Page 26 of Conflict
Branson, on the night of his engagement party, took me aside. For a guy who was celebrating his engagement, he looked less than thrilled. Haunted. Resigned. He was almost a stranger to me. I caught only a glimmer of his old self when he handed me a file.
“This is an expense account, and the money comes directly from me. I want…” He trailed off, running a hand through his dark hair. “I need you to find him, Shane. I don’t care if he doesn’t want to hear from me. I won’t contact him. I’ll respect that; I just need to know he’s okay. He might be bigger than me, but he’s still my little brother. Regardless of if he believes it, I love him even if it has to be from afar. Hire a private investigator, no expenses spared. I don’t want to pry. I just want to know where he is and that he’s well.”
It was the most candid I’d ever heard Branson. I agreed, and for the next ten years, until Knox’s convoy ran over a roadside bomb, we knew where he was at all times.
Still, I could see the battle raging within Branson. He wanted to be at peace, knowing Knox was fine. He warred with himself, wanting to go to him, to explain, to bring him back into the family. But he knew he couldn’t. Or he was too stubborn and he wouldn’t.
Over the years, I think that peace turned to resignation. I think the battle resulted in a wall being built, shutting off Branson’s emotions, turning anything left over into drive for his work. He became unemotional and callous, and the passion he ever exhibited was in the boardroom, where he hoped to one day be CEO.
I’m unsure what to glean from his voicemail. He’s still a drunk, apparently, but he’s met his future wife? Not exactly a good combo, especially if she knows who he is. I thought things were looking up for him, so why the booze binge? Not that I’m a fan of failing marriages, but theirs shouldn’t have ever happened in the first place. Its foundation was deceit and never stood a chance. Knox is back in the family fold and Megan’s signed the divorce papers, so I have to find out what’s bothering him now. Or who.
Reflection makes me realize that, while I’ve seen him at his lowest, I wouldn’t know what his highest even was. And, as his cousin and closest friend, I make a vow to change that.
I’m mentally making plans as I bear down on his door. I could knock to inform him of my presence, but where’s the fun in that? I open the door, half expecting him to surprise me and be awake, dressed, and ready to take on the day.
I’m not surprised.
A dark lump of a form is lying on the floor, and from the stream of light coming from the window, I can see he’s still dressed in last night’s clothes. Rubbing a hand over my face, I contemplate my next move. Channeling my own mother from the one and only time she found me hungover, I cross the room and fling the curtains open, allowing the light of the winter sun to blast throughout the penthouse suite.
He doesn’t move.
Apparently, his hangovers take deeper root than mine, because that move had me flying out of bed in an instant.
I try the next thing: pouring water over his face.
I get nothing. Same when I stick a pen in his nose and draw a line on his forehead. What the hell is going to wake this guy?
And then it hits me.
I lean down and whisper in his ear. “Branson…” I say, drawing his name out. “It’s Megan.”
He jumps up so fast that the top of his head hits my chin, knocking me backward. Pain sears through me, and when I sit up, rubbing my head, Branson’s staring down at me with wild eyes. He blinks, once, twice, and his demeanor changes.
“Shane?”
“The one and only.”
“Fuck. Sorry. God dammit, what did I drink last night? I just had a nightmare that Megan was whispering in my ear.”
I could tell him that was me. But I don’t. Because if hangovers cause Megan-like nightmares, maybe that’s exactly the excuse he needs to not get hammered.
“What are you doing here?”
I cross to the minibar and glance inside. Of course, nothing is left except for a tiny bottle of Jäger, which Branson hates. I grin to myself, grab it and a bottle of water, then sit on the edge of the bed. I hand Branson the water then the Jäger.
“Dude, seriously?” he says, eyeing the bottle with disgust.
“Hair of the dog, buddy. Your fault for blowing through everything else.”
He shrugs, toasts me with the bottle, and chugs the entire thing. “Ugh. Why? Why would anyone make liquor that tastes like black licorice? It’s disgusting,” he says with a wince. “Now that that’s outta the way, asshole, why are you here?”
I open my phone and play the voicemail. Once the beep signifies the end of the message, Branson groans, rubbing his eyes and plopping back on the pillow.
I don’t move. “Spill.”
He opens one eye and looks at me in disbelief. “Since when do we do girl talk?”
I hold my phone up. “Since you called and gushed over my voicemail. Now, spill or I’m calling my mom and telling her you’re sick.”
“Your mother hovers,” he says.
“Exactly.”
That’s all it takes to get Branson to spill. Except he’s been wasted the past two nights, so he doesn’t remember all that much. But what he does? To him? It’s profound. According to my cousin, he met the one woman who has the power to save him yet remembers nearly nothing about her or if he’ll ever see her again.
I hate the similarity in our situations and almost wish it was alcohol and not my idiocy that ruined my one perfect evening.
Once I get him up and out of the hotel, so we can go run his hangover off, I start to wonder what was going on in the universe two nights ago, and how did two cousins meet two women who seem to have changed everything?
