Between Brothers

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

I sleep in the guest room so I won’t have to talk to Timothy. In the morning, he wakes before I do and lets me sleep, a little thing that would normally piss me off because then I’m late for work, but I’m not going into the office today. When I stumble into the kitchen, wiping the sleep from my eyes, I upend the empty coffee pot and grumble, “Where’s the coffee?”

From the dining room table, looking out over the balcony at the river and the clear day beyond, Timothy tells me, “I didn’t know you wanted any.”

Bullshit. I slam the coffee pot on the counter, hard enough to rattle the dishes drying by the sink. He plays such petty games, I don’t know why I bother to put up with them. Doesn’t matter—I have to stop for gas before I hit the road, I’ll just grab a cup to go. As if noticing the time, Timothy rattles the morning paper and asks innocently, “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

“f**k you,” I mutter.

Retreating to the bedroom we share, I dig out an old hard-shell suitcase and start throwing clothes into it at random. Shirts, jeans, underwear, socks…I pick through our drawers without looking at what I grab. After a lifetime, Timothy finally wanders in to see what I’m up to but the half-filled suitcase stops him in the doorway. “Where are you going?”

“My brother called,” I remind him, separating my boxers from his. “My mom’s sick. I’ve got to go home.”

“Now?” Timothy asks. Then, as if he realizes that sounds a bit callous, he adds, “Is she all right?”

Truthfully, I admit, “I don’t know. I’ll call you when I find out—”

“You’re leaving now?” The look of consternation on Timothy’s face furrows his brow. “Isn’t this a little sudden?”

I start to fold my clothes into the suitcase, ironing out the wrinkles with my hands. “Yeah well, you can’t choose when s**t like this happens. She’s in the hospital—”

“And your brother told you this?” Timothy asks.

Something in his voice hints at disbelief. “What, you think I’m lying?” I give him a hard glance over my shoulder before turning back to my clothes. “No Timmy, it wasn’t my brother, it’s some guy I like to f**k every now and then. Apparently he’s up in New Jersey this weekend and he’s looking for a little action, so I’m leaving you for a booty call.” I let that sink in. “Is that what you want to hear?”

I hear the anger in his voice when he replies, “Why do you have to be such a bastard about everything?”

“Why can’t you f*****g believe me?” I fold my clothes with quick, concise motions that belie how upset I am—at him, at Joey, at my mother for putting us all through this. She’s under a doctor’s care already, right? So she’ll get better, but in the meantime the rest of us have to stop our lives and rush back into hers.

A flash of guilt flickers through me at that thought and is gone. With a shaky sigh, I hug a pair of jeans to me and in a soft voice tell Timothy, “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But this is my mother we’re talking about. I know you know what I mean.”

Of course he knows—his mother lives just across town and he’s over at her place every weekend, mowing the yard and fixing up the house, taking her to the store, rubbing her feet. He’s the image of the devoted son. I met his mother once—only once, because she thinks I’m not good enough for Timothy even though I’ve got two degrees and make twice as much money as he does, and she made it a point to let me know she doesn’t like me. But God, Tim thinks she walks on water. He’s told me I should call my mother more often, get closer to my family, let them in, and now that I’m finally going back home, he balks?

I’m just about to tell him to forget it, it’s no big deal, I’m leaving in fifteen minutes whether he likes it or not and I’ll see him whenever I get back…then his hands are on my shoulders and he kisses the back of my neck. The touch is so tender, so unexpected, that I choke back a sob that surprises me. Timothy’s arms slip around my chest to hug me against him, and he’s warm and strong and so close that for a moment I wish we could rewind this morning, last night too, and play it back again without the bitching and the anger and the pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against my neck, as if he has anything to apologize for. “Brian—”

I turn in his embrace and our lips meet in a sweet, simple kiss. With one hand, I trace the curve of his jaw, his wiry beard tickling my palm. “I’ll call you when I get there,” I assure him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says softly. “Just do what you need to do, okay?”