Page 7 of The Best Kind of Forever
This is the seventh anniversary of his death. Seven years, and the pain is still as fresh as the day he left me.
I was the first one to find him. Roden promised to drive me over to my friend’s house so we could pregame before a party, but I couldn’t find him, and I panicked.
When me and my brother were little, we used to play upstairs in the attic. My mother and father would argue a lot, and the attic was a safe haven for us. We pretended we were wanderers exploring barren lands, using cardboard boxes as imaginary forts to protect ourselves from the evil ruler that was hell-bent on capturing us—who just so happened to have the same name as my dad.
Michael.
My dad isn’t a kind man. He isn’t capable of love. When I was little, the only reason he’d talk to me was to admonish me. It was like he felt constantly burdened by his children. Children hehelpedbring into this world. Roden was born mute, but my father was adamant there must be some way to fix him. Roden quickly became ostracized by his peers because of his disability, leading him to fall down a rabbit hole of depression.
My brother was trapped in that six-foot-deep hole, with only me trying to tug him up by a lifeline. In the end, I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.
There was nobody to stand up to my father except me. My mother, Elaine, sacrificed her autonomy and her relationship with her own children to please my father. She cared for my brother, and it was obvious that when he became depressed, she wanted to help. But my father refused to get him the help he needed, and my mom obeyed him and stood idly by as her first-born withered into a shell of his former self.
Roden was older than me by two years, but I was always his protector. Always. Until the night I found him hanging from one of the rafter beams. He didn’t leave a note, and that was what broke me the most. I didn’t know how he was feeling in his last moments. I didn’t get to saygoodbye.
I failed my brother. I wasn’t enough to make him stay in this world. I should’ve fought harder for him. It feels like I’ve spent my whole life fighting—fighting for my father’s love, fighting for my mother’s support. Eventually, it’s just easier to give up.
A mosaic of prismatic colors pedals past my vision, and my mind is as foggy as condensation on glass when I place my lips to the rim of my shot glass. I’ve already put away five drinks, and the night’s still young, so I’ll probably be here until the bartender kicks me out.
I kill my drink with a toss of my head, and it’s like a tumbleweed of fire rolling down my throat, warmth spidering to every part of my body. I cringe at the initial taste, but that doesn’t stop me from flagging down the bartender for another shot. I need to stop feeling. I need to stop thinking. Heat welts me from every direction, almost strong enough to cancel out the musty scent of body odor and alcohol wafting off the inebriated crowd.
I’m at a bar and lounge called Mickey’s that I frequent. The atmosphere is way too lively for my liking tonight, and I feel like I must be the only one here trying to drink themselves to an early grave.
“Maybe you should slow down,” a voice says from behind me. It’s thick, like crushed velvet, and it has a honeyed undertone to it. It’s nice, and it definitely belongs to a male.
But as pleasant as the voice is to listen to, the advice is unwelcome.
“Did you know it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?” I ask, indignation swirling inside of my chest like a cinder.
There’s a shuffling noise to my side, and judging by the displaced air, the intruder is now sitting directly next to me.
“Did you know that binge drinking can result in alcohol poisoning?”
I down the rest of my glass despite his warning. “Maybe that’s the goal.”
“You want to spend the rest of the night getting your stomach pumped in the ER?”
I snort, feeling heat bloom up the back of my neck. “Sounds exciting.”
“I know you didn’t ask for my advice, or my help, but what kind of Samaritan would I be if I let you get five hundred dollars in debt from a completely avoidable trip to the hospital?” he says.
I school my expression to the best of my ability, but my tone is clipped when I speak. I haven’t looked at my annoyer yet, and I’d prefer to keep eye contact limited at this point. “Don’t worry, nobody’s watching your selfless act of kindness. You don’t need to pretend to care.”
“Who said anything about pretending?”
I hate the way my curiosity betrays me, because hook, line, and sinker, that gets me to turn right toward him.
He’s a disturbingly attractive man—the kind of attractive you only see on billboards or movie screens. He looks to be about six foot three, and just going off the wideness of his shoulders, there’s no question in hell that he’d be able to throw me across the room like a ragdoll right now if he wanted to.
His eyes are blue and enticing, like the undercurrents of a churning sea. I feel like he’s a stare away from tricking me to dive into their misty depths and drown below treacherous waves.
His blond hair falls from its middle part and frames the sharp blades of his cheeks. He has a jawline that could grate cheese, as well as huge biceps that bulge outwards. If that’s any indication of his muscle distribution, he probably has a matching set of abs that are about as solid as a barbecue grill under that flimsy shirt of his.
Oh, and I think he has dimples. Maybe. Jury’s out.
“You’re…” I slur, my cheeks turning rosy.Come on, brain! Work! Form sentences!
“Dashingly handsome? Super muscular? A young Leonardo DiCaprio?” Mystery Guy says, a full-throated chuckle breaching his very kissable lips. They’re plush and pink, and his lower one is slightly bigger than the top. I watch with rapt focus as his tongue slides out to wet them, then disappears behind a row of pearly-white teeth.
