man of the family. When Mom had trouble with her gutters, or car, or needed something out of the attic, or … anything really, I was the one she called. Reliable, steady Keaton, that was me. When my brothers were in trouble, I was the one who fixed the problem. I wrangled them on the holidays, scolded them when they didn’t do what they’d promised Mom, and was the moral compass of the Nash family.
It was exhausting. And October, the third anniversary of Dad’s death, was only four months away. Which meant the stress was only going to intensify.
Mom was going to go into complete mourning, just like she had the year before. It had lasted until well after New Year’s when I’d finally threatened her with therapy that she’d refused many times before.
But she was going to have a bigger problem this year. My brothers and I agreed that she couldn’t stay in the six-bedroom house we’d grown up in. It was too big, too much maintenance, and every single corner and closet reminded her of our father. I loved the house almost as much as she did, but on the upcoming third year since his passing, it was time to let it go.
We all had to start living again.
I headed into mile four, my arms pumping to the music blasting through my headphones. Coming out here on a weekday morning was my favorite time, almost no other Fawn Hill resident took to running the lake path at this time.
My phone rings from the band wrapped around my arm, cutting The Who off. I slow down, taking it out of its sleeve. The number that flashes on the screen turns the blood in my veins to ice. Because there can only be one reason he’s calling, and even if his reaching out does me a favor, he’s still the last person on earth I want to talk to.
“Gerry, is he there?” I pick up, letting him know I know why he’s calling.
A grunt and what sounds like glass crunching in the background. “Yeah, he’s here. Better get down here quick, Keaton, or I’ll be forced to call the cops if he tries to take his keys.”
“Fucking, hell,” I say more to myself than to Gerry Flint.
Gerry Flint is the owner of the Goat & Barrister, the one bar on Main Street. He’s a decent man, but with the history between us, we’re never going to be friends.
His daughter had bashed my heart in with a bat … and even if we’d been chummy once, there was no coming back from that.
Sprinting to the parking lot, I’m peeling out and swerving through town in a frenzy. Two cars actually honk at me on my way to the bar, and road rage is unheard of in our town.
Within five minutes of the phone call, I’m walking into the Goat. It’s a dark tavern, with wood paneling and old British-inspired decor. The person Gerry called about is slumped over the sticky, cherry-top bar, but I can tell he isn’t sleeping.
“Fletcher.” I sigh, not knowing if his name is a curse, a question or simply a resigned greeting.
My brother looks up, his eyes glassy, a cut above his lip bleeding, and then turns back to Gerry, who is polishing glasses behind the bar.
“You called him, you asshole? I don’t need a daddy, or didn’t you hear mine is dead?” Fletch practically spits at the owner, and I cringe.
“That’s enough, Fletch. Let’s go, I’ll drive you home. Gerry, thank you for calling. Can I have his keys? We’ll pick his car up later.”
There was smashed glass under his chair, and I could see beer dripping from a poster over a table on the other wall. As I neared, I caught a whiff of Fletcher and had to hold my breath. He’d definitely pissed himself, and it was possible there was throw up on his T-shirt. Fuck, and I was going to let him in my car?
My youngest brother … the family addict. I blew out a breath, trying to hold my temper at bay. Fletch had always been a party boy, he was the one you called for a good time. When Dad was alive, he kept it under wraps more … although Bowen and I had been the ones to bail him out of jail twice; once when he was eighteen and once when he was twenty, both for being drunk and disorderly. It got worse after that, and when I still lived