Never Doubt Me (5 page)

When I start to pull the zipper closed, unfortunately for me, the teeth catch on a pair of Will’s cargo shorts. “Fuck,” I hiss.

I fumble a few seconds with the zipper, manage to get the shorts unhooked, and shove everything deeper into the bag. And that’s when my thumb brushes over what feels like a folded piece of paper that’s been jammed into an inside pocket. The paper feels like a page from a sketchpad. But it’s too smooth, like in a worn-out way.

This can’t be what I think it is.

But when I lift the piece of paper, carefully from the narrow inside pocket, I discover it is indeed a page from an old sketchbook, a page from one of
my
old sketchbooks. And it’s exactly what I think it is.

With shaky fingers, I unfold the yellowed page. Still feeling stunned, I stare down at the tree house sketch Will told me the other night he no longer had. This is the same sketch my brother once told me gave him hope. So that begs the question of why Will would lie to me. Why did he say the sketch I drew him all those years ago was long gone?

I blow out a breath. My brother has had his hope with him all along. But perhaps even more mind-blowing than discovering the tree house sketch still exists is the fact my brother took the time to pack it in his bag and carry it with him across the country.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My eyes tear up. I mean, shit, all this time I’ve been thinking my brother has been struggling to forgive me for letting my ass get locked up. But maybe he never really gave up on me in the first place.

Why else would he hold on to this sketch—one of the first things I ever drew for him?

I shake my head. I failed this kid, but he obviously never stopped believing in me. He held on to hope even when I’d forsaken it.

I run a fingertip over what I drew so long ago. The blue walls of the rooms are faded, and there’s a double water ring on top of the green foliage on the tree, like someone used the sketch as a coaster once or twice. But despite the wear and tear, the truck parked at the base of the tree—Will freaking loved that thing—still looks good, all big, badass, and bright yellow.

More importantly, though, when I look past all the aesthetics, I finally see what Will has seen all along in this drawing, what he saw so many years ago. I realize why something created by my hand once gave him hope. Somewhere, in between faded blue rooms and water-marked leaves, every ounce of love I felt the day I sketched this for my baby brother is clear. My love for him resonates in every line, every curve of colored pencil. There’s love even in the once-colorful shades. This sketch is something special. It’s from a different time, a time when we all had different lives, lives filled with so much love it was fucking unbelievable.

But that was before everything changed.

The water stopped a while ago, but I make no move to stand. I don’t really care anymore if Will finds me out here in the hall, seated next to his open bag on the floor. I just can’t bring myself to put the sketch back where I found it. Not yet.

The bathroom door swings open and thick, hot steam wafts out. I don’t look up, but my brother’s bare feet step into my line of sight. He clears his throat, and that’s when I tilt back my head.

Will’s upper body is damp and bare, but his lower half is covered in basketball shorts that look familiar. “Those mine?” I ask with a quick jerk of my head indicating the shorts.

“Yeah, they were clean. Is that okay?”

I shrug.

Will glances down at the sketch in my hand, but his eyes dart away when he notices me watching him.

He sighs, loudly. I fully expect him to start yelling and calling me every name in the book. I deserve as much for so blatantly invading his privacy.

But Will does none of these things. Instead, he sits down next to me and leans his head back against the wall.

“So you were going through my shit, huh?” He motions lazily to his open bag.

He doesn’t sound angry, just resigned.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, I was going through your stuff. Sorry, bro.”

“I don’t have any drugs, if that’s what you were looking for.”

“I know, Will. And yeah, drugs were exactly what I was looking for.”

He doesn’t say anything in return; he just accepts. My brother closes his eyes and rakes his hand through his wet hair. Yeah, I have the same quirk. I also notice Will’s hair wet like this is the exact same shade as mine, the strands more of a light brown color instead of his usual dark-blond shade.

Will may resemble Mom the most, but like me, he’s got a lot of Dad in him, too. It’s becoming more obvious now that he’s maturing.

With his eyes still closed, Will mutters, “I’m sorry, Chase.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For lying to you about the money I borrowed.”

Exhaling loudly, I say, “Yeah, that wasn’t too cool, bro.”

“I know.” Will opens his eyes and shoots me a sidelong glance. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“You still smoking?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not since Mom found my stash.”

I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Hey, you know why I worry about that shit, yeah?”

“I know, I know,” Will replies. “You and drugs. Mom and gambling.”

I sigh. He sighs. Sometimes there’s nothing left to say.

But then Will gestures to the drawing still in my hand. “I see you found the sketch,” he says softly.

After a beat, I ask, “Why’d you tell me it was gone?”

Will turns away and doesn’t respond.

I can’t see his face, but I see him swallowing hard. “Will?”

When he turns back to me, his eyes are brimming with tears. “Fuck, Chase, I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “What’s it matter, anyway? It’s just a stupid sketch, right?”

It’s not, but he sounds so distraught that I agree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

I start refolding the sketch, with every intention of putting it away, but Will smacks my hand. “Don’t,” he croaks. “Just…let it go.”

Talk about a loaded statement.

Despite Will’s protests, I finish folding the paper. He hits my hand again—hard. So hard that the sharp report slices though the silence in the hall.

I release the sketch and let it drop into the bag. “Happy?” I snap.

Will smacks my hand again, harder still. But I let him. He chokes back a sob. I know he’s upset; this shit isn’t about some old sketch.

“Hit me if it makes you feel better,” I tell him.

I mean it. This one time, I’ll let my little brother raise his hand to me. He can beat the fuck out of me if it makes him feel better. Just this once, I won’t fight back.

But instead of hitting me again, Will grabs up my hand and clutches at it desperately. That shit just about guts me.

“Shit, bro,” Will sobs, chokes on his words. “This is so fucking dumb. I’m such a fucking pussy.” My brother’s tears don’t stop, despite him grinding his fist into his eyes. “Chase…”

“Fuck, Will.”

I gather my brother in my arms. He resists at first, but I work to soothe him.

When he keeps trying to push me away, though, I say sternly, “Stop fighting me, goddammit. Just let go, okay? Let it out, Will. You’re safe with me.”

With a strangled sob, my brother gives in. He wraps his arms around me and lets his heart pour.

“I feel so alone all the time, Chase. I pretend like I’m okay, but I’m not. Most of the time, I’m just winging it. Really, I honestly don’t know what I’m doing half the fucking time.”

“Will.” His words break my heart.

He chokes back another sob that reverberates in my own chest. “I mean, Mom… She tries.” Will loosens his hold but still clings to me. “I know her intentions are there, but she’s just… I don’t know. She’s just Mom, you know?”

“I know,” I say, nodding.

God, I know all too well what he means. Mom’s not been solid in the way we’ve needed since Dad died.

“I didn’t know what to do when Cassie called,” Will continues, “when I was at the airport. I didn’t mean to blow off coming here that day. But what was I supposed to do? When I got to Cass’s house, it was just so…bad. But I am sorry we ran away like we did. I didn’t mean to show up here and put you on the spot. I’d never want for you to end up in trouble because of me. It’s just that I…I can’t keep doing this shit all on my own. I can’t, Chase, I can’t…”

Will trails off, and I lean down and kiss his head of wet hair.

“You don’t have to keep doing everything on your own,” I whisper soothingly. “I’m here. Even when you’re in Nevada, Will, I’m always just a phone call away. And if things ever get really bad, I’ll be there for you. I’ll fly out to Vegas, bro, I swear, whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” he sobs.

I knew this fucking bullshit would catch up to my brother—this saving Cassie, this running away. Will can’t save the world. He’s only fifteen, for fuck’s sake. With all this in mind, I hold on to my brother like I used to when he was a small child. I let him cry it out. He’s practically curled up in my lap, so I bury my nose in his shoulder. He smells the same way he used to when he was a small child—clean. And it’s not the kind of clean from just showering, though there is that, too. But my brother also smells innocent, unsullied by maturity.

We don’t say a word for the longest time. There’s simply no need to.

As if the sketch wasn’t proof enough, the fact that my brother lets me hold him like I used to convinces me he still needs me—a lot. He may never call me “Chasey” again, like he did when he was little, but he’ll always be my baby brother. To me, he’ll always be that uncoordinated little kid who used to look up to me, who once longed to be like me, the little boy who needed me. And what’s become glaringly obvious tonight is that Will
still
needs me.

I’m going to be here for him, just like I promised.

When Will calms and pulls away, he looks embarrassed. I punch him in the arm. Not hard, but not completely easy, either.

“Ow! What the fuck, dick.” My brother rubs his bicep.

“That’s for hitting me earlier, like multiple fucking times.” I pause, catch his gaze. “And also…just because.”

Really, I am giving my brother the chance to save face. Not to mention, it’s my fucked-up guy way of letting him know I love him.

But he likes to press, so he says all cocky like, “’Cause why?”

I ignore his inquiry and stand up. He stands up, too. I try to stare him down, make myself look all stern, but hell, I gotta smile. The little shit is giving me attitude, all in good fun.

I reach out and fuck up his still-wet hair. “Don’t worry about why,” I tell him. “Just get the fuck to bed.”

Will ducks under my arm, but not before grabbing up his duffel bag. I notice he makes damn sure the tree house sketch is secure before he takes off down the hall.

“Good night, Will,” I call out over my shoulder.

When he doesn’t answer, I turn around. He gives me the finger.

“Hey, Will,” I say, more serious now.

He stops, but doesn’t turn to face me.

“I fuck with you because I love you, all right? And I’ve missed being around you like this. I’ve missed being your brother.”

Will’s shoulders sag, and he starts into his room. But before he closes the door, I hear him say, “I’ve missed you, too, Chase. I love you, bro.”

The next day, I take Will to work with me, and since Cassie has no desire to hang out all alone at the house, she asks Kay if she can tag along, too. Of course, Kay’s cool with that.

All I can say is thank God Father Maridale is a laid-back kind of dude. He just shakes his head when he sees the four of us piling out of Kay’s car in the morning.

Everyone waves jovially, and Father waves back. Kay and Cassie head over to the church office in the rectory, while Will and I walk over to the school.

“So…what do you want to paint?” my brother asks me a short while later.

We’re standing side by side, staring at a completely blank wall in the school entrance area. The bright-white smooth expanse is like one giant, big-ass canvas, just waiting for our ideas to give it life.

I shrug one shoulder and glance over at my brother. He’s wearing faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, just like me.

“You got any ideas?” I ask him. “I’m thinking this is more your area of expertise.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, chuckling. “You want me to draw comics on the wall?”

“No, smart-ass.” I roll my eyes. “I was thinking of something more along the lines of a cartoon scene of some sort. Remember what I told you last night?”

“That kids go to school here,” Will replies.

“
Little
kids,” I stress. “This is a grade school.”

We have drop cloths down, and there are paint cans all around us. There must be twenty different colors. Will picks up a brush, contemplates, and then dips the tip into a can of cinnamon-brown.

He holds the glistening paintbrush out in front of him. “Okay, I have an idea.”

“Have at it,” I say as I gesture to the blank wall.

Will steps forward and swashes a big curve of cinnamon brown onto the wall. Then, he starts to paint. I cock my head to the side, trying to figure out what he’s up to. It looks to me like Will is painting the hindquarter and tail of a huge-ass squirrel.

“So, what are you thinking?” I have to ask, before he gets too far in on an idea that I may have to nix. Will’s forte is action comics, and I suspect Father Maridale would frown on any ass-kicking wildlife animals gracing the school wall, cartoon or not.

“Don’t worry.” Will laughs.

He keeps painting, and it soon becomes clear his squirrel is nothing but cute and cuddly, kind of Disney-like.

He steps back after a minute and points his paintbrush at the far end of the wall. “Do you think you can paint, like, an old-fashioned school, place it at the end of a road? I think one of those red ones, with the bell at the top, would look good. We’ll need some bright-green grass around it, too, and a few trees.”

I pop the lid off of a can of schoolhouse red. “Sure, I can do all that.”

My brother paints for a while longer, and then steps back to assess his work. He appears deep in thought as he brushes his hair back with his free hand. A drop of cinnamon brown drips from the paintbrush he’s holding in his other hand. It lands on his jeans, a circular drop directly above his knee.