The After of Us (Judge Me Not #4)(61)

During those good times, Mom got pregnant. She gave me a little brother named Will that I still love like crazy and miss every f*cking day. We used to talk on the phone all the time, but now I’m lucky if I get a two-word text from my little bro. I suppose when you’re eleven years old—and haven’t seen your big brother in two years—memories become a little hazy.

That’s another thing the extra money from selling drugs will help with: I’ll have enough funds to fly out to Vegas to see Will. Or I can just buy him a ticket to come here. As it is my mom, Abby, barely makes enough to get by out there.

But, like I said before, it wasn’t always that way. In the early years, my father’s construction company grew and thrived, so much so that I once entertained dreams of taking over the business. I used to imagine following in my father’s footsteps, as sons are apt to do.

One afternoon, when I was about thirteen, I told my dad I wanted to build homes, same as he did. I showed him some sketches, just some basic designs and floor plans I’d thrown together. My dad was impressed. And not the false kind of fawning parents often try to sell to their kids. No, my drawings truly floored Jack Gartner. I could tell he couldn’t believe his eldest son possessed that kind of crazy talent. He told me I should aim high, the sky was the limit. My sketches were incredible, he said, especially for my age. I could be an architect if I wanted, design skyscrapers even.

I had no reason not to believe him.

When you’re thirteen you think you can have it all. Life hasn’t roughed you up so very much…yet. At least it hadn’t for me. So I told my father I’d do both—I would design the skyscrapers, and then I’d build them. My buildings would sell like hotcakes, and I’d be as rich as Donald Trump. No, richer even.

“The sky’s the limit,” I said, echoing my father’s words back to him.

Dad smiled and patted me on the back.

Jack Gartner wasn’t patronizing me, he truly believed in my possibility. “You have talent, Chase,” he said. “Just don’t ever lose yourself. If you can stay true to your dream…to who you are…then you’ll do more than fly. Someday you’ll soar.”

Yeah, right. I sure am soaring at the moment, but I have a feeling this isn’t what Dad had in mind.

Tate tries to pass the bottle back to me, but my mood has dampened. The pills, along with the memories, are doing a f*cking number on my emotions. I’m sad one minute, reflective the next, mad at everything, contemplative over nothing. I guess I am officially f*cked up.

I push the bottle away, harder than necessary, and clear liquid sloshes over the side. “Asshole,” Tate mutters.

“Sorry,” I say.

Do I really mean it? No, it’s just a word, an empty string of letters. Empty, like me.

I tune Tate out. I am high as f*ck and lost in my mind. We idle at a swinging red light hanging over an empty, dark stretch of road, and I sit waiting on an imaginary red light in my head, one on memory-f*cking-lane.

When I blink, both lights turn green…

My dad started taking me to work the summer I showed him the drawings. I learned how to wire a home, how to put in plumbing, how to lay insulation. And that was just the beginning. I used to watch how my dad talked to the guys. He treated them with respect, and in turn they went the extra mile for him. It was all “Yes sir, Mr. Gartner,” “Consider it done, Jack.”

When I turned fourteen, my dad bought me a drafting table, a bunch of fancy software too. The kind real architects use, or so he said. I practiced all the time, got pretty damn good. I was building my wings, you see, preparing to fly.

Will was only five, but damn if that kid didn’t love to sit around and watch me sketch. For him, I’d draw all kinds of ridiculous structures.

“Dwaw me a house, Chasey,” he asked this one day.

I laughed while I tousled his blond hair. I remember the fine strands looked so light in the sunlit room. Hell, they were almost white. “All right, buddy, what kind do you want?”

“A house like a tweeeee,” Will sing-song replied, green eyes innocent and wide as he focused on the sketch pad I’d picked up from my desk.

I readied a colored pencil and asked for clarification, “Okay, a tree house, right?”

“No-o-o.” Will shook his little head vociferously. “A house that is a twee, Chasey.”

“Aha, got it,” I said.

And I did. I drew Will a tree house shaped exactly like a tree, big, sturdy, loaded down with bushy branches. The leaves I shaded in the color of my brother’s eyes. I sketched a door at the base of the trunk, then drew a Will-sized truck and parked it under a lowlying branch. After I finished with some final shading, I held the drawing up for my brother to see.

Will’s house looked like one of those tree houses in the commercials with the elves and the cookies, only this one I’d drawn was far better. There was a lot more detail, and I’d drawn the tree in 2-D. In among the branches and the leaves all the rooms were in cross-section, done up in varying shades of blue, Will’s favorite color. I also made certain every last blue-shaded 2D-room overflowed with toys.

Will threw his arms around my neck and told me he loved his twee house. Then, he leaned back and told me he loved me even more.

He gave me a kiss on my cheek. That shit always touched my heart, choked me up a little. “I love you too, buddy,” was about all I could say as I held on to a little boy who meant the world to me.