(and this is the story of cain and abel)
He goes to every one of Nathan's home games. Considers it an act of brotherly duty.
He forks over a few bills every other week. Sometimes, he sits with Jennifer, or Dan and Deb. When he does, he makes sure he goes through the motions: Cheers when his brother makes a basket, yells when the ref makes a bad call, claps until his palms sting. But most of the time, he sits alone, lost amongst a sea of green and clumsily constructed signs declaring love for this season's media darling. He prefers it this way; prefers that he can just sit, and watch his brother play without having to put on a performance.
Today, he's sitting beside a girl (fifteen, maybe) with tight blond curls and a bubble-gum pink mouth. She started talking to him the second he sat down, a wide excited smile on her face. "This is my first game," she tells him clapping giddily. "I love basketball! So my boyfriend brought me tickets for our five month anniversary." She gestures to the boy sitting beside her, slurping a soft drink.
He nods, plasters a fake smile on his face. "That was nice of him," he comments unenthusiastically, not in the mood for small talk with strangers.
She fails to notice his disinterested response and nods, "He rocks." She turns to her boyfriend who kisses her cheek, entwines his fingers with hers.
I'm Katie Anderson by the way," she says, smiling brightly. "And this is John."
"Lucas," he says in return, focuses his eyes on shiny floor of the court, where the team is filing out.
Beside him, Katie squeals, "Oh my god! John! There's Nathan Scott!" She turns to him, and gestures at her bright green jersey, with his own last name plastered across the back. "He's my favourite basketball player, ever!"
He smiles halfheartedly at her comment, and as the game starts, it echoes in his head. He watches as Nathan dribbles the ball, slickly eluding the opposition, before shooting it; gracefully extending his body. "Nothing but net," Lucas murmurs, as the ball drops effortlessly into the hoop.
And as the people around him leap to their feet, all he feels is pain in his chest.
Because suddenly, a part of him wishes that things were the other way around. Wishes that genetics were on his side, and that he wasn't the Scott to get stuck with the faulty heart and the mediocre life.
For two months after Keith died (car accident, a bunch of teenagers high as a kite driving at 100 miles per hour), he couldn't sleep. On those rare occasions he could, he'd always dream of the accident, would wake up with the image of Keith's bloody face impressed in his mind. He was at Boston University at the time, and he'd toss and turn and end up studying or order in pizza or filling out crosswords. Or he'd wake up in a cold sweat, and his heart beating wildly. His roommate was a light sleeper, and after six weeks of dealing with his insomnia, Ben went to the RA and requested a transfer. Before Ben moved out, he handed him his mother's business card and said, "My mom's a therapist. You should go see her."
And after two months of gazing at the card, fingering the edges thoughtfully, he did.
Does, still.
Every few months, drives his cherry red Jetta to Dr. Fordham's office and sits down for a session.
The first thing he notices when he steps into the office, he notices that Dr. Fordham remodeled: the walls now a serene blue, watercolour landscapes settled in golden frames hanging on the walls.
"Have a seat Lucas," Dr. Fordham says calmly, pointing to the leather couch in the right corner of the room.
"You remodeled," he states, obeying her order.
She takes a seat across from him, crosses her ankles, "Ah yes, yes I did." She gives him a warm smile, takes out her chart, her eyes scanning. "So how's work going?" she asks him, slipping on her glasses.
He shrugs, "Work is fine."
"I've read a few of your articles in the Boston Globe" she stops scribbling on her clipboard, "They're good."
He nods, acknowledges the compliment, "Thanks."
"So how does it feel to be covering Nathan?" The question is lobbed smoothly, splicing the air, hits a target.
"Its fine," he answers shortly. He can feel his heart quickening, blood roaring in his ears.
Dr. Fordham looks at him intently, and he can almost see the wheels in her head turning, cranking. "So you don't have any problems with watching your brother live out your dream?"
Doesn't answer the question, says instead, "I'm proud of Nate. Really proud of him."
"I'm sure you are," she says soothingly, "But pride and jealously aren't mutually exclusive emotions."
At her words, he swallows hard. Says tightly, "I'm not jealous." Knows somewhere in his heart that he's lying.
"Were you ever?" she inquires.
He frowns at her, "I've yet to hear about a brother who has never jealous of his own brother."
"Tell me about those instances," she says.
"What instances?" he asks, starting to grow somewhat irritable.
"Instances when you were jealous of Nathan."
He presses his fingers into his temples in an attempt to relieve the sudden tension. "I don't know. They were stupid things, mostly."
"Like?" She leans forward a little.
Shrugs, "I was seven, I think. And one day, Nate rode this beautiful shiny red bike to school, and I remember I wanted it so badly. My own bike was yellow, rusted, and the reflectors were chipped." He pauses, lost in thought for a second, "That was the way things were though. Nate was the claimed son. One Tree Hill's golden boy, with the pretty girlfriend and the status on the basketball court. Even then."
"Did you resent that?"
"Yeah, I guess did then. Not so much anymore. But then, I was in love with Peyton, I was dirt poor." he says. "I thought Nathan had everything I wanted."
"Does he?"
"Does he what?"
She clarifies, "Does he have everything you want. Now."
He freezes. Says slowly, lies through his teeth, "Well, he has the basketball career. I wanted that, but I'm happy for him. Nathan worked hard to get where he is."
"Did he really?" she asks him, baiting him. "From what you've told me, Nathan has had it pretty easy. Full athletic scholarship to Duke, no genetic heart problems."
"He's had problems," he states flatly, feeling the need to defend his brother. "His teen years weren't a picnic, with Dan and Haley-" he stops at the mention of Haley's name.
She notices his hesitation, the way uttering Haley's name affects him. Pounces. "Haley. Your brother's ex-wife."
"And my best friend."
She looks up, takes interest in his use of the present tense. "I thought you didn't keep in touch with Haley."
He shifts in his chair uncomfortably, "We didn't. Not until a few weeks ago. She sent me a postcard one day, out of the blue. And we just, started talking again."
"You told me at your last session," she looks down at her notes again, "that you quote unquote hate her for what she did to me, what she did to everyone."
He rubs his forehead, "I was just hurt. We talked. Things are okay now."
He sees Dr. Fordham's eyes flicker with interest. "Have you told Nathan about this turn of events?"
He hates the stilted tone of her voice, the formal construction of her words. "No," he answers abruptly, in a chilly tone.
"Why not?" she asks, even though he's pretty sure she knows the answer.
"He'd see it as a betrayal."
"Because she broke his heart."
He looks down, "And that she left."
"She left Tree Hill because of him."
"I guess," he says, squinting a little.
"Is that why you started to talking to Haley again?"
"Excuse me?" His voice heavy with confusion, questions.
"Did you start talking to Haley again because she's the only thing that Nathan doesn't have? Are you talking to her because you having any kind of relationship with her would hurt him? Hurt him for living out your dream? Or maybe hurt him for driving her away?"
"No!" he exclaims. "God no. I love Nathan. Maybe sometimes I get jealous of what he has, how he just seems so happy, but I wouldn't do something this horrible to him."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," he says with conviction. "God."
"So you're willing to betray your brother for a girl?"
"Not just some girl," he says, trying to explain. "Haley."
"And you think it's worth it?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose, looks at the carpeted floor, finally says, "Yeah."
"Why?" she asks him, leaning close, curiosity flickering over her face.
He doesn't know what to say for a moment, doesn't know how to articulate the emotions wound up tightly in his chest. Finally, says, "I used to be happy. Before. Even when I was Tree Hill's golden boy Dan Scott's mistake. Whenever she was with me, things would be okay. I would be…happy."
"And you think that you'd be happy with her around?"
Stumbles over his words, "At least, happier. Maybe."
"How about your life isn't happier with her in it? What happens then?"
A long pause. Then finally, "I don't know."