“And a bit low to speak ill of the dead.”
“If she wasn’t such a bitch, then maybe she’d still be alive.”
Even in my drunken stupor, I know I’ve said too much. I freeze. We both do.
“Come again?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing. I was just talking.”
“Because when we were out in Corfu…that was an accident.”
“I know.”
“You said it was an accident.”
I’ve had enough. “You don’t believe that. None of you do. You’ve always blamed me for what happened, even though I was only eighteen. You think I don’t know? You think I can’t feel it in the way Mom and Dad treat me? In the way you look at me sometimes? In the end, what does it matter if she was pushed or if she fell?”
When it comes, his voice is barely a whisper. “James…James, I don’t…If you’re saying what I think you’re saying…” He gulps a big mouthful of air and seems to find it’s not enough. Gulps again. “Christ, why the fuck would you…Tell me you’re joking.”
I simply pick up my drink and glower into the flames. It’s all the admission he needs.
And then my world is spinning. My brain catches up to what’s happening as the pain begins to blossom on my cheek. I’m staring at the wooden beams of our living room ceiling. The heat from the fireplace is close to my face. Will towers above me, shaking with rage, fists clenching and unclenching.
“Tell me you didn’t do it.”
Even if I could, it’s too late. I just stare at him, feeling the shame lurching over me just as large and looming as my brother. His fist crashes into my mouth. It floods with blood.
I’m glad. Glad for this small moment of punishment, of his disgust, his violence. It’s not even a fraction of what I deserve. And that feeling of release, of guilt, of relief at telling someone, anyone, overwhelms me. The tears are upon me before I can stop them, and suddenly, I’m a grown man crying open-mouthed on the floor.
“I didn’t mean to do it. I promise. We were just— We started arguing, and she slapped me. Then she shoved at me, so I shoved at her. She lost her footing. I didn’t—” My voice gets caught on the sob building at the back of my throat. “I didn’t mean for her to fall like that. I didn’t want her to die. God, I loved her so much, I…” I can’t say any more.
Will’s hand is drawn back, hovering over my face. Muscles twitch with the agony of holding themselves where they are instead of leaping down to beat me again.
“Why would you tell me something like this? I can’t…What the hell am I meant to do with this?”
I spit blood onto the tiles by the fireplace. “You learn to live with it. Like I have.”
Blood flees his face, giving him the pallor of a dead man. Fitting. Because I’d sooner he die than let people know what I’ve done.
40
Now
“Are you okay?” Will asks.
What a stupid fucking question. What a stupid fucking idiot. Me, that is. Not Will. I want to stand up, crack a window for fresh air, but standing feels like risking a fall, and my pride is already dented enough—my body doesn’t need to take a ding, too. Somehow, despite telling myself I was choosing better, despite the seemingly infinite time spent in therapy to make me choose better, have I chosen another man just like my dad? Worse?
“Is all of this true?” I ask.
“I don’t think I’m capable of this elaborate a lie.”
“Me neither.”
“I’ll pretend it didn’t hurt my feelings that you agreed so quickly.” He holds up a hand. “Wait here a moment.”
