The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers)
The Best Kind of Forever: Chapter 4

AERIS

I hate September fourth. It doesn’t matter what year it is, what day it is, or where I am: September fourth will always be the day my brother committed suicide.

This is the seventh anniversary of his death. Seven years, and the pain is still as fresh as the day he left me.

I was the first one to replace him. Roden promised to drive me over to my friend’s house so we could pregame before a party, but I couldn’t replace him, and I panicked.

When me and my brother were little, we used to play upstairs in the attic. My mother and father would argue a lot, and the attic was a safe haven for us. We pretended we were wanderers exploring barren lands, using cardboard boxes as imaginary forts to protect ourselves from the evil ruler that was hell-bent on capturing us—who just so happened to have the same name as my dad.

Michael.

My dad isn’t a kind man. He isn’t capable of love. When I was little, the only reason he’d talk to me was to admonish me. It was like he felt constantly burdened by his children. Children he helped bring into this world. Roden was born mute, but my father was adamant there must be some way to fix him. Roden quickly became ostracized by his peers because of his disability, leading him to fall down a rabbit hole of depression.

My brother was trapped in that six-foot-deep hole, with only me trying to tug him up by a lifeline. In the end, I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.

There was nobody to stand up to my father except me. My mother, Elaine, sacrificed her autonomy and her relationship with her own children to please my father. She cared for my brother, and it was obvious that when he became depressed, she wanted to help. But my father refused to get him the help he needed, and my mom obeyed him and stood idly by as her first-born withered into a shell of his former self.

Roden was older than me by two years, but I was always his protector. Always. Until the night I found him hanging from one of the rafter beams. He didn’t leave a note, and that was what broke me the most. I didn’t know how he was feeling in his last moments. I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I failed my brother. I wasn’t enough to make him stay in this world. I should’ve fought harder for him. It feels like I’ve spent my whole life fighting—fighting for my father’s love, fighting for my mother’s support. Eventually, it’s just easier to give up.

A mosaic of prismatic colors pedals past my vision, and my mind is as foggy as condensation on glass when I place my lips to the rim of my shot glass. I’ve already put away five drinks, and the night’s still young, so I’ll probably be here until the bartender kicks me out.

I kill my drink with a toss of my head, and it’s like a tumbleweed of fire rolling down my throat, warmth spidering to every part of my body. I cringe at the initial taste, but that doesn’t stop me from flagging down the bartender for another shot. I need to stop feeling. I need to stop thinking. Heat welts me from every direction, almost strong enough to cancel out the musty scent of body odor and alcohol wafting off the inebriated crowd.

I’m at a bar and lounge called Mickey’s that I frequent. The atmosphere is way too lively for my liking tonight, and I feel like I must be the only one here trying to drink themselves to an early grave.

“Maybe you should slow down,” a voice says from behind me. It’s thick, like crushed velvet, and it has a honeyed undertone to it. It’s nice, and it definitely belongs to a male.

But as pleasant as the voice is to listen to, the advice is unwelcome.

“Did you know it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?” I ask, indignation swirling inside of my chest like a cinder.

There’s a shuffling noise to my side, and judging by the displaced air, the intruder is now sitting directly next to me.

“Did you know that binge drinking can result in alcohol poisoning?”

I down the rest of my glass despite his warning. “Maybe that’s the goal.”

“You want to spend the rest of the night getting your stomach pumped in the ER?”

I snort, feeling heat bloom up the back of my neck. “Sounds exciting.”

“I know you didn’t ask for my advice, or my help, but what kind of Samaritan would I be if I let you get five hundred dollars in debt from a completely avoidable trip to the hospital?” he says.

I school my expression to the best of my ability, but my tone is clipped when I speak. I haven’t looked at my annoyer yet, and I’d prefer to keep eye contact limited at this point. “Don’t worry, nobody’s watching your selfless act of kindness. You don’t need to pretend to care.”

“Who said anything about pretending?”

I hate the way my curiosity betrays me, because hook, line, and sinker, that gets me to turn right toward him.

He’s a disturbingly attractive man—the kind of attractive you only see on billboards or movie screens. He looks to be about six foot three, and just going off the wideness of his shoulders, there’s no question in hell that he’d be able to throw me across the room like a ragdoll right now if he wanted to.

His eyes are blue and enticing, like the undercurrents of a churning sea. I feel like he’s a stare away from tricking me to dive into their misty depths and drown below treacherous waves.

His blond hair falls from its middle part and frames the sharp blades of his cheeks. He has a jawline that could grate cheese, as well as huge biceps that bulge outwards. If that’s any indication of his muscle distribution, he probably has a matching set of abs that are about as solid as a barbecue grill under that flimsy shirt of his.

Oh, and I think he has dimples. Maybe. Jury’s out.

“You’re…” I slur, my cheeks turning rosy. Come on, brain! Work! Form sentences!

“Dashingly handsome? Super muscular? A young Leonardo DiCaprio?” Mystery Guy says, a full-throated chuckle breaching his very kissable lips. They’re plush and pink, and his lower one is slightly bigger than the top. I watch with rapt focus as his tongue slides out to wet them, then disappears behind a row of pearly-white teeth.

My own heart is thudding in my ears like a caged bird. I was going to agree with him, but the next set of words out of my mouth aren’t anywhere close to a compliment.

“…full of yourself,” I finish.

That was supposed to be an inside thought, Aeris. AN INSIDE ONE.

“I like to think of it as having a healthy confidence,” he muses.

I laugh, but it comes out humiliatingly flat. “More like being flippantly cocky.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that your way of calling me attractive?”

Attractive? ATTRACTIVE? Are you kidding me? He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“How did you possibly get that from what I just said?”

His cheeks puff out a little from the coy grin that crests between them. “You can tell a lot about a person from what they don’t say,” he tells me.

“You’re not hideously ugly, but don’t get a big head, alright?” I grumble.

“Oh, there’s plenty about me that’s big besides my head.”

As if on cue, my eyes slide down to his crotch, and then I immediately avert my gaze. My nervousness elicits a laugh from him, one that has his shoulders shaking and his voice thick with gravel.

“I’m not making you nervous, am I?” he drawls, scooting an inch closer to me, just waiting for me to walk right into his trap.

“You’re not making me nervous. You’re not even all that. If I had to guess how big your penis was, I’d say a three-inch punisher at best.”

Oh, God. Why did I just say that? The last thing this conversation needed was the addition of a discussion about male genitalia. ABORT!

He scrubs a large hand down his face, catching on the stubble dusting his jaw. “Damn, that’s being generous. I normally can’t get it up most days.”

I want to crawl into a hole and die. Embarrassment grips my body as any and all words rut against my throat, so I settle for a good, old-fashioned smile. But I don’t think it’s very charming. More like one of those awkward smiles people give each other when they’re passing one another in the grocery store.

Upon seeing my flustered expression, he corrects himself. “It’s a joke. I’m joking.”

“Riggght. Right.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us unsure how to continue the conversation, both particularly interested in the conveyor belt of people moving through the small space.

Finally, he caves.

“Are you here by yourself?” he asks.

Look, I’m smart enough to know I should never answer that question if a stranger asks, but there’s something that seems trustworthy about this guy. Then again, I’m pretty sure girls said the same thing about Ted Bundy, and, well…

I take another sip from my drink to occupy my mouth, nodding my head.

“And how much have you had to drink?” he hedges, folding his arms over his chest, testing the tight sleeves of his shirt. He’s looking at me expectantly, those baby blue eyes of his shimmering with concern as his lips bow into a frown—a frown that still happens to be attractive, mind you.

I blink owlishly, holding my fingers up and swaying a bit in my seat. “I…uh…I lost count,” I whisper.

The muscle in his jaw moves in tight circles, and he claps his hands together and points them right at me. “Let me guess. You’ve just been broken up with?”

I shake my head.

“You’re hiding from your boyfriend because you caught him using a lava lamp as a butt plug?”

A laugh sneaks its way out of my mouth, and as much as I want to frown, the corners of my lips give way to a smile. “I wish,” I reply.

“You wish you caught your boyfriend bumping his ugly with a household object?”

I glide my hand through my hair, suddenly wishing I hadn’t finished my drink so quickly, but if I order another, my bank account is going to cry. I probably won’t even have enough for groceries this week.

“I wish it was as simple as boy problems.”

My knight in shining armor casts me an easygoing grin. “Does this mean you don’t have a boyfriend?”

He guns me down with a look that has my lungs decompressing all the air out of my body, and I swallow the leftover alcohol greasing my throat.

“Is that your way of flirting with me? Dazzling me with an award-winning smile and hoping my jeans will just fly off like tear-away pants?”

“Actually, most women tell me I don’t even need to smile. One look at me and they’re as naked as the day they were born.”

“Oh, how charming.”

He winks at me. “It’s a gift, really.”

Nerves wring my stomach, and heat spreads through me like a well-trained wildfire. I have no doubt in my mind that this guy has a roster full of ladies. Hell, his Friday nights probably consist of orgies galore.

“Well, your gift isn’t needed here. I’m doing perfectly fine, thank you.” I gesture to the accumulation of empty shot glasses stacked near me.

A lie. A lie that tastes worse than the bite of tequila.

He turns to face me, outstretching one arm against the bar counter, boxing me in from making a quick getaway. “Who says I was flirting with you?” he quips, spying the motion my tongue makes as it flicks out over my bottom lip.

There’s something in the way he’s staring at me—something that puts my entire body on high alert, and something that has my vagina rubbing her nonexistent hands together in the belief that she’s about to get some tonight. Which, she’s not.

A retort struggles to climb up my esophagus.

He leans in just a smidge, enough for his minty breath to feather over my face. “If I was flirting with you, you’d know.”

Heel, girl!

I steer my head away to hide the growing blush on my cheeks. Would I mind this mystery guy taking me in the bathroom and bending me over the sink? No. Do I think there’s a good chance of that happening tonight? Definitely not.

“So, what’s the real reason you’re here?” he finally asks, and the pain of the night returns.

I’ve found that when people ask how you’re doing, a lot of times they don’t really care how you answer. They only ask to be polite.

So I do the stupid thing and answer him truthfully, because I’m never going to see him again, and I need to get this weight off my chest before I shatter into a million pieces.

Poor guy. I’m not even giving him a chance to run.

Tears slather my cheeks with a warm wetness that intermingles with the spoiled air. “My brother. He, um, died seven years ago. His name was Roden. He was dealing with a lot mentally, and I didn’t get him the help he needed.”

I don’t bother looking over, nor do I bother with wiping the snot on my face. I don’t tell many people about what happened to Roden. One, I don’t like to relive it. Two, it’s not my story to tell. When my grandmother on my mother’s side passed away, the kids in elementary school only said one thing to me, and that was “I’m sorry.” I get it. I mean, there’s really no perfect way to respond to that.

But “sorry” is an empty word. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a placeholder that people use because they could not possibly imagine what it’s like to lose a best friend, a platonic soulmate, or the only other person in the universe who understands you. It was me and Roden against the world—against my parents. So color me surprised when the first word out of this stranger’s mouth isn’t the S-word.

“My mother died of cancer when I was eight.”

Are we sharing sob stories with each other? I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. Shit, I can’t say the S-word now.

“She was my best friend. She was also the best person I’ve ever met. She was caring and kind, and it was hard seeing her grow sicker. I wish I could’ve given her the life that she gave me. And I know we’re strangers, but I’m all too familiar with that guilt you’re describing—that feeling that it should’ve been you instead.”

“It feels like you’re rubbing it in their face by being alive…like you’re disrespecting them by moving on. I always feel guilty when I’m happy, because I know Roden wasn’t for the majority of his life.”

“That’s valid, and even though I didn’t know your brother, I think he’d want you to live your life and be happy.”

He orders a shot for himself and downs it, but given his size, I don’t think it’s gonna do anything for him.

I blow a rebellious curl out of my eyes and nod, wanting to leave the hotseat as soon as possible.

“Is your dad in the picture?” I inquire.

A tight breath hurls out of him, his upper body tensing. “No. Richard, or more suitably, Dick, is the bane of my existence. Let’s just say he won’t be winning any Father of the Year awards. What about your dad?” he asks.

“I’m pretty much in the same boat as you. My dad is a misogynistic piece of shit. And my mom, well, she’s emotionally MIA. They were never there for my brother. I was the only support he had.”

I stave the emotion fogging up my eyes. I don’t want to get into the gritty details, so I pivot the conversation back to him. “Do you have any siblings?”

His mouth rights itself into a smile. “I have a sister named Faye. She’s on the other side of the country right now going to college at UPenn. She’s smart, hardworking, and a way better person than I’ll ever be. She’s studying early childhood education so that when she graduates, she can work with kids.”

“Wow. She sounds amazing,” I admit in awe, running my finger along the rim of my empty shot glass.

“She really is.”

My teeth touch as the tiny flutters stampeding through me metamorphosize into eagle-sized butterflies. “I don’t think you’re right, though. About being a bad person,” I add meekly.

His eyebrows bounce up. “I didn’t say I was a bad person.”

“It was implied.”

“Uh-huh. And how do you know I’m not a bad person?”

“I don’t know. I guess…I just get this feeling.”

He chuckles, and it’s an addicting symphony in my ears. It’s what I imagine heaven sounds like if it could be bottled and brought down to Earth.

“Do you live nearby? Maybe I should take you home,” he offers, splaying the back of his hand to my forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little flushed.”

If I was in my right mind, I’d never agree to go to a second location with a stranger. But I’m not in my right mind. Hell, if the world has plans for me to get murdered tonight, then so be it.

The alcohol is starting to curdle in my stomach, and I can taste bile bleeding into my throat.

“I live a few blocks away,” I reply, nearly tumbling face-first into his lap when I try to push myself out of my seat. He steadies me by the waist, and sparks crackle over my skin from his touch.

“Can you walk?” he rumbles, doing his best not tighten his grip too much. His hands cover a large portion of my sides, with his extended thumb brushing the underwire of my bra. I’m half-aware that he’s close to touching my tits right now, and so is he, because he’s averting his eyes.

I nod, apparently having reverted to my cavewoman vocabulary. Without another word, Mystery Guy is sweeping me out of the doors of the bar.