“Dang, I miss him so bad.” The sad truth was, he’d been missing his brother before the overdose. In many ways, Winston had checked out. Become, as his poem suggested, more of a shell.
Camila nodded and sniffed. “I bet. He seems like such a neat guy.”
“Yeah, he was.” He looked at the pile he’d set aside to share with the rest of his family as a thought came to mind. “I’m almost temped to do the life celebration thing after all,” he admitted. “Just going through all of this. Thinking about all the qualities I miss. I don’t know, I feel almost…ready, I guess.”
“That’s great,” Camila said, shifting in the seat to face him. “Really, James. That’s progress.”
He liked the encouragement he saw on her face. It was starting to feel like he and Camila were more of a team. His mind had been making the shift for a while now. Thinking in terms ofus—him and Camila—instead ofme.Only this time, the thought didn’t spark any triggers or fear. He liked it. Liked knowing he wasn’t alone.
“Wow, James,” Camila said. “Look at this one.” The reverence in her tone told him it might be what he was looking for. The unknown entry that would bring him some level of comfort of assurance that he hadn’t driven his brother over the edge.
He turned his gaze to the drawing she held on a full-sized page. He’d seen only a few others that had been sketched onto the softer, thicker art paper like this. It was a full-body character portrait of Winston. He was standing tall and free and boasting a massive muscle with a wide grin. Broken shackles hung off his ankles. Shackles that, when he followed the attached chains, led to a graveyard of bottles, pills, and syringes laying in his wake. His piercing was reflected in this one, the gold hoop at the outer edge of his brow.
It seemed to echo parts of his tug of war sketch. With the drugs to the far left of the photo. He looked to be walking away from that, and headed toward the opposite side of the picture, where a hand was held out for him.
He stared at it, willing it to give him what he longed to know.
But he found nothing more. No words in the shadows. No dates written along the side.
His gaze moved back to the hand he was walking toward. Who was it supposed to belong to? James’ architect friend he planned to shadow? Some guy at the recovery clinic who’d helped him get clean?
But then something came to his attention. The page, as large as it was, had been folded along the edge, hiding about an inch of the picture along the right side. James flattened the edge as a dose of urgency sparked within him.
The page no longer ended with just a hand but evidence of a long sleeved dress shirt. And at the wrist, a very important detail came into view—a diamond crusted cufflink with the initials, JB.
Leaving it all behind. Hello, Cincinnati. JB, thanks for not giving up on me.
Warmth circled his heart at the words. He read them once more, trying to piece it all together. James already knew Winston had been on board at some point, heck, it’s why he’d said yes in the first place. But the date…
“Wait, that’s the date he died. I mean, by the time the medical examiners got there, they estimated his time of death somewhere around four in the morning.”
“What time was it that he texted you?” Camila asked.
“It was well before midnight. I was watching the Laker’s game.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell your architect friend that he was canceling. That Winston would have to tell the guy himself. That means you still had hope he would show. Youhadn’tgiven up on him, and you didn’t want to take part in closing that door.”
“Maybe,” James said. He knew what she was getting at. It was the same thing James was hoping for. If this had been drawn after their conversation, he’d feel a whole lot better. But how would they ever know?
“Do you know if he ever called to cancel?”
“He must not have, because Tyler called me later that morning, concerned that he hadn’t shown.”
Camila nodded. “Have you spoken with him since?”
“Not in specifics. I just...the guy came to his funeral, gave his condolences. We’ve had a few business interactions since then, but that’s about it. You think I should contact him? See if Winston ever reached out?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Camila said.
James nodded as something on the page caught his attention. Faint text seeming to seep from the other side of the page. His heart went numb as he flipped the paper over, revealing another stretch of words penned on the other side—again—right in the once-folded portion. As if he’dmeantto hide it from view.
Our final dance.
Our sweet goodbye.
No more will you control my life.
One last dance,
