Page 74 of Tru Blue
“All right. You’re clear.”
Truman followed a woman down a sterile hallway. He focused on her feet, counting her steps, because if he didn’t, he was afraid he’d turn and leave. The process was too reminiscent of his years in prison. He reminded himself he was there of his own free will. Hell, everyone was. No one here was a prisoner.
Except to their addictions.
Quincy is my addiction.
He entered a small, comfortable room that resembled a living room. His eyes sped over the couch against the far wall, a table and chairs to his right. It all blurred together, like the thoughts going through his mind as he paced. When the door opened, he stilled, lifting his eyes to his brother. A wave of apprehension swept through him, quickly followed by the relief he should have felt when he first announced who he was visiting. But he’d been too stressed to slow down and appreciate the fact that Quincy was still there. His biggest fear was that his brother would give up and check himself out of rehab before completing the program.
Quincy was no longer covered in dirt and grime. His skin was marred with yellowing bruises, and the gash on his cheek was nearly healed. His hair held the sheen of a fresh shampoo, falling just above his shoulders and shading one eye. Truman wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming emotions engulfing him at the sight of his brother looking like, well, his brother. He stepped forward, opening his arms to the man whose dull, tortured blue eyes were full of warning, like his body language, both of which Truman chose to ignore.
“Quincy.”
His brother took a step backward, holding Truman’s gaze and sending a clear message. Truman dropped his hands to his sides, while disappointment, sadness, and anger battled inside him.
Quincy pulled out a chair and sank into it. Truman did the same, taking a moment to look at his brother more closely. Time had a way of playing tricks on the mind. All those years in prison he’d kept an image of thirteen-year-old Quincy in his head. Held on to it like a security blanket. Like if he believed he’d stay kind and good and clean, it would happen. But walls and bars and miles had created a vast, impassable sea, and a part of each of them had drowned in the space between. Quincy was no longer that boy—or maybe even the same person. He was a man, with stubble over a strong jawline, shadows of too many drugs marring his handsome face, and track marks up his arms. He was almost twenty, not much younger than Truman had been when he’d been hauled off to prison.
“Surprised?” Quincy said.
He’d never been good at hiding his emotions. Truman cleared his throat, grasping for something to say. He’d spoken to Quincy’s counselor and had been advised not to bring up family drama, money, the future, or anything else that might be stressful. She’d said that Quincy needed to live “in the moment” and that added anxiety would hinder his recovery.
“No. I’m not surprised,” he lied, and Quincy arched a brow. “Okay, yeah. I am. Man, I’m not sure how this is supposed to go.”
“Think I do?” Quincy ran a hand through his hair and looked away, the muscles in his jaw bunching. “Man, this place sucks.” He pushed to his feet and paced.
Truman rose with him, watching as he stalked back and forth across the room like a caged tiger, his hair curtaining his face. “I’m proud of you for doing this.”
Quincy scoffed. “Proud of me? I don’t need your approval.”
“I didn’t mean that.” He didn’t want to fuck this up, but he had no idea how to handle his brother’s comment. “I meant I know it’s not easy.”
“When has life ever been easy for me?” He lifted angry eyes to Truman.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Is anything ever what you mean, Truman?” Quincy stormed across the room, stopping inches from him. “‘Don’t say a word, Quincy.’”
A chill ran down Truman’s spine at hearing his own words from that fateful night being thrown in his face. The words he’d meant for Quincy to take comfort in. The words that had sent him to prison.
“‘You’re not taking the fall, Quincy. I’ve got this,’” Quincy said through gritted teeth. “You had it, all right. Six years of meals and a roof over your head. Six years of not watching your mother get fucked by every cretin under the sun.”
