He nods. “Didn’t like him at first. Thought he was too cocky for his own good. One of those ‘do-gooders’ who wanted to chase a story until the truth was printed in black and white, for the world to see.”
That was Theo. It sounds like heactuallyknew him. My brother graduated from Boston College with a major in Communications. He was working toward a career in investigative journalism. My eyes sting when I contemplate where he’d be today.
“I graduated the same year as him, but in business. It was the course my parents chose for me. Theo and I connected after graduation. Our paths crossed and we found common ground. We—” He takes the last swig from the bottle in his hand. “We became close… right before he died.”
Why didn’t I know any of this? My heart fractures over the fact that there are parts of Theo’s life that I will just never know. Instead of asking something, I just sit there. Staring dumbfounded at Eamon, like he’s just handed me an unconventionally shaped jigsaw piece, for which I have no idea what the final image is supposed to be. What am I supposed to do with this?
Eamon sways slightly as if he’s been set adrift on a boat. All at once his flush face focuses on me, and he smiles widely. He’s absolutely plastered. If I don’t ask something soon, he might just blackout right here. My mind was teeming with questions. Shit. What do I ask? Did my brother seem happy? Do YOU believe my brother died from a drug-overdose? Do you know something I don’t know?
Eamon’s blinks are becoming longer, so I blurt out.
“Why didn’t you tell me you know my brother from the beginning?!”
Slowly he blinks, his eyes soften, and he puts an elbow on the bar to hold his head up in his hand. “You have the same eyes.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
Without warning, Connor appears next to us and tosses a five-pound bag of candy on the counter. “Come on, big guy, let’s get you home.” He wraps an arm around Eamon’s middle,whisking him off the stool and toward the exit. I watch as he stumbles out the door with help, turning back at me with a wistful look.
I was on autopilot. Like when you don’t remember the walk from your apartment to your job, and now you're questioning if the last three cross walks had a person or a hand displayed, when you stepped off the curb. The entire shift was like that. I couldn’t tell you what drinks I made, who I spoke to, or what my biggest tip was that night. All I could focus on was how Eamon knew Theo. How am I just learning this? This charming, handsome, mysterious, yet confusing man has so many surprising layers to him, I’m unsure if I’ll ever reach his core. Will I like what I find? Does Eamon knowing Theo connect us somehow? Did my brother’s death affect both of us? Eamon was not himself this evening, although only officially meeting him less than a month ago, doesn’t exactly build confidence in me knowing him all that well. Does he usually get smashed on a weekday or was something bothering him? The date went well last night. Maybe it’s his family or perhaps business troubles at the boxing club? Whatever the case, I am eager to learn more about Eamon and his past.
Theo and I would talk weekly on the phone when he moved out. Although, he’s always been vague about his life in general. Aside from the one time he got suspended from school, he never had any serious issues. Rarely did he invite friends over and come to think of it… I don’t remember him going on a single date when he was a teenager. One time in high school, my folks dropped me off at the movies to meet a boy. For a month, my brother teasedme about my date looking like the character, Steve from Blue’s Clues! If I was more private with my life… I could be settled down by now, happily wed to the guy in the green strips with a blue dog. Perhaps my brother was wise to keep some stuff to himself.
Theo made growing up easy when he was around. I felt like we talked a lot, but now I question if his conversations with me were on a superficial level. It sure didn’t feel that way at the time. As children, we laughed over Sunday morning cartoons, physically wrestled over who got the last Oreo in the house, and told each other impossible fictional stories, within forts made of sheets and pillows. I cherish the fond memories we had. Sometimes thinking back to them hurts, because I feel robbed. Severed from creating more memories together.
The walk home is bitterly cold tonight. Pulling my coat closed tightly, I lift my hood to shield my face as hot tears rained freely. I cry when I’m mad or sad. However, this isn’t a sorrowful cry. I’m livid. Pissed at Eamon for keeping things from me. Irate with Andrea because every interaction with her is instantly sour. Lastly, I’m resentful of my brother. For fucking dying and leaving me to face this life alone. He was more than just family. He was my teacher, my friend, and my hero. I miss him every goddamn day and I’m reckless for it.
The apartment may as well be a dim icebox. I adjust the thermostat once inside, with hopes of warming my fingers and toes soon. Thanks to the extra money from the unexpected sale on the street, I could finally bump the heat to 60?.
As per usual, no sign of Andrea. Honestly, I didn’t even care what she was up to. I change into warm flannel sleepwear then search the fridge for something that won’t have me hugging a toilet in four hours flat. Disappointed by the cold options, I move onto the shelf of nonperishables, settling on a mason jar of pistachios for tonight’s ‘brinner.’
You know… the time between dinner and breakfast? It will catch on one day.
I peer into Thelma’s tank, finding her nestled in her little fortress of solitude. She really loves that skull my brother added for her, all those years ago. The little spider was usually more active at night, so it was strange to see her cozy in the hide at this hour.
“Damn. I really need to freshen your substrate, girl.” I made a mental note to swing by the pet store within the next week.
Precariously juggling my phone and the jar of seeds, I collapse onto the couch. Then, select the next episode in my marathon offamily drama with weapons; pull the coffee table to the edge of my seat and begin shelling the green, tear-drop shaped fruits. I try to tell my body; this is good for you. I even said, “Mmmm,” to convince myself, but it was no use. My stomach is in knots from thinking about what Eamon said.
After eating no more than a handful, I was done willing myself to ‘nourish my body.’ It did, however, keep my hands busy. Soon, I found myself with a pile of ivory-colored shells and a mound of uneaten pistachios. My stomach growls, unimpressed that I can play with food but not actually ingest it.
The phone vibrates next to me. I dust off my fingers and lifted the phone to check the notification.
The Stalker: Why did the pistachio get fired?
What? I jump up, immediately searching the dark street outside my window. No one’s down there… but I know he can SEE me! Just in case, I pull the drapes closed. My phone vibrates again from the couch. Another message. I know it’s him again.
The Stalker: It kept cracking up at work.
Is he? No! I type back.
Cindel: Was that a joke?
The Stalker: Yes.
Brodi thought he was a comedian, too. Most of his jokes were extremely inappropriate. Could he be…? No. Fuck that. Even if my stalker wasn’t shielded by layers of Kevlar and cotton, I would still know it wasn’t him. Brodi never took care of me the way that this man has. Once the crazy notion passes, I text back.
Cindel: Are you drunk?
The Stalker: Not currently.
