He pulled into a driveway and punched in a bunch of numbers into a small black box. The brushed silver doors slid open and we drove into a parking garage. Taking the elevator up to the lobby, which had a marble floor and columns offsetting furniture out of a movie set, we went over to yet another elevator. Trace took out a key and turned it, and the doors opened. Riding it to the top floor, a big metal door greeted us. He unlocked it and it opened into a condo bigger than the house I’d grown up in. Buildings of all sizes stretched before us, and lights shimmered everywhere.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
He switched on the light and clean lines, chrome, and shiny surfaces filled my vision. In that moment, I wondered what he really thought of my eclectic mix of color, fabric, and texture that decorated my home. From where I stood, I could see the kitchen because the whole floor was open concept. The stainless-steel appliances picked up the soft lights from the chrome pendant fixtures.
“You must love to cook. Your kitchen is amazing.” I went over to inspect it more closely.
“Not even good with boiling an egg. The yolk is usually half-cooked. It came with the condo. Make yourself comfortable.” He walked away and disappeared into one of the rooms.
After checking out the kitchen, I went back into the living room, checking out the numerous framed photographs on the wall. I picked out Trace in all of them, and he looked adorable as a child and cute as a teenager. I imagined he broke a few teenage girls’ hearts when he was in high school.
“Checking out the family?” His voice startled me, too focused on the pictures. He handed me a glass of red wine when I turned to face him.
“They’re very nice. I wish I was more organized with my photos. I have a ton of my family, but they’re all in envelopes waiting for the day that I frame some and put the others in photo albums. It’s been one of my must-do projects for years.”
“Don’t be too impressed. My mom gave me most of them, and my grandmother gave me the rest.”
“Is this your mother?” I asked, pointing to an attractive woman with almond-shaped eyes and dark hair.
“Yeah. And that’s my dad next to her.”
“How old were you?”
He laughed. “I’m not sure I want you seeing pictures of me when I was young. It can be good ammunition to use against me at work. You know, embarrass the hell out of the boss?”
“I think I can come up with better ammunition than your childhood pictures. Are you going to tell me how old you were in this one?”
“About five.”
“You were cute, but I can see the early signs of a smirk. And I bet you were bratty too.”
“You’ll have to ask my mom about that.” He laughed and stood behind me, pointing to another picture. “There are my grandparents. You already know my grandpa, but my grandma is feisty as hell.”
I laughed and my eyes fell on a picture of his mother, Trace, and another boy, the same one in the picture of Trace at five years old with his mother and father. “Who’s he?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me.
I repeated my question. Still no answer.
I looked over my shoulder at him to find his eyes shimmering as he stared at the photo, a faraway look filling them.Wrong question. Good going.For several minutes we stood in silence, me cringing inside for being so nosey and him staring at the picture.
After what seemed like an eternity, he cleared his throat. “He’s… I mean hewasmy brother.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong in you asking. Really.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said softly, pressing back into him.
“Yeah. Ryan was my half-brother. My dad had been married and divorced before he met my mom. His ex, Sandy, ended up in a mental hospital. She had a psychotic break and tried to kill him and Ryan.”
“That’s awful. Your brother looks older than you.”
“By five years, but I looked up to him. He was pretty decent to me considering I could be a real brat.” He playfully punched my arm.
“You must miss him.”
He nodded. “I do.” Grasping my hand, he walked us over to one of the couches and we sat down. The couch faced the windows, showcasing a sweeping view of the city and the water. “I’ve never told anyone about Ryan. The family doesn’t talk about him anymore, but I still think about him. I’m haunted by him and what happened.”
I took a gulp of wine.
“I want to tell you about him, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”
I clutched his hand and squeezed it. “I’d never tell anyone. You can trust me, but you don’t have to tell me unless you really want to.”
“I do.” He took a deep breath and stood up, then went over to a large mirrored hutch and opened the bottom drawer. When he came back, he had several pieces of paper in his hands. He gave them to me and sat back down. I glanced at them, the handwriting hard to read. I looked up at him and searched his face.
He leaned back and began to tell me his story.
