Page 91 of We Drank the Dawn

“—and right now, she’s at a fancy club in downtown Denver.”

“How do you know that?”

“I got a notification.” He shook his head when he realized that didn’t make any sense and explained, “Sarah started a bucket list when she was fifteen, and I helped her cross stuff off.” He shrugged, a sad smile lifting his cheeks. “The list is digital and every time it’s altered, I get a notification.”

“Wait.” I snorted, trying to hold back an incredulous laugh. “So let me get this straight. Clubbing is on her bucket list?” What a dumb idea.

“Not just any club.” Peter shook his head. “A particular club where all the rich people go.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Sarah has never done anything on her list without me. We do the stuff together.”

“Ah. I’m tracking. So you’re sad that she’s living her life while you rot.”

He shook his head, thinking for a few moments. “No, it’s not that. I want her happiness more than anything.”

“Why’d she leave anyway? Was she mad about what happened on Saturday?”

He huffed. “Yeah, she was pissed, obviously, but that’s not the reason she left.”

“Why then?”

He pointed to his eyes.

“Because you’re blind?” The words exploded out of me as I scoffed. I didn’t know much about marriage but that seemed like a pretty shitty reason to leave. And, based on the conversation I’d had with Sarah on the trail ride, I doubted that was all the split boiled down to. She went to rehab with him. She learned freaking braille. I saw the look in her eyes when she talked about him—she loved Peter. “Come on, man, be real. That can’t be the only reason.”

“The old Peter is not coming back. I’ve been trying to tell her that for months, but I think she finally came to terms with it. I want her to be free. She deserves a lot better than anything I can give her.” His jaw rolled as he fought back emotions. “She wants a family life and adventures and so many things I just can’t do…I’m not that guy anymore.”

I nodded, the pieces coming together. “So you’re glad she left because then you don’t have to feel guilty about the fact that you’re a pathetic, lazy piece of shit.”

His gaze turned fiery. “I’m not lazy. I’ve worked hard to find some semblance of normal.”

“Sarah was all over the ranch, trying her best to smile and have a good time while you slept in the fifth wheel. All the cowboys felt sorry for Sarah. Cody told her to come find him if she got lonely. And, let me tell you something, he was ready to show her a good time.”

Rage flickered to life in his eyes.

“If I had to guess, Sarah left because you’re bitter and unbearable to be around. One day stuck with you, and I am ready to hightail it. Every time I’ve seen you, you’ve got a scowl on your face and a stick up your ass. You’re wallowing, man. No one could stomach that forever. I don’t blame her one bit for throwing in the towel.”

He sat like a statue, listening. Maybe no one in his life was being honest. But I didn’t know how to bullshit with people, wasn’t proficient at holding my tongue, and I wouldn’t know kid gloves if they hit me in the face. So I continued, “If you’re dead set on being a prick then I’m glad she’s clubbing and I hope someone a hell of a lot more interesting than you takes her home tonight and rewards her for being a saint.”

His lips pressed into a firm line, his fist on his lap balling.

“Go ahead. Get angry. To be honest, I don’t think you’re angry enough. ‘Cause that’s exactly what’s gonna happen if you keep laying around, sucking your thumb.”

His solution? Reach for another beer.

Suddenly, anger crested in my chest, and I kicked the six pack out of his reach, the glass bottles clanging as they clacked together and toppled onto the packed dirt ground. I wished I could be Peter—tipsy and not giving a flip—but my dying wish was to be someone my brother could trust and I would be damned before I let Peter’s stupid identity crisis derail me. I knew a thing or two about living a nightmare and if I couldn’t drink my darkness away, Peter couldn’t either. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but those were my rules.

With his hand suspended toward the pack, he scoffed in disbelief.

“Pour them out. You’re done.”

“No, I’m not.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, my hands starting to tremble. “Listen, I’m a recovering alcoholic. If you don’t get that shit off this campsite, I’ll burn through the last four in less than ten minutes and be sitting at Bob’s campfire in less than fifteen. I’ll be wasted before midnight and driving the trailer with a hangover tomorrow. Then, unlike you, I’ll lose my job. And also, unlike you, I won’t have a family to wipe my ass when I’m unemployed. I’ll be on the streets and probably doing drugs again. So I don’t care how sorry your life is. You’re a Thompson and the fact that you don’t realize what kind of life advantage that is is another reason to not respect anything about you. I want to find some food then get in bed. Not babysit. So pour them out.”

I swore Peter could see me with the way he glared directly into my eyes. In the dim light of the flickering street lamps, the lines of his face were angled and hard, angry and hurt. For a few tense beats, we stared each other down, each waiting for the other to crack. And just when I thought he’d push back, his brow softened, his throat pulling with a swallow. Slowly, he reached toward the toppled pack of beers and his fingers found purchase on one’s neck.