Mistakes I’ve Made by Jordan Marie
7Reed
“Are you sober?”
I nudge Mitch on his bed as I ask my question. It’s probably not the best way to approach him when I want him to be reasonable, but it’s about all I got in me. He flops over on his back, his tall, muscular body almost too big for the twin size beds we have in our room. Our beds are placed on each side of the window. Honestly, it’d be better if they were farther apart, but the room is small and that’s the best we can do. I start shop class next semester and I always figured my first project would be building a wall between me and my brother.
Mitch flops his arms above his head and looks at me.
“Sober as ever, I suppose,” he mutters. That, in Mitch-speak, means he’s not numb, so I guess I’ll take it.
“We need to talk.”
“Dad pulling shit again?” Mitch asks, and I frown. There’s something fucked up about life when the first thing you think of at the mention of your father is wondering if he’s beating the shit out of our mother again. He hasn’t laid a hand on her in a year. Not since I got big enough to help Mitch in defending her. Dad’s big as hell and surprisingly strong—despite the fact that his workout routine is lifting cheap whiskey to his mouth. Mitch and I both usually end up black, blue, and definitely bloody, but Mom always manages to crawl away mostly unscathed—at least physically.
“No, at least not that I know of. They were sleeping when I got in.”
“Late night with the hot chick? Way to go little brother.”
“Callie’s not like that, Mitch.”
“All chicks are like that, Reed.”
“Callie’s not. She’s sweet. Hell, she blushes. She’s good, Mitch.”
Mitch laughs. It’s a bitter sound that reminds me entirely too much of our father. When you live the life that we have, watching our dad every day can make you go down one of two roads. The one I chose is not touching alcohol. The other is where you become just like him, letting alcohol numb you. Mitch is well on that road already. The only time he’s mildly sober is when he’s at school and even then, he’s been drinking. He usually picks vodka because it’s easier to hide the smell on his breath. He’s also very careful not to drink too much. He saves that for evening. He may not drink every day, but the days that he doesn’t are getting few and far between.
“The good girls are worse than the easy chicks, little brother. They’re freaks in disguise. They’re just waiting for you to seduce them, so they don’t feel so bad about spreading their legs for you. Once you get in there, they’re always the bitches begging for more.”
“Can you not be an asshole for a minute and talk to me man to man?” I huff, hating that he even thinks about Callie like that. Hell, anyone. Mitch has had some nice girls, but he’s used them and tossed them aside, too. I don’t think I’ve seen him care for any woman. He uses them to numb the shit in his head—just like he does with his alcohol.
“We’re a man short,” he snorts, thinking he’s funny. I could tell him we are, because he reminds me more and more of Dad and he’s definitely not a man. I don’t think that would help my cause, though. So, I just stare at him as he pulls himself up against his headboard. “You never could take a joke,” he mutters, reaching over to the small, cheap-ass particle board table between us to grab his smokes. He lights a cigarette, and the nicotine smell fills the room. The odor makes my nose twitch. I like cigarettes, but all of the money I get from cutting grass and shit I’m trying to save to buy a car.
“I didn’t find anything funny,” I mumble, raking my hand through my hair. “Listen, this is hard for me, but I need to ask you a favor.”
That definitely gets his attention. One of his eyebrows even kicks up in the middle with shock. “You are asking me for something?” he asks.
I never ask him for shit—I never have. I don’t like asking anyone for anything—especially my family. You would think Mitch and I would be close. That the shit life we have at home would make us unite. Instead, it seems to just feed the difference between us. I’d like to think it’s not my fault, but I figure some of it is. The more Mitch reminds me of our dad, the madder I get at him.
“Yeah,” I mumble, searching for words.
“It must be important if you’re going to ask me for anything.”
“It is. It’s about Callie.”
Mitch laughs loudly then. I flex my hand into a fist over and over, biting back the urge to punch him.
“You’re strung up on this chick,” he mocks.
“I like her, Mitch,” I admit. “I mean, I really like her. I know she’s caught your eye, but I’m asking you to back off. Give me time to see what I can have with her.”
“Look at you,” he says, his lips thinning out as he spreads them into a smile. “Admitting your big brother can beat you out of pussy.”
“Don’t call her that. Listen, will you just agree to back off?” I ask between clenched teeth, silently seething.
“I don’t know. She’s prime, grade-A ass, Reed. What’s in it for me?”
“The fact that you’re not treating your brother like shit for once?” I suggest, knowing that won’t work, but needing to point it out just the same.
“Nah, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
“Does that mean you’ll back off and stay away from Callie?”
“Sure, not like I give a damn. Pussy is pussy. Have at her,” he says with a shrug.
“Thanks,” I tell him, almost afraid to believe it’s that easy.
“No problem, little brother. I’m not the asshole you like to make me out to be,” he says as I strip down to my shorts and climb into bed. I don’t really reply—well, other than a grunt.
It doesn’t matter because he snuffs out his cigarette and rolls over as I switch the lamp off. I’ve got a couple of lawns to mow tomorrow, so I want to get up early. Getting a car has always been a priority, but since meeting Callie, it’s become more important.