More Than Enough
Page 4

“I don’t know. He sleeps all day, ‘works’ or is out all night. I don’t ask questions.”
“And he’s still livin’ at home?”
Dad chuckles. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had both my boys home. He was already gone six years before you left for college. It’ll be good.”
“Or awkward,” I mumble. Because it will be. It’s been a long time since I’d seen him. Who knows who he is now… time + deployment can change people.
It sure as shit has changed me.
* * *
I take the longest shower in the history of the world and change the bandage on my shoulder, then I eat five different versions of the same frozen, processed meat and veg—the best meals I’ve had in months.
Dad makes a bed for me on the floor of Eric’s room. Dad did offer me his bed, but I refused. I told him I’d take the couch, but considering we didn’t have a couch anymore—just two recliners—didn’t help my cause.
It’s comfortable though—especially considering my old sleeping quarters. Soon enough, the travel, along with the painkiller I popped with dinner catches up with me. My eyes drift shut and I welcome the calm that comes with the silence. The sweet, sweet, silence.
It doesn’t last long before the bedroom door slams open, hitting the wall behind it. I jerk awake and for a moment, I forget where I am and reach for my weapon… the weapon that isn’t there.
“I can’t believe you live at home,” a girl whispers, before the door closes and I’m surrounded by darkness again. Eric mumbles something completely incoherent and I lay frozen, unable to move or speak because right now, I don’t know what the proper protocol is.
The bedsprings squeak and the girl laughs, then silence again.
Followed by moans.
Then clothes being removed.
More moans.
Springs again.
“Ouch,” the girl whispers. “Wrong fucking hole, you drunk asshole.”
“Okay, STOP!” I shout.
The girl squeals.
So does Eric.
So do I when a lamp falls on my head.
More shuffling.
Springs squeaking.
Then a light so bright it causes me to squint.
“D?” Eric says, standing by the light switch, shoe in his hand, naked as the day he was fucking born. He’s changed. A lot. I was thirteen when he enlisted and we hadn’t seen much of each other since. The occasional holiday here and there. But now he’s twenty-eight and bigger than I remember. Not as big as me, though. Fuck, that would annoy him. He adds, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Removing the lamp from my face, I lean up on my elbow. I glance over at him, and then at the blonde sitting in his bed, her knees raised, gripping the blanket tight to her chest. Then I look back at my brother and smirk. “So this is why you left me stranded in San Antonio? For a girl?”
“What the fuck?” he mumbles, his eyes wide.
The girl says, “Who the fuck is this, Derek?”
“It’s Eric,” he says, and I stifle my laugh just long enough to say, “I’m his lover. Who the fuck are you?”
“Shut up, D!” he shouts, dropping the shoe and covering his junk. “He’s my brother,” he tells the girl.
“That’s the story you’re going with?” I shake my head. “Your dad didn’t even know who I was when I showed up, Baby.”
“Eric, what the hell’s going on?” his girl fumes, her body shaking with anger.
I look over at her. “He tried to shove it in your ass, didn’t he? That’s how he got me.”
“Dylan,” Eric warns, his jaw tense and his eyes thinned to slits.
I sit all the way up, letting the blanket fall to my waist. His eyes zone in on my shoulder and the bandage that surrounds it. Then his breath and his anger seem to leave him at once. “You on medical?” The seriousness of his tone causes me to cut the bullshit and face reality.
I rub my jaw and nod at the same time.
“When did you get home?”
“A few hours ago.”
“Via Germany?”
I nod again.
He returns it, his gaze moving from me to the girl in his bed.
“Should I go?” she asks, her voice calmer than before.
Eric opens his mouth, but before he can respond, I say, “It’s fine.” I get up and bring the blanket with me. “You guys finish what you started.”
“So you’re really his brother?” she asks, looking between us.
“Yeah,” Eric answers for me. “This is my baby bro, Dylan.”
I give her a two-finger salute as I make my way toward the door. Eric steps to the side and opens it for me. He waits until I’m in the hallway, my back to him, before he calls my name. I pause, but I don’t face him. I don’t want to. I know what’s coming. “It’s good to have you home, bro.”
 
 
Two
 

Riley
I hear the sounds outside my room, the standard morning routine of my mom getting ready for work. Normally, I count down the seconds in my head until she’s gone… listening to the clicking of her heels against the hardwood floors as she makes her way to the front door, and I can be alone again. Not that her physical presence makes me less lonely. It just means I don’t have to hide out in my room, away from the scrutinizing stares that follow my every step, every move, every muttered sentence that escapes unfiltered from my lips.
The door next to mine, her bedroom, slams shut. She’s in a rush.
Click click click, go her heels, the sound fading as she moves further away.
She picks up her keys from the table by the front door, and for the first time ever, I actually wish time would slow because surely she’s not just going to leave.
Not today.
Without a thought, I jump up from my bed and open my bedroom door, bottle still in my hand, my head spinning and feet swaying from the amount of wine I’ve already consumed.
She doesn’t notice me standing in the hallway, watching her check her face and hair in the mirror by the front door one last time before her hand covers the handle.
I watch and, as if in slow motion, she pushes down on it. My heart hammers and breaks all at once.
“Bye Riley,” she calls over her shoulder, opening the door wider.
“M-mom,” I stammer, but it’s a barely whisper. I try again, louder, stronger, my shoulders squared. “Mom!”
She turns around, her eyes already mid-roll. “What is it, Riley?”
I clear my throat so she can’t hear the sob fighting to escape. “It’s my birthday.”
Her eyes narrow, just for a moment, before she says, “Shit. It is too.”
I lean against the wall because standing seems impossible. Not because I’m drunk—if you can even call it that—but because her admission to forgetting my existence has made me weak.
“There’s probably a cupcake in the fridge.” She forces a smile so pathetic even I feel sorry for me. “I know how much you love to make wishes,” she says, throwing in a full-blown eye roll just for extra emphasis.
Great.
She’s forgotten me and she’s mocking me.
Sighing, she closes the door and then walks with rushed steps toward the kitchen. “We have to be quick. I have a client at the salon first thing.” I follow behind her, my palm against my temple to stop the pounding.