Take Me With You(83)

As I pull into the long driveway that leads up to the house, a sensation of dread usurps the fleeting semblance of liberty I felt during this short trip.

Everything looks just as I left it, but something is off. My sharp instincts kick on high alert. Did she play me? Is she gone, after all? I speed along the rocky driveway, bumping up and down the uneven road. I step out of the cab, surveying the vast open space that holds the house and barn.

Fresh tire tracks line the grass in front of the house. I could follow them to see where they lead, but I have to check the house first to see if she's still here.

I walk into the front door and he's sitting there, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a gun pointed at me with the other.

This has been a slow suicide. Every action since the night I first snuck out and climbed that tree. Taking Vesper, allowing her to make me sloppy—that was just when I finally had the guts to pull the trigger.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Scoot, the name I’ve called him since as far back as I can remember. The nickname he used in his bid for Sheriff to make him sound more folksy. But most people know him as Sheriff Andrew Hunter-Ridgefield.

His scowl drips with disgust.

“What have you done?” he asks, his tone a mix of rage and despair.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“Oh wouldn't you like to know? Don't worry, the cavalry won't be rushing in here quite yet.”

I take stock of all the things I could bash his skull in with if it came to that. But I won't. As much as I loathe my brother, there's a sense of loyalty that undercuts all that bullshit.

“I called you a few weeks ago. Then again and again. You didn’t answer. You never just fucking answer,” he grunts through tight lips. “The morning after the barbeque, I saw Milly packing her bags and leaving. I watched it as I had my morning coffee. I thought, well maybe she's going out of town. But I'm a fucking cop, Sam. I couldn't help but notice the look on her face, like she'd seen the devil.” He rubs his face with both hands, temporarily removing the gun's aim on me. “But I didn't even think it had anything to do with you. Because you're my fucking brother, man. I let that shit cloud me. So I brushed it off after asking around. No one knew anything. But she's new. Maybe she just didn't feel like telling a bunch of strangers her business.”

He pauses for a moment to absorb. I can see him cataloguing everything from our past, making the connections the way an experienced officer would. He's just like dad, and it makes me sick. It's like dad is still here, still fucking judging me, still looking at me like a disappointment.

“I'm busy. So I didn't think much about it. Honestly, I have been so fucking sick of chasing you down, trying to make you feel welcome, I thought I’d give you your space. Even when I called you a few more times, I just wanted to check in on my brother and if Milly came up, great. But it did irk me that she never came back. Like an itch I couldn’t scratch. Until yesterday when I saw a moving truck and a crew moving her stuff out. Eventually she showed up. I could've let it go. I could've said it wasn't my business. God, I almost wish I had. But I crossed the street and went up to Milly, friendly-like. When she looked at me, there was this look in her eyes. First fear, then anger. I pretended I didn't notice, asked her why she was moving. Just friendly talk. She didn't answer me, just kept carrying her things to her car. I kept pressing, wondering what I had done until she snapped. 'Why don't you ask your brother?' That's what she said.”

I sigh, hating myself for losing control like that. It's those little mistakes that lead to your sheriff-brother pointing a gun at you in your living room.

“It hit me in the gut, you know? Because I never really said it, Sam. And I try to show it. But I feel like shit for the way things happened. For being a little dick and racing off the day that car hit you. And I know you think that I kept my distance growing up because I was a shitty brother, but it was because every time I saw the scars on you, it made me sick to my stomach with guilt. And I have been trying so hard. Despite all the smugness, and the seething looks, and every fucking avoidance tactic under the sun. So when she said that, I felt sick again. Because I knew that there was something I didn't want to know.”

My throat should feel tight. I should feel trepidation about any words that might come from my lips. But finally sharing a secret is a great relief. I finally feel like I can be myself. Suddenly, the invisible hand gripping my neck releases.

“Well, I'm glad you think I owe you my undying gratitude because one day you woke up and decided not to be a cock.”

“God, you are such an asshole,” Scoot groans. “I am so tired of your fucking 24-7-365 pity party. You're fucking unbelievable. You should be…BEGGING me right now.”

“You have no fucking idea!” I shout. “No fucking idea what it was like to be me. You got to be free. Dad didn't wake you up in the middle of the night and make you swim until you'd drown because he hated you. Because he thought that your birth was the reason mom got worse with her fucking delusions. You only had to see mom a few hours a week, and then you both drove off and I was here! I was here being held fucking prisoner.”

“I am so sick of this shit, Sam!” Scoot shouts, punching his pistol into the air as he jumps to his feet. “Here's the thing no one had the balls to tell you. Except dad, and it's why you hated him so much. You were a fucking weird kid. You always were. We all saw the strangeness. You weren't right. You were never right. And you aren't the first person to be different, you know. You can blame mom and dad, or me…but it was always there. Mom fucking knew it. Maybe she couldn't bring herself to see it that way. But, that's why she had you out here and that's why dad let it happen!”