Reckless(102)

I should be over it by now. Cal’s kid is a year old, and the writing is on the wall. He’s not coming back. But my parents keep holding out hope. They’re afraid he’ll get bored down there like he gets bored with everything. And in the time they’ve held off selling their business and retiring, they lost a great offer on the company and my father’s health has gone to shit.

As the night wears on, every time I flip on the ink gun, that staccato buzz heightens my awareness of the clock and builds a slow dread in my chest. It should be a relief to have one less thing to worry about. Except this is the part I love. This is the part that actually feels right when I’m not in such a piss-poor mood.

But I can’t keep doing this to myself. Running half a dozen crews on my father’s landscaping business and tattooing all night will put me in an early grave.

Chugging down some coffee, I nod toward the dude in my chair. He points to his bicep where I’ve already transferred a drawing of a pair of oars. “I’m rowing for BU in the fall,” he says proudly.

Mustering a smile, I tell him congrats and then focus on the lines I etch into his skin.

We get a lot of college kids in here. I used to enjoy hearing their stories and understanding the meaning behind the symbols I inked on them. Hell, I used to be one of those BU kids.

But now it’s tough to stomach the optimism in their voices. It’s a reminder that I was a dumb asshole for getting my master’s in art. For not going to law school. For not studying something that could’ve bailed my parents out of their financial crisis.

For thinking like a dreamer.

After my last client, I remove the key from my key ring and hand it to Rudy.

“You always got a place here, man,” he says, leaning forward for a bro-hug.

I grumble a thanks and a farewell, knowing full well my spot will be filled by the end of next week, as will the opportunity to partner with him on the new shop.

The whole drive home, it eats at me, missing these opportunities. But there’s no one to complain to, and even if there was, there’s nothing to say. I’ve made my decision.

The sound of my keys echoes in the dark apartment. I toe off my work boots, caking the floor in mud, but my roommate is probably over at his girlfriend’s, so he’s not here to bitch about it.

I’m yawning and so tired, I’m a little nauseous. As I head for my bedroom, I reach for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans to set an alarm. Cal’s message flashes on the screen: I need to talk to you. I have some news. Stop being a cock.

My temple throbs.

It’s two a.m. here, which means it’s only one in Texas. He might be up. But can I really deal with talking about this shit right now? I’ve been up since five this morning when I hauled my ass to the Jackson property.

Scrubbing my face with my palms, I groan.

I’ll say something I’ll regret if I have that conversation tonight. I’ll call him tomorrow or next week or whatever.

With labored movement, I strip out of my jeans and t-shirt, and my muscles scream in protest when I stretch out in bed.

It feels like I’ve barely fallen asleep when the phone rings. I fumble for it and answer in a daze. The voice sounds a million miles away.

I shake my head and sit up.

“Brady? Did you h… h… hear me?” My mother’s voice warbles over the phone in between sobs.

I blink several times. My heart thunders in my chest, tripping over itself in an erratic beat. Rubbing my eyes hard, I try to wake up. She says it again.

What? No, that’s just…

A numbness spreads through all of my limbs.

My stomach clenches as she wails the words that gut me. “C… C… Cal is dead. Oh, my God. Cal is dead!”



* * *



As I heave into the trash, that conversation with my mom races through my mind. Because when I told her to hang tight, that I was coming to see her, she drop-kicked me with something else. That upon learning the news that my brother, his wife Melissa, and their baby Isabella died in a freak car accident, my father had a heart attack and is in intensive care.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe through the fear of losing my father. Through the regret and guilt of how I treated Cal. Through the shame.

The moment registers like the event horizon of a black hole, yawning before me like an abyss.

“Sir, are you okay?” a nurse asks me as I heave into the trash for the third time.

I wave her off, shivering when a cold sweat breaks out along my back and neck.

Cal is gone. My baby brother is dead.

Why didn’t I call him back? Why couldn’t I get my head out of my ass? I don’t know the details of the accident, but I can’t help but wonder if anything would’ve been different if I’d just picked up the goddamn phone. Would it have saved them somehow? Could it have kept them home?

A chilling thought grips me. Was the accident my fault?

The loss of my brother reverberates through me until dry heaves upend my stomach and make me contemplate curling up on the filthy hospital floor.

By the time I reach the hospital room I’m pretty sure I’ve puked out my spleen, but the sight of my unconscious father with tubes sticking out of him makes me ignore my own misery.

My mother turns to me. Behind those puffy eyes, I see a flicker of relief. She’s hovering over my father, who is pale and hauntingly still. In three long strides I’m by her side, and I tuck her against me where she cries quietly.