On instinct, my vigilant eyes dart to my client. Charlie’s halfway to the teacups.
Quinn lets out a strained noise. “Fuck, bro. I’m asking for ten minutes of your time. Spare me that.”
His words, his pained voice sends a shockwave of anguish through me. Quickly, I whisper in comms that I’m taking a break for the night. Prying the earpiece from my ear, I unclip my radio, hurriedly winding the cord around the device.
Quinn frowns. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going off-duty,” I say. “If you want to talk, I don’t want to put a time limit on it. You’ve got me for the night, Quinn.” I don’t know why he’s chosen tonight, but I don’t risk asking.
Jack shifts a camera to his left hand, then motions towards the teacups. “I’ll let you guys catch up. I’m going to go film Char—”
“Wait,” Quinn says swiftly. “Can you…I think…it’d just be best if you were around for this.”
Same.
The likelihood of Quinn and I throwing fists at some part of this conversation is too high. We need a mediator, and I’m seconding the Jack Highland nomination.
Jack looks between us, sensing the tension. And he hikes the camera bag’s strap higher up his shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere quieter, then.”
We end up on the plot of grass between a strongman game and the Gravitron, a domed ride where people line up and disappear inside. Our spot is out of the brighter lights, and for how busy the carnival fundraiser is tonight, this is as close to private as we’ll find.
Quinn puts his hands on his head, elbows out like he just finished a 5K. His broken gaze drills into me. “I hate you, you know. Like I really hate you.”
Those words slice me up worse than his fists ever have. I nod slowly. “Yeah, I’ve felt that,” I tell him.
He grinds down on his teeth. His wavy hair blows in the wind. Jack unhooks his camera bag from his broad shoulder, dropping the thing to the grass. I meet understanding in his gaze, and he gives me a strong nod, shooting strength through my veins.
God, if I had to do this without him…I can’t think it. Don’t want to even imagine it. I realize it doesn’t matter what he’s here as—my boyfriend or some limited edition husband. It makes no difference. His support is still the same spellbinding force that carries me tonight.
I take a breath and turn to my brother.
Quinn drops his arms. “It used to be easier ignoring you and just letting the silence eat at us. But every time we’re in therapy it’s so fucking unbearable.” He grinds down on his teeth. “Because I have to sit there knowing that you’re the reason I still have a job. You did something good for me. You were willing to quit security for me.” His eyes redden. “But I still can’t stop hating you.”
What did I do?
“Just tell me why you hate me so much. I want to know, Quinn.” Desperation clings to my voice. “Please.”
Colorful lights dance across his cheek, across the scar beneath his eye. Someone in the distance cheers as they win the strongman game.
He waits for their celebration to end before speaking. “Telling you won’t change a damn thing,” he breathes. “Other than kill me and hurt you.”
“This has already killed you, bro. It’s already hurt me.”
He chokes on a sob and presses a hand to his eyes.
I want to comfort him, but I’m afraid it’ll just incite his anger. “Whatever it is,” I end up saying, “you don’t need to carry it on your own anymore. I’m here.”
He lets out a staggered breath, nearing a panicked laugh. “You’re here,” he repeats and stares at the grass. “You know I used to idolize you. My big brother. Oscar Oliveira. The strongest, biggest badass I knew.” His eyes meet mine, and he struggles with the next words. “I’d follow you around everywhere. You remember that? I’d tell you: “Quando eu crescer, quero ser como você.” When I grow up, I want to be like you.
It hurts to breathe. “I remember.” He was just a little kid. Five or six.
He twists the silver chain around his neck. Our mom gave him the necklace after his confirmation. A pendant of Saint Michael the Archangel is engraved in the middle. “What about when I was really little?” he asks me. “You remember how you’d bend down to my height and you’d put both hands on the top of my head, and you’d tell me: Eu sempre vou te proteger.” I’ll always protect you.
We’re in an open field, but it feels like walls are closing in around me. I’m back in Vienna, trapped in an elevator. This time it’s just me and my brother and the gnarled roots we’ve kept buried for years.
“I remember,” I whisper.
His nose flares. “You’d say that over and over. Eu sempre vou te proteger. Eu sempre vou te proteger. Even when I was nine, and you left for Yale, I believed you.” He ruptures into tears. “You kept telling it to me when you were hundreds of miles away, and I fucking believed you!”
I choke on my own breath. What happened? What the fuck happened?! I want to scream it. I want to protect him right now. I did something…I didn’t do something. I’m so lost, but I feel his fucking pain, and I want it to end. “Quinn, I love you—you have to know that.”
His hand goes to his heart, and he fists the fabric of his shirt like he’s trying to stop the organ from beating. “Your love is weak, Oscar. It never protected me.”
I blink back tears, a hand to my mouth. Jack edges close like he means to comfort me,
