Page 89 of Fly Boy
My shoulders sag, and I realize that, once again, it appears my brother has had his heart broken, giving in to something he knew he shouldn’t have. It’s not lost on me either that the image before me is exactly what will happen to me if this thing with Pippa ends.
But right now, it’s not about me. “Is this what the drinking’s all about?”
He hums in response, burying his face into his pillow. I stand there and watch him for several minutes as he falls asleep until my phone buzzes in my sweatpants pocket.
Brat
Let me know how your brother is. I hope he’s okay.
I’ll see you Monday morning for our flight.
And then there’s a small part of me, a foolish part, that thinks, maybe I won’t end up like Bowie after all.
The sun streams into the spare room window, and Bowie groans, his hand slapping around the nightstand, searching for something.
“Morning, sunshine,” I drawl from the doorjamb, a mug of coffee in hand. It’s not the massive one withWorld's Greatest Pilotthat gives me enough of a caffeine fix to kick-start my day, but it’s enough to deal with my hungover brother. I cross my ankles, one over the other, smirking as Bowie frowns. “How are we feeling this morning?”
“Rough.” He nods at my hand. “Please say that’s for me.”
“Hell no,” I laugh, rubbing it in by taking a nice, long gulp. “There’s plenty downstairs.” Turning back into the hallway, about to head down, I pause. “Oh, your clothes are on the dresser, freshly washed, and I even ironed them for you.” I glance over his shoulder, wrinkling my nose. “But do me a favor and shower first; you smell like you’ve been on a week-long bender.”
I’m in the kitchen, drinking my second coffee by the time Bowie’s freshly showered and dressed. He looks marginally better as he walks across the room, helping himself to a cup and a pod and making a coffee from the machine.
“When did you buy more mugs?” I don’t answer him. I stare at my iPad, unseeing the weather report as he sidles up beside me. “You got them for that girl who was here, right?” The back of my neck prickles as I continue to ignore him. He gestures toward my screen. “Where are you going today?”
I look up, aware now of what Bowie’s trying to do. He’s deflecting. He’s hoping that if he keeps speaking and asking questions, he won’t have to tell me what’s going on with him.
“We need to talk about last night.”
He looks into his mug, a little sheepish. “I don’t wa—”
“Tough shit, Bowie,” I say, a little more forcefully than I intended. But this is where we fall short as brothers. When one of us doesn’t want to talk, the other backs off. Maybe if I didn’t, Bowie wouldn’t have been such a mess yesterday.
And maybe you’re paranoid that you’re seeing the future before you.
An unfamiliar emotion lines my stomach, but I push it to the side to focus on Bowie. “You turn up unannounced at my home, drunk off your ass on cheap liquor. You don’t have a choice on whether you get to talk about it in the morning.”
“I never learn,” he mutters, knocking me off guard by answering so quickly, and then proceeds to tell me about the man he crossed the line with. The line, from what I can remember, he said he’d stay far away from, until one day he said he couldn’t.
Sound familiar?
“Tell me about who was here last night,” he says, pouting when I shake my head. “I told you all about my shame. It’s your turn. Who is she?”
“Someone I should never have gotten involved with.”
“Do I know her?” Bowie asks, and I shake my head. Technically, that’s not entirely true. He does knowabouther. He’s just never met her. “How long has it been going on?”
“On and off for a couple of months.”
“Wait, is this—” He frowns, clicking his fingers as his hungover brain tries to recall her name.
I take pity and help him out, surprised by how much weight lifts off my shoulders as I say, “Philippa Cartwright.”
“Fuck. Does anyone else know about you two?”
“I told Sadie a few days ago.”
“Dude? Mom knew before me?” I grimace at his hurt expression. “How bad is it if you’re caught?”
