Hope everyone who's able has a relaxing extended weekend. And let's take time tomorrow to honor what the day is truly all about.
####
Three windows. A pigeon gray coat of paint that might not have actually predated the turn of the century. And, miracle of miracles, a door that still stood on its hinges.
The house that their brother called home was, by all accounts, perfectly unremarkable.
Perfectly ordinary.
Definitely an upgrade from some of the crap-stacks Reggie had called home.
Frankie's guy had to have gotten it wrong. The shack down the street was much more in line with his expectations. As if to counter his unspoken thoughts, his brother-in-law nudged hm. "See, I told you. He's okay, just like William."
There was an ease on Frankie's face that did more to pipe down that stirring in his gut than any words could. Reggie had seen first-hand the quiet pain when Frankie turned the key in the ignition, preparing to leave his son for the first, and last, time. The peace also now evident in his brother-in-law was a touch of sweet to the bitter.
Reggie continued his surveillance of the house from behind the car window. They'd been staking this place out for at least two hours already, and the fact that they hadn't gotten so much as a stirring curtain for the effort was beginning to put him on edge. "Let's just –"
The 'wait' died on his lips just as a shaky sigh escaped his sister's.
"Isn't that?..." All she managed.
Reggie nodded numbly. Most people would probably laugh at the object of his transfixion: an old hoodie that looked like it'd seen the treads of a few too many Mac trucks. Completely indistinguishable from a thousand others like it, except for the hood - except for the red eight flipped on its side: a symbol, a reminder of a bond that would never die.
At least that's what he had told himself when he literally took the shirt off his back over a decade ago and handed it to an awe-struck little boy.
It would be his final gift to his brother.
When the gangly figure, hands bunched in faded jeans, hunched into the hatchback nearest the road, Frankie turned to them with a lifted eyebrow and a question in his eyes.
Reggie only had one answer: "Follow him."
####
The celebration had consisted of a culinary spread that spared no expense or risk, the requisite fine silver dining utensils, approximately three guests, and a whole serving of grandiose self-congratulations as a side.
It marked her first introduction to her future stepson.
By meal's end, Brooke hoped it would be the last meeting of its kind.
When the proper courteous goodbyes were handed out, she leaned against the door. Adam still beamed as he crossed the foyer and approached his favorite nightly plaything: the decanter.
The liquid sliding slick against the glass clawed at her ears - and her resolve - faster than any nail scratching any chalkboard.
"Can I ask you something, Adam?" With effort, she flattened her palms and pushed herself from the doorway. The thickness in the air seemed to hold her back.
If she was being honest with herself, though – and, increasingly these days, she had lost something in the fine-tuned art of self-deception –she knew the true source of the exertion…the effort.
"Anything, my dear." He turned to her, glass raised in another toast.
Brooke did not wait for the sip. The validation. "What was your take-away from tonight?"
"My take-away?" He put the glass down and placed his hands in his pockets, a slight smile-frown on his face. Ever the business-casual.
She waited for the answer.
For her answer.
The smile returned, just before she could grasp the illusion of something else. "I'm back in the game." The smile did not reach his eyes. Did not warm the ice-tipped curve. "I'm back."
She closed her eyes then. Against the ice. Against the feelings she'd held back the night she'd gone to the jailhouse, bail money in hand.
Against every possible alternate answer to her question: 'time with my son'; 'time with you, remembering our first wedding anniversary, when we knew we'd make it through the worst parts, when we knew we'd made it…together'; 'time for honoring her, for honoring them, for making it matter….'
She closed her eyes to fantasies, and opened them to reality. "Congratulations."
After Adam had excused himself for the night, a certain dip in his voice that implied he hoped the night was not yet over, Brooke stood alone in the room: this room cobbled together with equal parts dream and nightmare.
A true Frankenstein's monster.
She opened the drawer, removed the one item that she wanted to take with her, and left another in its place. The ring still glinted, sparkling and igniting its own hopes, dreams, and fantasies
They extinguished as she closed the drawer.
The tiny beep did not startle her. It did, however, accomplish something more vital.
It made her take the necessary action.
She scanned the phone's message: 'We need to talk, right now. Big break. –Bianca'
With four short words, Brooke slipped the phone back into her satchel, alongside the not-quite-shattered glass.
Not yet, anyway. There was still time.
When she left the mansion, she did not look back.
####
She picked up the phone with a hand that would not shake. When she placed it to her ear, she cut everything else out. By necessity.
"I never expected this, but maybe, in some way, I knew it was inevitable." The man blinked, his only give-away since he had sat down across from her.
Liza's first impulse had been to spit in his direction, but she knew the glass partition separating them would shield him from that poor substitute for retribution.
But she would not think about that, or ponder anything he said, because this was business.
Her eyes flicked quickly to the marching row of windows and the bareness of the room pressing all around her. Tightening.
It had to be.
"I have a proposal for you."
There. Familiar words. Said a thousand times before in a thousand contexts. Protocol she could handle. But, unlike most clients, he did not narrow his eyes or ask for more details. He folded his hands, leaning forward. Waiting.
She would not give him the control. And she would not look those eyes. She would not validate the things that had no place here or now.
So she settled, focused on a patch of gray and continued, voice precisely even: "I am sure you are aware that the gun laws in this state are permissive at best, a recipe for anarchy at worst. I want to change that, and you are going to help me make it happen."
It's the least you can do.
Those invisible words hung heavy in the air, fogging the glass.
Once again, he would not ask how or when or where, leaving her words to slice through the ever-thickening air.
"You are going to offer your testimony to the state congressional committee and you will make it clear that…people like yourself should never come within five hundred feet of a firearm."
"Is it easier to blame the gun, Liza?"
"Trust me, I know 'exactly' who to blame." She strangled that first sharp edge, that first crack. Her teeth ground with the effort. "It will be in your best interest to take this step, as it might mitigate -"
"I don't want mitigation." And there was that voice, that simmering Chandler tone she knew so well from years, 'decades' of first-hand experience. She would not acknowledge the precise moment when it changed, when it found its other side of the coin. "I don't want to throw the responsibility on some hunk of metal….on anything. I've been doing that my whole life, and that's how I got here. I'm here because of me. I lost - we lost so much because of me. Nothing else."
He was pulling at her, begging her to acknowledge the one unmentionable, unspoken word, begging her to lash out, begging for that spit and more...
The one thing he did not, and could not ever, beg for was forgiveness.
She did the only thing she could, to maintain her resolve. Her anything. She ignored every plea. "Somehow, I think most of us would rather take our chances in a room harboring a madman with a stick than a cold-hearted bastard with a semi-automatic pistol. With new regulations, we can prevent households with people possessing a questionable mental or criminal history from obtaining these individual equivalents of nuclear weapons."
Facts were sterile. Indisputable. Indestructible weapons.
So she armored herself with them, fully stocked for this new battle. This guiding purpose. "Do we have a deal?"
He was quiet, and this, she expected. Negotiations, after all, took time. As did surrender.
She rose.
"Liza"
This time, she made the mistake of looking.
This time, she was in danger of drowning.
Every word, every feeling, every conflict and tear and apology and refused shred of mutual devastation ricocheted off that flimsy glass. And the tiniest miniscule made it through.
JR ended their visit with one word: "Okay."
####
"He wore glasses."
"God, those things….Mom was so proud she could afford them. She didn't realize I'd be the one protecting that investment on the playground for a good five years."
"Hey, it paid off, though. He always toted around at least five books."
"Yeah, he was pretty freaking smart; teaching me geometry when he still shoulda been adding two plus two…"
"And so sweet….remember that time Mom worked late on your birthday? He stepped right in on cake duty, even though the poor kitchen paid the price."
"Sounds like you hit the brother jackpot," Frankie observed, interrupting their memory-swap.
"We did, but don't think the kid was some kind of saint. He could throw up one heck of a fit when the mood hit."
"I think you found that out when he hacked off one of your dreds after you told him he couldn't dye his hair blue."
Randi and Reggie laughed in the crazy, nonsensical way only a crazy, nonsensical secret joke could produce.
"What's next?" Frankie asked, keeping a safe distance from their brother's ride.
Catching a glimpse at that furrow in Randi's brow, Reggie knew one thing: neither one of them had a damn clue.
But they'd have to find one fast, as the car ahead of them pulled to a stop. It idled so damn long that Reggie was sorely tempted to go rip the door open himself, which probably wasn't exactly the best re-introduction into his brother's life.
When the boy finally did emerge, he did not move with nearly the same speed as he had earlier. His movements were much more deliberate.
Hesitant.
He disappeared behind a graffiti-lined wall, and that first tweak of unease hit Reggie in the gut.
Not again.
Then the bottom fell out.
He jumped from the car, words slamming harshly against his eardrums: "Reggie, no! Stop!"
Echoing back, mutating….slurred by blood and strangled by approaching death.
Reggie… Georgie's hand, reaching, reaching…
It dissolved in his grasp as he turned the corner, breathless.
"Fight back, you worthless sack!"
The hoodie was dusty…and bloody.
"Please, please. Mama's boy saying please?"
Feet kicked up a dust storm, burying the boy in the center. Living dead.
"Brought it on yourself. Think you can be one of us, huh?"
The dust settled on a broken pair of glasses.
"Hit me, come on. Get up and hit me!"
The glasses got one drop of moisture, fragmented into a million slicing razors…
Reggie grabbed the bastard's leg mid-punt and wrenched it hard. The sonofabitch landed with a thud. He ran to his wheezing brother, not caring a damn when his knee slammed with a crack onto the ground. He took hold of the the eight, the-'always,' and pulled the hood back.
"Are you? -"
"I'm just dandy."
Shaking his head slowly, Reggie turned from the bruised, wide-eyed boy. This boy he'd saved.
This stranger.
The figure behind them had risen, supporting himself on one defiant leg. He spit out a tooth and removed his own hood. Two blazing brown eyes stared Reggie down. They were no longer tinted or framed by glasses. Their only accessory was a cold smirk.
Fire and ice.
He spoke again. "Long time no see, Brother."