Ethan Two Years Earlier
A nighttime drive in the rain promised a whirlwind of emotions.
Melancholy from the dreariness. Hope when the drops lessened. Disappointment when another downpour rolled in. A strike of fear when tires hydroplaned, the slightest miscalculation in speed spelling disaster as the car spun out.
I was willing to take any of it just to feel.
But like so many things, the drive was out of reach.
A single nail struck it down, leaving my Mercedes alone in the basement garage. The spike remained wedged in the front driver’s side tire, mocking my choice to stick to a single car and echoing my brothers past taunts.
“Stop being a cheap ass, Eth!”
“Just buy a goddamn Lambo already!”
Luke and Jason happily indulged after growing up hand to mouth. It wasn’t like I didn’t, the luxury sportscar parked beneath my penthouse attesting to it, but more than one vehicle would be ridiculous. Though if I’d had another, I wouldn’t be riding the T sandwiched by drunkards.
Cheap beer hung heavy in the air with a pungent undertone of vomit as bodies packed in the crowded subway car. There was a mix of partygoers and regular folk, the holiday weekend in full swing. As grotesque as it was, it was a better backdrop than home. Nor’easter or not, I needed to get out. I hadn’t left its walls in weeks, too busy wallowing in my own bullshit to face the world.
I ran a hand over my face as the train jutted forth again. The rough beard beneath my fingertips was foreign. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shaved or even looked in the mirror. I probably looked like shit, dick, and ass had a three-way love child but couldn’t care less. I had no one to impress.
The beard’s lifespan was coming to an end, however, the scruffy patch itching like hell. I had no idea how Luke dealt with one. Then again, the bastard didn’t flinch while getting tattoos in places that hurt just thinking about.
But that was Luke. He was always the tough one, just like Jason was the smart one. I was christened the sensitive one, an affinity for the arts earning the label as far back as I could remember.
“Don’t you have something to color, kid?”
“Go draw your feelings, fairy!”
My brothers never hurled insults, but classmates weren’t as kind. Life was hell until I was pardoned to complete my studies in the art studio. I was going to be the prodigal son of Briar, after all, the one who put the town on the map.
And boy did I let them down.
I’d let everyone down.
My life’s work flickered out, talents wasted watching endless television and drowning in the nothing where fires once blazed.
A big-bellied man beside me belched loudly as the train rolled into the next stop. A slight gurgling at the end confirmed he was the source of the vomit stench, and as he swallowed the mouthful of sludge, I turned away, trying to keep my own dinner from resurfacing.
Luckily the shuffle of bodies dissipated Pukey’s scent, alcohol and colognes battling as people climbed on and off. The closer we got to the North End, the stronger the odors of the night would grow and hopefully cancel out Pukey altogether. God willing, he’d depart, but I knew better than to put all my eggs in that basket.
A combination of college kids and shift workers boarded, the youth’s boisterous cries rivaling the stern looks of those who’d had a taste of the real world. It was only a matter of time before life shook the youngins down for everything they had too.
A nurse in scrubs juggled a lunch box and dripping umbrella as she passed by, ripping into someone on her headset about missing curfew. Her hands flew wildly as she spoke, sending droplets flying every which way. She reminded me of Nan when us boys would act up, her sweet demeanor gone in a flash when someone stepped out of line.
A factory worker smartly kept his distance. He looked as tired as I felt with glazed-over eyes. His name and title were etched across his soaked shirt pocket - Karl, foreman. He looked like a Karl. Tall. Strong. Handlebar mustache. His parents deserved praise for that one.
Mine? Not so much. Ethan allegedly meant “enduring” or “strong.” But I felt like neither. I didn’t feel like anything at all.
Laughter exploded, a trio of twenty-somethings the last to board. A male led the way, a mullet-rocking rebel without a cause dressed in shredded denim. Every inch of exposed skin was covered in ink, fuck permanently scrawled into the flesh of his throat.
Charming.
A tiny thing with a mop of multi-colored hair followed close at his heels with her fingers laced in his. Her smudged eyeliner and narrow shoulders reminded me of a ferret, and as she walked by, her hoppy gait and patchouli musk only strengthened the likeness.
Mullet and Ferret. What a pairing.
As my eyes turned back to the closing door, everything came to a halt.
In my travels, I’d witnessed endless sunsets from luxury yachts in Mykonos to remote lodges on Kodiak Island, but none held a candle to the girl in plum, the last of the college kids to board. A simple man would call the shade purple, but I knew plum when I saw it. A touch moodier than boysenberry but lacking the sorrow of mulberry, plum was a color of seriousness, something the dark-haired beauty lacked woefully.
Her yipping laugh flew through the railcar as she hurried to catch up with Mullet and Ferret, each sputter sending her shoulders bouncing along with her hair, a wild bob straight from the hipster scene uptown. It matched the ridiculously small backpack hanging between her shoulder blades, edgy veggie embroidered in green across it with a broccoli patch.
College girls flooded the streets destined for the North End daily, but Plum stood out with her off-the-shoulder romper, legs bared to the thigh. Others would elongate them with heels or wedges,
