation with the best law firm in New Orleans on retainer. Would his family get to a point where they thought they knew what was best for him? When they and their lawyers could take away his control? Gray wondered if it was time to call André Washington, his old friend and attorney.
Gray sighed. His