Unexpected Gift(69)

“It is my fault. I heard it. There was so much glass.”

“Glass? Did something happen in the operating room?” I help him sit down and unwrap his arm from my neck. “I’m going to get you a glass of water and some Advil so you don’t hate yourself in the morning.”

“I hate myself right now. Brandon and Amelia are dead because of me.”

I turn back around, staring at him with a puzzled look. It’s impossible for him to be at fault. “Caden, that’s impossible,” I say in one breath, sitting down next to him and taking his hand in mine. “Don’t ever say that again.”

He tosses his arm over his eyes and shakes his head. His cheeks are red, his eyes are swollen, and I take in his wardrobe. He clothes are a little dirty, smudged with mud and grass stains. His tie is crooked. His hair is disheveled. “It’s true. It’s my fault.” He tosses his arm back down to stare at me through haunted eyes. “I went to see Brandon and Amelia today.”

“What?” I jerk back, hitting my head against the cushion. “I thought you had work.”

“I told you I had work. I didn’t. I wanted to talk to Brandon. I miss my friend, so I went to talk to him today.”

“I’m sorry. What? I’m having a hard time following, Caden.”

“I went to talk to him about you. About us. I told him that I loved you.”

“You love me?” I repeat, angry that he is telling me this right now when he is drunk and unable to sit up by himself. He probably doesn’t even mean it. He only thinks he does because the liquor is dulling his brain.

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ and rolls over to his side. His expression seems tormented, like he can’t shake something. “I’ve been ignoring this voicemail on my phone. It’s from him. He left it the day they died, and today I really needed to hear him, so I pressed play. I pressed play and it ended with me hearing them get into the accident. I heard everything, Molly. I heard Amelia scream. Posie cry. Glass shatter. I heard Brandon struggling to breath. I heard it all. And it’s playing on repeat in my head. Over and over again, like an annoying song I keep hearing. I tried to drown it out. With this.” He holds up the bottle, with only a small swish left at the bottom.

I can hardly understand him with his inebriated tongue, but still, the confession starts to feel like a ton of bricks pressing against my chest. “I’m sorry. I’m not following.” I grab the armrest of the chair, blinking back the tears from what he said.

“Yeah, it’s a little complicated. Well, not really. It just fucking sucks.” He opens the bottle and goes to take a swig, but I stop him, snatching it from his grasp.

“I think that is enough of that.” I slam the bottle down on the coffee table. There is a lot about this conversation that I’m having issues with, and I don't know where to start.

“Yeah, probably.”

I wipe my cheek on my shirt sleeve and slap my hands on my thighs. “You heard it?”

“Every metal grinding part. He was on the phone with me, Molly. He was leaving me a voicemail when they got into the accident.”

I kneel on the floor next to the couch and take his face in my hands. His breath reeks of the strong-smelling alcohol, but I ignore it. “You listen to me, Caden Jackson!” I dart my eyes all over his face. “It is not your fault. They were hit by a drunk driver. That had nothing to do with you.”

“But maybe they would have seen the car if they weren’t talking to me.”

“No, baby.” The name leaves my lips quicker than I catch it. It feels natural and right, because that is what he is to me. He is cherished and wanted, something I don’t want to keep holding back from. “That drunk driver ran a red light. Their death is not on you. Do you understand that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. I know. That’s all that matters. I don’t blame you for a thing, Caden. It isn’t your fault.” I lay my head against his chest, and a tear falls from the painful sobs ripping from his gut. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him break like this. I never want to see him like this. He wasn’t like this at the funeral, but maybe that is the problem. He has been holding all this pain in and not letting anyone know how he feels, and then he breaks.

Granted, the reason he broke is quite huge. I never want to hear that message. I don’t care that it is the last message my brother ever left. I know that I can’t handle that amount of pain. “It’s okay. I’m here, Caden. I’m always going to be here. Me and Posie will always be here.” I rub my hands down his arms, trying to comfort him.

Bringing comfort to someone while being broken yourself is a hard thing to do. We have to try not to cut each other with our jagged edges and also try not to continue to break under the pressure. Our imperfect pieces are chipped and sharp, ready to pierce and cause pain at all times. But sometimes, like right now, the pieces are dull and tired, exhausted from being used so much. His pieces and my pieces fit together like a puzzle, even with all of our differences.

At last, we aren’t forcing our pieces together. We aren’t denying them, either, by cutting each other like we used to. We are laying down our swords and admitting defeat.

Infliction—it’s the worst enemy.

I lay my entire body down on his, wrapping my arms around him and putting my ear against his heart. It is racing and pounding hard, like it is about to burst from being so stressed and overwhelmed—becoming inflicted.