Page 65 of Filthy Beautiful
He’d texted me back:No worries CC.
I messaged him now to let him know I was coming back. Then I added:Can I see you soon?
I didn’t normally ask him that. I hadn’t asked in a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually asked my brother if I could see him.
It hurt too much when the answer was no.
And it was usually no.
Cary always had some excuse. Like,I’m working.That was the most common excuse; the reason he couldn’t be interrupted, even to see his sister.
I drove home, and when I’d pulled into my brother’s driveway and checked my phone, I found his response.
Cary:Sure CC. How’s right now?
* * *
I’d been living at my brother’s place for nine days before I actually saw him. It wasn’t exactly unusual for him to lock himself away in his studio and refuse to see anyone because he was too busy working. For the last four years, music had taken priority over everything else in his life. Though whenIshowed up at his place, even unannounced and uninvited, I usually managed to see him within twenty-four hours or so.
The fact that he’d been so avoidant this time only fueled my concerns about him. I was anxious to see him.
And yet… my instincts told me to tread carefully.
Gently.
He might be raw about the anniversary of Gabe’s death.
Or about Joseph Fetterman’s death.
He might be on a deadline with the new album and stressed out.
He might actually be uncomfortable about me being here, about this job situation, about me living in the house. Who knew?
As usual, I really had no idea how Cary was feeling about anything, other thannot good. It’d been so long since I’d seen my brother happy, I would’ve settled forokay. But these days, he was never really okay.
He was struggling to put his life back together in the wake of terrible loss, and who could blame him for struggling? Maybe some people thought he’d been grieving too long, suffering too long. But it was only four years. Who could put a limit on how much you loved someone?
Or how much it hurt when you lost them?
Or how much you blamed yourself?
If you asked me, it was natural to feel whatever my brother was feeling.
He’d grown up with Gabe. They’d been best friends since they were nine years old. Inseparable. Two peas in a pod and all that stuff. To me, Gabe was like another older brother. And to my brother… he was probably like another limb.
I could still remember Gabe, so clearly. Like he was standing right in front of me, in one of his holey old T-shirts and jeans with the pocket chain, with this curly brown hair all askew and his brown eyes sparkling. And his giant smile. Gabe had the best laugh, the kind that made everyone else laugh. He made the best hot wings on the planet. He called mecutie-pie. And he’d do anything for his friends.
If I could remember him that vividly, I knew my brother could too.
Let me be broken.
As I walked over to the doors that led into Cary’s studio, I could hear his voice in my head—at Gabe’s memorial service. My brother had gotten up to speak, though very briefly, about Gabe. Mostly he spoke to Gabe, rather than about him. He said he knew Gabe wouldn’t want anybody to be broken about what happened to him, but…
Today, just let me be broken.
I took a breath to calm myself, to fight back the emotions that swelled in my chest… just like they did every time I thought of my brother at Gabe’s memorial service, saying those words.
The last thing I wanted was for my brother to see me in tears.
