Brooke took one look at her brother and guided me toward the side door, “Let’s not get caught up in that tonight,” she said, under her breath. Dean’s attention never even turned our way. He just stood stiff, posturing boldly, in his heated conversation with the other men.
“Is everything okay with Dean?” I asked, unable to shake my concern or the increasing mountain of stomach butterflies. “He mentioned this morning about a funeral.”
“Yeah, Thomas. They were really close. Suicide.” Her voice was grief-stricken, and it made my heart ache.
“That’s…horrible,” I stammered, completely stunned into speechlessness.
“Dean had to give his eulogy. I heard he gave a nice speech, considering he’s been drunk as hell since he found him. I couldn’t get the time off of work to go,” she said, tightly.
Dean found him?
It was suddenly hard to swallow. My mother was an alcoholic. She’d either get better or she wouldn’t, but right now she was safe. Dean’s friend committing suicide, that wasn’t something easy to go through and to be the one that first walks in on it...
“I don’t want to be in the way here, if Dean is—”
“He lives in the apartment upstairs. I live downstairs. We hardly see each other. It’s not a problem, really. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to.” She looked up at me, concern etched across her features. “We used to be so close. I’m not going to let you stay in your mom’s house with that smell. Or waste your money on a hotel.”
I flopped onto one of her kitchen chairs, shoulders sagging, and let out a huge breath. I didn’t know what to say. There just aren’t any words to bring comfort to that situation. My mouth kind of opened and closed, but nothing, not one word of condolence came to mind. The silence was uncomfortably awkward for a few moments. I thought about bolting for the door and stopped myself thinking that stumbling out at a dead run into Dean and his grieving friends would be a heck of a lot more awkward.
Brooke made a quick call for pizza and slid her phone on the table. “What can I get you to drink? Is asking if you want a glass of wine in poor taste?” She asked the question with a smirk and a hand jammed up high on her hip.
I cleared my throat and laughed, actuallylaughed, and the strangeness of the situation seemed to instantly lessen. “I would absolutely love a glass of wine.” She always could make me laugh at the absurdity in life. I missed being close with her.
“Good, because that’s probably all I have to offer besides tap water,” she said, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of deep red wine. Next to me, her phone lit up and buzzed across the tabletop. She only gave it a small glance, ignoring the call to pour us drinks.
“So,” I said, as I reached for my glass. “Tell me all about being a police officer.” A nice easy question, I thought, something mundane and not too difficult to talk about. Something that was completely opposite of suicide or house fires started by lunatic alcoholics.
“I love it,” she responded, slowly, her hand fluttering down to her phone as another call buzzed through it. She tapped a finger on the screen and sighed, “It definitely changes you, though. Not just during the time when you’re working, but your whole outlook on life.”
“How so?” I asked, curiously.
She shrugged and smiled, “I have this hard edge to me now. Sometimes I feel like I lost all my femininity when I came on the job. I now prefer all my accessories in gun metal gray.” Her smile was too quick. “People seem to forget you’re a girl, or how human you are. They expect you to not feel things or take things personally.”
I couldn’t really see it. She was always so girly to me when we were growing up. It was hard to picture her putting handcuffs on some criminal when I remembered us in pigtails singing and doing our nails to whatever boy band was popular at the time.
“Right now, the command is looking at some specific home invasions and vandalizing that have been happening in the area. Two of the places that were vandalized are places I frequent, so how could you not take it personally, you know?” She drummed her fingers over the table and smiled. “It’s a struggle. But eventually, I’ll learn to separate myself from it all.” Her expression tightened, and her face paled slightly.
“Seeing anyone?” I asked, trying to lighten the conversation a little.
She nodded, “Yeah, nothing too serious, but yeah there’s someone. It’s hard to make time to date on this job, but we try.” Her cheeks reddened with her words. “What about you?”
“I date.A lot,” I laughed, and shook my head. “Never anything serious, though. I mean, we’re twenty-five right? We’re supposed to be making all our stupid mistakes now, andthatseems to be what I’m really awesome at.”
She sipped from her glass and smiled at me from behind the rim. “So, seriously, this ismeyou’re talking to. What are you going to do about your mom after detox and rehab?”
I couldn’t even answer. I had no idea what I was going to do. It was too overwhelming to wrap my head around—the fact that I had to try to put my mother away somewhere—that was how bad she had deteriorated—that was how bad she was on her own.
“I don’t know.” My voice cracked. “Maybe just take care of her. I don’t know how I’m going to swing anything from where I live now though.”
“Liv, you can’t put your life on hold for her when she’s never done anything for you. What was she even doing for work?”
Her phone flashed again. “Is that important?” I asked, hoping the heaviness in my chest would ease if I stopped thinking about my mom and talked about something else.
“No, not yet,” she murmured.
A loud banging knocked against the front door. I flinched at the sound, but Brooke just laughed and made her way toward the noise. Dean stood on the other side holding two pizza boxes and two full bottles of beer precariously in his hands. “You ordered pizza?” he asked, shoving through the door and walking past her.
“Sure, just come on in,” Brooke said, dryly, still holding the door open. He strode into the kitchen and tossed the boxes on the table, ignoring me and almost knocking over the wine glasses. I yanked them out of the way just in time.
