Page 21 of Best Friend Burden

“Why?” I asked.

He shook his head. “When he's ready to tell you, he'll tell you, but you're not going to hear it from me. Just trust me. He needs you right now.”

“But he was running away from me?”

“He doesn't realize that he needs you, but he gets like this sometimes.”

It felt like a lot to push on someone who Jackson hadn't seen in ten years. “Can't you go after him? He's your brother.”

“Kiefer and I are close,” he said, “and that’s how I know it’s not me that he needs right now. I could talk to him, but he’s not going to listen, and I’d just make things worse. He puts up these walls, and he’ll only reinforce him if I try to knock them down.”

He gave me a stern, serious look. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s not able to keep them up for long when you’re around. Go on, you can do it.”

It was a frustrating thing about men. They were always on high alert around other men, particularly the other men in their lives they were closest to. It wasn't just with Kiefer, I'd noticed it with other guys. Even guys who I didn't think I was especially close to, they'd tell me things they hadn't dared tell their closest friends. I remembered asking my therapist about it back in Austin, who told me it was obvious what was going on: I was a good listener. People can sense someone who's genuinely listening to them and when they do, they're more willing to talk. My therapist recognized it because it was the very thing that made her so good at her job.

And listening wasn't just about listening to words, it was about listening to what wasn't being said and what was being insinuated. From the tone of Jackson's voice, I could sense serious urgency. This wasn't about Kiefer having a bad night. This was potentially about saving his life.

"Okay,” I said. “You and Natasha'll be okay?”

“Yeah, we'll get an Uber home.”

I nodded. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too.”

I gave him a quick hug and hurried out the door of the club, hoping I could make it to Kiefer before it was too late.

CHAPTER8

***KIEFER***

Iwas angry. So angry that I wanted to go find a punching bag somewhere and just pound the shit out of it. And I'd never boxed a day in my life. I was a musician who expressed himself on his instrument. Except I rarely got the chance to do that anymore because I was always supposed to be playing what somebody else wanted me to play for someone else's song. I was practically a machine.

And earlier that week I’d learned I was the old version of a machine. An old phone ready to be replaced by the newest model.

None of that was what I was actually mad about. What I was mad about was that Wendy was gone, and no matter what I did and no matter how much I tried to make myself the person she needed me to be, she'd never be coming back, and temptation was everywhere.

I got to my car and was about to go inside when I heard the rapid sound of footsteps on concrete. For a split second, I thought I was about to be attacked, but when I turned around I saw that it was just Melody, out of breath and running towards me.

“Hi!” she said as if nothing had happened, her awkward smile broad across her face just the way I remembered it being back in high school. The woman never outgrew her awkward teenage phase, but it fit her. Truthfully, it was always her goofiness that made her so sexy.

“You don't want to stay?” I asked. It was a question hiding the statement that I actually wanted to say, but couldn't because it would sound rude: I didn’t want her to stay. Or, rather, I didn’t want her to be with me.

What I needed was some time to myself to cool off. Too much had happened that day and, sure, if I was a different guy, maybe I would have taken that girl in the club up on her offer and fucked her all night and into the morning in the hopes it would make me feel better. But that never worked. It always left me feeling emptier and more alone when it was over.

The thing about being sober is that everything was sobering, and nothing made it better. It was harder to hide behind the delusion of a clouded mind when you had to face reality every step of the way. And the most horrible fact of it all is that you’d remember your mistakes the next day.

“Nah,” Melody said, either not getting the hint or pretending not to. “That place was dead anyway.”

The club was loud, obnoxious, and overcrowded. It was the exact opposite of dead, and that's why I needed to get out of there.

“Not as dead as my apartment's going to be,” I said. “Nothing happening there tonight but a guy getting some much needed sleep so he can wake up early for work.”

“Correction,” she said. “A guy getting some much needed sleep and a gal cleaning up a disaster of a kitchen.”

She hopped into the passenger side of the car and was already putting on her seatbelt. Maybe I could have convinced her to go back into the club, but it hardly seemed worth the effort of arguing with her. We’d be home soon enough and I could go in my room, put my headphones on, and not have to be in the world until the sun came up the next day.

I started up the car and got on the road.

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