Page 19 of Jealous of the Clouds
I left town shaken and depressed. Something was definitely not right and I was determined to help my brother, whether he knew he needed help or not.
I never got the chance. I went home, feeling hopeless and trying to rely desperately on my brother’s common sense, his instinct for self-preservation, and his self-respect.
Everything smelled bad. I felt sick to my stomach the whole plan ride home.
Why didn’t I force Reggie come home with me? It was a question that would become central to my life—forever.
The next news I had about Reggie was that he’d been murdered.
*
The podcast ended with its usual eerie New Age music and promised more details to come.
By now, the sky was lightening and I felt bone-tired, but it would be a futile gesture to get back in bed.
I moved to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee brewing. My phone chimed a couple times, indicating new incoming texts.
Josh?
I wasn’t ready to talk to him. Not yet.
But a reckoning was coming.
Chapter 7
A week went by—a week in which I made excuses to not see Josh.
I was too busy at work; I’d come down with a mild cold (yes, I’d tested myself for COVID); I had plans with an old friend from college (Josh wouldn’t quit with the questions and suspicions until I assured him the friend was female); I didn’t sleep well and was exhausted.
I needed so many excuses because Josh wouldn’t be put off. He called or texted me every day—in the morning before I left for work, and in the evening when I returned. Two of those days I’d claimed to have called in sick, which wasn’t true. Fortunately, he didn’t have my office number, only my cell, so I could see when he was calling.
On Sunday, I had no choice but to relent. That morning, a gray one marked by drizzle and a sudden drop in temperature to the low forties, I told myself I had only two options—either get right with him or let him go. I was surprised at the resistance I experienced at the notion of breaking up.
I didn’t want to.
It was as simple—and as illogical—as that. I used to scoff at people who said the following, despite a pile of evidence directing them to run the other way—but I love him. And now I was wondering if even that was true. Did I really love this man?
Did I really know him?
Was this a weird kind of complacency?
Or was I afraid of him?
Despite everything, he’d shown me I could love for real. And wasn’t love really just faith wrapped in a clever disguise? Did I believe him? Did I believeinhim?
There was only one way to find out—to lay my cards on the table, to gauge his reaction, yes, but also to allow him to defend himself against the suspicions I’d been harboring.
I sent him a quick text.
Feeling better. Am free all day (and all night). Are you? Wanna come by for lunch and maybe more?
I didn’t want him to suspect that I was having him over not only to see if we could get back on track, but also to have a serious discussion about this very black mark on his past.
*
The drizzle turned to one of those all-day downpours made for lounging late in bed, watching old black and white movies on Max, and eating comfort food like stews or chili.
Unfortunately, a day like that was likely not on the table.
