Page 121 of Really Truly Yours

Don’t say it… “I’m just saying that now is a fine time to worry about looking out for me.” Another conversation I’m not having today.

His groan rocks the otherwise dull morning. He throws his hands up and lets them slap to his sides. “Yes, I screwed up. I’ve admitted it. So did Max. Doesn’t that church you go to tell you to forgive?”

The question burns. “Max screwed up? That’s what we’re calling it?”

“That’s what it was. He was messed up out of his mind, Sydnee!”

“So he gets a pass? This wasn’t like the time he slammed your car into a fence post, Sam!” Which was bad enough.

His shoulders descend, arms pleading. “I know that, Neenee, I do. But he was desperate for a fix. He wasn’t thinking straight.”

Blood rushes to my head.

“His state of mind makes a little difference, don’t you think?”

I guess we are having this conversation. “No, no I don’t think. You have no concept of what almost happened.” Blood pounds behind my eardrums. “And you ignored me!”

“I was under a hood, Sydnee! I had no idea why you were calling.” The pleading tapers. “Besides, your precious Donny saved the day.”

“I was terrified, Sam, and it was all because of Max. You don’t get it. You weren’t Max’s victim.”

My little brother steps around the chair, glaring. “I don’t understand? Okay, maybe not one-hundred percent, but remember, Max was twice my size nearly my whole life. At least you didn’t have to be his punching bag every time he had a bad day!”

I pray Gray doesn’t pick now to show up. My hands clench. I remember lots of chaos with my brothers, and, yes, lots of bruises. “I tried, Sam. I did.” There wasn’t much a scrawny girl, big sis or not, could do most of the time.

He presses the heels of his hands to his forehead before gesturing his exasperation. “I know you did, and that’s why I don’t hold anything against you, yet, somehow, I always end up in your crosshairs.”

My stomach knots, almost like that day. “I wish you’d answered your phone,” I whisper.

The words hang, suspended. He forks his fingers into his sandy hair. “Don’t you know I wish I had too?” His expression breathes regret.

I look down. “You keep making excuses for him. I just wish you’d cared enough to defend me too, Sam.” All those times after Grammy died when he didn’t back me up in my efforts to get Max out of my house.

He stares, his normally easy bearing vanished. “Fine. I bought into Max’s lies too long, but didn’t defend you?” He moves closer, not threatening, but intense like I’ve never seen him. “Max ate out of a straw for six weeks after I found out what he pulled.”

I jerk back.

The plane of his face is solid steel. “That’s right. Max came by the garage that afternoon looking for money to pay Wade, rambling and griping about you not helping him out. When I figured out what he was talking about, I pounded his face into the pavement!”

My heart races from a spot high in my throat. “But I tried to call you again afterwards. I left messages. You never came by. I couldn’t reach you for days!” I needed the one sane, decent family member I had left, and he was nowhere to be found.

Sam jabs a finger at his sternum. “That’s because I spent three nights with the county for busting Max’s jaw to smithereens!”

It takes a second to catch my breath. Longer for the truth to digest. I pry myself off the couch. “Sam, I…I had no idea.”

“Because you didn’t ask. You just tore into me the next time you saw my face.” The hurt in his eyes chastens me. “You always assume the worst of me, Neenee.”

“Why didn’t you say something? You never told me.”

“By the time I was released and got all your furious messages, I guess I got angry, too. Didn’t feel like it would matter what I said at that point.”

I lay my palm over my mouth. I’ve always assumed he was indifferent, but he…oh, this hurts.

A car passes on the street. Gray’s phone on the coffee table vibrates. I wait for quiet to resume and for my little brother to look at me again. “I am so sorry. You’re right. I’ve been hard on you. I’ve been wrapped up in my own stuff. I know that isn’t an excuse, but I am sorry.”

I pray for my brother all the time. I desperately want him to come to know the Lord. I know it isn’t all on me, but what a horrible example I’ve provided.

He allows me to hold his hand. “But, most of all, thank you for what you did. I so badly wish I’d asked.” Because, yes, my anger and hurt have brewed a long time, like a forgotten pot of coffee left on the burner, cooked to black tar.

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