I look out at the fancy grocer on the corner. Green awnings the color of money jut out above the windows, and freestanding signs advertise wine and cheese pairings.
I shrug. “Everything looks the same to me.”
Brady follows my gaze. Shaking his head, he says, “I meant the sun. Not Agua Mesa.”
I knew that, but I couldn’t resist the chance to point out the fact that nothing in this ritzy place has evolved.
While we wait for the light to turn, Brady jogs in place. This annoys me. I know it’s what I’m supposed to be doing, keeping my muscles warm while I wait, but I can’t stand running in place. It feels pointless.
“What do you think of Lennon?” I don’t look at him as I say the words. I look to my left, to where an agave plant is sprouting that weird stalk through its center, the thing Lennon says looks like a giant asparagus.
“What do you mean?” There’s apprehension in Brady’s voice. I can hear it.
I look at him. That fucker is still jogging in place.
“It’s been eight years since we’ve seen her.”
Brady shakes his head. “I see her on social media all the time.”
For a moment I think of reaching out and shoving him off balance. I won’t do it though. As tense as things have been, Brady is my best friend. There’s something familiar and nice about having someone like that. Someone who knows the ugliness that lives inside you, and sticks around anyway. Despite our differences, and the fact we both love the same woman, Brady knows my past and, as much as I hate my past, it’s important to be around someone who knows it.
“I didn’t mean on social media—” The light turns and Brady starts. It’s harder for me. My muscles feel sluggish. Jogging in place would’ve been a good idea. Ahead of me, Brady bounds across the asphalt like a damn gazelle.Asshole.
* * *
We’re finishedwith the run and getting breakfast at a little place called The Wily Coyote. It’s one of those hipster places with an ironic name. I roll my eyes when we walk in, and Brady smirks, but secretly I dig it. The floors are concrete, the lighting overhead is on strings, and the counter where we order is made up of old license plates.
Brady buys breakfast and finds a table. I’m not sure if he buys because that’s what he always did when we were kids, assuming I didn’t have money (he assumed correctly), or he’s just being nice.
“What’s his prognosis?” Brady asks after I tell him about my uncle.
“Not good. He’s doing chemo but his doctor doesn’t think it will help much. And he refuses to quit smoking.” When I left this morning, Jeff had a Marlboro dangling between his lips. The sight didn’t surprise me. I called him the day I drove down to Agua Mesa from the cabin to meet Lennon, and he warned me he hadn’t quit.What’s the point of quitting now?he’d asked.
I could’ve argued with him, but there was no point in that either. Jeff will do what he wants, and the nagging and advice of me and his doctor won’t change his mind.
Besides, from what I can tell, smoking is the only thing that brings Jeff happiness. He sits in that trailer all day, living off social security, watching the military channel and chain-smoking.
I never had a dad. My mom was Jeff’s little sister, and when she died with a needle in her arm, he took care of me. He wasn’t very good at it, but at least he wasthere. It’s a sad state of affairs when all you need to be father of the year is just to be in the same room with a kid. Jeff was drunk most of the time and lazy more than half the time, but I never went hungry.
It wasn’t only me who didn’t get the best care. Jeff has never taken good care of himself either, so it comes to no surprise that he won’t stop smoking. The only person who seems surprised is Brady.
I can see the wheels in Brady’s head turning. I imagine his thoughts running faster and harder than we just did. His brows furrow as he thinks, and his cheekbones stand out. It only makes him more good-looking.
I’m as straight as a guy can be, but even I can recognize when another dude hit the genetic jackpot. Brady has that Adonis this going on, and I wonder if that’s ever to his detriment. Does he get sick of looking like a Greek god? Probably not. It goes part and parcel with his hero persona.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” I tell him, taking a bite of my food. The hipsters add bacon, tomato relish, and cilantro to their avocado toast and it’s fucking delicious.
“If there was a way we could convince Jeff—”
I shake my head, and he takes a moment before deciding to listen to me. Finally he grabs his own avocado toast.
I swallow my bite and explain. “Jeff doesn’t have shit to live for. Why take away the only thing that makes him happy?”
“So you want to just send him to the grave without intervening? Without even attempting to?”
Of course that’s what Brady would do. Brady the savior. Brady the good ol' boy.
But not me. I don’t see this as a situation needing to be rectified.
