Page 22 of King of the Weld
"No, it's..." He sets down the torch, pushing his mask up to look at me directly. "It's a complicated question. Parts of it were good. The structure, the purpose, the brotherhood. Other parts..." He trails off, his eyes focusing on something I can't see. "Other parts were harder."
"The combat," I suggest gently.
He nods once. "Combat changes you. Not always in ways you understand at the time."
I wait, sensing there's more he wants to say, giving him space to find the words.
"There's a clarity in combat," he continues finally. "Everything reduced to its most essential form. Survive, protect, complete the mission. The world becomes very simple." He clenches his fists. "Coming back to civilian life, everything feels complicated again. Messy. Uncertain."
"Is that why you live out here? To keep things simple?"
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Part of it. Part of it is not trusting myself around too many people. Loud noises, unexpected movements… They can trigger responses I can't always control."
The admission feels significant, a piece of himself he doesn't share easily.
"That's why you don't sleep much," I guess. "The nightmares."
His eyes meet mine, "Yes."
I nod, not pushing further. "Thank you for telling me. Could you also tell me more about your brothers," I say eventually. "You mentioned three of you?"
This draws a genuine, if small, smile from him. "Four Morrison boys total, terror of the neighborhood growing up." He adjusts his position, preparing another piece of metal. "I’m the oldest. David's the pro quarterback. A few months into recovery from an injury."
"That must be difficult for him," I observe.
"It's hit him hard. Been drinking too much, from what Jack tells me. Man spent twenty years defining himself by what he could do on a field. Now he's trying to figure out who he is without that."
"Have you spoken with him about it?"
"Not directly. We check in, but..." He shrugs. "I'm not great at those conversations. Michael's better at it."
"And Michael is the businessman?"
"Second oldest. Always had a head for numbers, for seeing opportunities others missed. Started his first company in college, some tech thing I never understood. Sold it for millions before he was twenty-five, then built something bigger."
"The one who's helping us now," I clarify.
Ethan nods. "Michael operates in your father's world. Understands the rules, the leverage points."
"And your youngest brother? Jack, right?"
"The cowboy," Ethan confirms. "Professional rodeo rider, though he's had his share of injuries. Fearless, charming, too charming for his own good sometimes. Women adore him."
There's clear affection in Ethan's voice as he speaks about his brothers, despite the distance he keeps from them.
"You miss them," I observe.
He doesn't answer immediately, focusing on a particularly delicate weld. When he finally responds, his voice is quieter. "Yes. But it's better this way."
"Better for whom?"
Ethan sets down his torch, pushing up his mask to look at me directly. "For them. For anyone who gets too close." His jaw tightens. "I told you. I'm not always in control of how I react to things. Better to keep my distance than risk hurting someone I care about."
The sadness in this statement strikes me deeply. Ethan Morrison has exiled himself, convinced his broken pieces are too dangerous to share.
"What if that's not your decision to make?" I challenge gently. "What if the people who love you would rather take that risk than lose you?"
"It is my decision. My responsibility."
