Cut adrift in a maelstrom of misery, hands reached out. They found me in the storm and dragged me back to shore, thrashing the whole way. Fighting them tooth and nail. Certainly never thanking them for their attempts at salvation.
I hear Chris, talking around a swallow of beer.
I’m worried about you, Reyes.
I owe it to him.
To be less absent.
To be less angry.
I hear Ma, voice cracking with worry.
We almost lost you last summer, Archer. You have no idea how hard that was on your father and me.
I owe it to them.
To take care of myself.
To take charge of my life.
I hear Tommy, telling me plainly.
Wallowing in misery, hating yourself, numbing your pain with whiskey every night isn’t going to fix a damn thing.
I owe it to him.
To be better.
To do better.
I hear Jo, words brimming with emotion.
Living like this, in absence of hope… it’s not living.
I owe it to her.
To try harder.
To live harder.
And finally, so faintly I have to strain to catch the words, I hear my own voice inside — thready, weak… but there all the same. Growing louder with each passing second.
They all believe in you.
Isn’t it time you believed in yourself, again?
* * *
I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I’m not paying much attention to my surroundings. I don’t see the man standing in the shadows near my slip until I pass within inches of him. I nearly jump out of my skin when he steps into my path.
“About time. I thought you’d never show up, little brother.”
I stop short. Overhead, the lamppost buzzes as moths dive-bomb into the bulb. It’s the only sound for nearly a minute. Tension mounts in the air as we stare at one another. My fists curl at my sides. My voice is clipped with impatience.
“What do you want, Jaxon?”
He tilts his head, angular features half in shadow. “To talk.”