Page 13 of Fourth Wheel
“How was she?” I ask as I close my eyes and let the chorus of “Gravity” by John Mayer expunge the racing thoughts from my mind.
Fielding shifts, forcing my head to the side as he fidgets to get closer. I’m not sure if he’s aware he’s doing it, or if it’s instinct, but there’s comfort in the way he unconsciously tries to get as close as possible after we’ve been apart all day. I crave the connection just as deeply as he does.
“Sad and sober,” he murmurs once he gets comfortable. He exhales before he starts the chorus again.
Our mom’s an addict. An alcoholic. A pill popper. She’s been like this for years.
And yet, no matter the label—no matter how accepting or detached we try to be about the reality of the situation—there’s one hard truth that reels us both in time and time again. It’s the reason we’re twenty-seven years old with Ivy League educations but living at home. It’s the reason neither one of us feels like we can leave this town.
She’s our mom.
I guess sad and sober is the best I can expect. The forthcoming relapse is inevitable. I should be grateful it didn’t happen tonight.
“And you?” I ask out of obligation. I stretch my legs out on the end of the couch until my knees and ankles pop, waiting for whatever version of the truth he’s willing to share.
I don’t need to ask to know my brother’s a fucking mess. A few years ago, he fell for a girl who wasn’t his to love, and he hasn’t been the same since.
He’s heartbroken. He has been for over a year. And I don’t know how to fix him.
“Sad and sober,” he sings as he strums the same two chords again.
The stink of weed clings to his blond curls, but I don’t call him out on it. I’d much rather he get stoned than drink or hit something harder when he’s home alone with her.
“Why are you down here?” he asks, rubbing his head against mine until he’s essentially noogying me with his thick skull.
It’s a fair question. On nights I work at The Oak, I usually bring someone home. When I do, I usher them up the flight of stairs off the garage to my wing of the house, then I make sure they’re gone by morning.
“Quit it.” I smack a hand in his direction, and he grunts when I slap him in the face. I’m too tired to wrestle with him right now, and thankfully he seems too out of it to start shit.
“I had a rough night. I just wanted to come home and sleep. Figured I could make breakfast for us in the morning.”
“Ohh… breakfast,” he croons without missing a single chord of the song.
I knew that would appease him. The guy’s a sucker for waffles.
“So what you’re not saying is that you struck out with the ladies tonight? Maybe you’re losing your touch, brother.”
I scoff at his goading, then let out a sigh when I picture her face. I’m still thinking about her full, glossy lips. Her defined cheekbones. That mischievous glint in her deep brown eyes and the way she tracked my every movement all night long.
“There was almost a girl,” I admit.
Just because he can’t ever know about Maddie doesn’t mean I’m forbidden from thinking about her again. Which is good, because it’ll be a long-ass time before I can forget that kiss.
“Tell me about the girl,” he prods, strumming softer now.
“She had big doe eyes and an endless supply of sass. Blond hair, perfect, perky tits. She smelled like strawberries and sugar. She was a little bit wild. She was beautifully free.”
My brother sighs before his guitar goes silent.
Fuck.
Too far.
I knew better. But I’m too tired to think straight. I know it’s not my fault—I could have described Maddie as a six-foot-tall bright green alien with two heads, and somehow, it would still remind him ofher.
We both fester in the heaviness of his heartache, but he doesn’t let the moment linger.
“So there was a girl. And she was hot as fuck. And yet you came home alone?”
