“Nolan, why . . .” Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he come forward? Why did he do this? Although he’d just explained himself, I still cannot comprehend what he’d done.
“I went to prison,” I remind him, my voice hardening. His head snaps up, eyes wide but spilling with liquid.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” A sob cracks through the room before my brother falls apart, shaking uncontrollably with guilt and tears.
My blood runs cold. I have no comfort for him. “You’re sorry?” I bellow, slapping a hand to the linoleum flooring. Nolan’s fragile body shudders.
“I was so messed up. Hurt and on drugs at the hospital. Then you were gone, convicted, and I didn’t know what to do. Rory told me how he thought it was his fault, and you told him not to tell anyone. I said the same thing. I couldn’t have my son go to jail for something I’d done. And then I couldn’t admit it myself because I couldn’t leave my son without a father. I couldn’t do to him what had been done to us.”
His body shakes harder, the tears falling faster. I don’t even know what to say. I’m vibrating with confusion and anger, hurt and betrayal. My own brother. Sadly, I knew Nolan justified his actions in his head. It was never his fault. He had his reasons. He had his convictions, but this time, I had enough.
Scrambling up off the floor, I stumbled in my dress shoes. I was still wearing my shirt, rolled to the elbows, but my tie was loosened. My coat had been removed hours ago. Fumbling through the hallway, I attempt to climb the stairs, tripping on them and banging my knees on the risers. I wasn’t drunk. In fact, every drink I’d had earlier turned to ice in my veins.
My own brother.
The little boy I’d become a father figure to.
The child I’d protected from bullies.
The teenager I’d moved home for.
The man for whom I’d given up my life.
Stumbling up the stairs, I find my truck keys in my room and slip back down the steps. My legs hardly hold me. My knees give out once, and I fall to the steps again, slamming my ass this time on the hardwood. My heart races too fast. My ears ring.
I owed my brother nothing, and I’d be damned if I lost one more thing because of him.
23
Rita
A sharp rattling on my front door wakes me from a fitful sleep. My room is pitch black, and it takes me a second to gather my wits. Throwing off the blanket, I can’t imagine who would be at the house this late and assume it’s either an animal bumping against the door or someone trying to break in. After grabbing the baseball bat I keep under the bed, I head down the hallway. I’m not afraid to use this thing. I’m certain I could get in one good swing although my hands sweat along the handle. As I press myself against the wall of the staircase, lowering for the first floor like I’m the one sneaking into my home, I see that a forehead rests against the frosted glass while knuckles wrap on the wood as if separate from the body, creating such a ruckus.
Tiptoeing down the staircase, I feel goose bumps scatter over my flesh. I’m only wearing a low-cut T-shirt nightdress which hits at my kneecaps. Not the best body armor, but then again, an intruder wouldn’t be knocking on the door. Still, the bat remains raised as I reach the front door, and call out, “Who’s there?”
“Sweet.” Sounding strained and off, I’m almost surprised I heard his voice through the glass. Quickly, I set the bat to the side of the door and release the locks. Once the door is opened, the man on my front porch hardly looks like Jake. He sways. His shirt is wrinkled. His tie disheveled. An overwhelming hint of cinnamon wafts between us. Gum is the first attempt to hide alcohol on someone’s breath.
“Are you drunk?” I snap. Jake does not confess to having a problem. He’s told me all the ways he’s been accused of having an issue but remains adamant he does not. I know all about closet drinking, thinking you’re fooling others when you aren’t. I’m also not convinced Jake really does suffer from alcohol addiction as I had.
“I’ll admit I’ve been drinking.” His voice remains controlled, but his hands