Brotherly affection at its finest.
Paul laughs and leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “Love you, too, baby brother. So, who pissed in your cornflakes?”
I can’t believe this is the conversation we’re having less than five seconds after I arrive for my weekly visit. Then again, it’s all I’ve thought about for the last twenty-four hours. I take a deep breath, considering whether to confide in him.
Keeping secrets is part of what fucked you over with Lisa.
“It’s no big deal,” I mutter at last. “Broke up with some chick I’ve been seeing.”
“Some chick.” My brother snorts like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I have to admit, the words sounded dumb coming out of my mouth. “Man, you’re the worst liar ever. You wouldn’t be sitting here acting this fucking miserable over ‘some chick’”—he lifts his hands in dramatic air quotes—“who didn’t mean shit to you.”
I sigh, not wanting to get into this, but not sure I have any choice. “Look, it’s no big deal. We were seeing each other for a while, but now we’re not. End of story.”
That’s such a blatant lie I can’t even look at him when I say it. From the disgusted snort across the table, I can tell he’s not buying it. “Whatever, dude. What was her name?”
“Lisa.” My chest tightens as I say it, and I hate myself even more. “Lisa Michaels.”
“Lisa Michaels,” he repeats. “What did you do, fuck her sister or something?”
“What? No! Are you nuts?”
Paul barks out a laugh. “Maybe. I’m in prison, aren’t I? Think it’s too late to do an insanity plea?”
The fact that my brother is being so jovial about this makes me feel shittier. Like it’s possible to feel worse. What kind of asshole shows up and dumps his relationship woes on a guy who’s been stuck behind bars for the last three years?
“I didn’t fuck her sister,” I say. “Can we please talk about something else?”
Paul shrugs and drops his hands to the table, spreading them wide on the chipped black metal. “Sure thing, man. What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Read any good books lately?”
That gets a good laugh out of him, and I find myself smiling a little, too. It’s been our inside joke for years. One nobody but a couple of dyslexic degenerates would find funny.
“Hey, you remember that time the principal sent notes home with us about how we were a couple dumbshits who couldn’t read and needed to be in special classes,” Paul says. “But we couldn’t read the goddamn forms and neither could Dad, so we ended up shoving them in the burn pile?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, darkening again. “Great childhood memories. Almost as good as that time Dad shot our dog.”
My brother stops laughing and frowns at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I roll my eyes and rub my palms across the table. “Killer. You remember Killer, right?”
“Of course, but Dad didn’t shoot him.”
“The hell he didn’t,” I growl. “He loaded him up in the truck and drove away with his gun. When he came back, no dog.”
Paul looks at me, then shakes his head. “Man, that’s really what you thought all these years?” The pity in his eyes makes me feel worse, which is saying something, since I already feel like shit. “Dad always had his gun, idiot. That doesn’t mean anything.”
I roll my eyes, not willing to let my brother sugarcoat things. “So what do you think happened?”
“I don’t think,” he says. “I know. I was there. I was hanging out at the bar with a fake ID when the old man showed up asking if anyone wanted to buy a wolf dog.”
I stare at him, not sure whether to believe the story. Part of me wants to. Wants it desperately, more than anything. “What happened?”
Paul shrugs. “Bartender said sure, his kid had been bugging him for a dog. Traded fair and square for a fifth of Jack.”
I stare at him while my brain spins with this new version of history. I want to believe him. I do believe him. Why would he make this up?
“Why didn’t you say anything? To me or to Dad or?—”
