I’m bothered, though, that he couldn’t tell me… especially if, as Harlow said, he knew it when he was a preteen. It calls into question the type of relationship I thought we had before it all went to shit.
It makes it hurt a hundred times worse that he died before things could be patched up between us.
Not that repairing our relationship was something we were actively working on. I know I wasn’t, and Brooks wasn’t making moves either.
But still… I suppose the lesson is, don’t take a fucking day for granted, because you never know what will happen tomorrow. Brooks died before all kinds of things could be rectified, and now I have to live with that regret.
It’s close to ten p.m., and I’ve just finished a movie. Brooks has a built-in, eighty-inch TV in the living room and a huge selection of DVDs that I pawed through before settling on Iron Man. I’ve seen it before and didn’t want something that required too much of my attention. Settled into an incredibly comfortable couch, I was hoping I’d be able to fall asleep.
It never happened because the condo next door is having a party of some sort. I’m guessing the unit’s layout is identical to mine but flipped as it sounds like our living rooms might butt up against each other.
Not sure what’s going on over there. No loud music, but a ton of laughter that while not preventing me from sleeping is grating on my nerves as it’s been going on for a long damn time. I don’t want to live next to people who can’t respect that other people live here as well.
I consider ignoring it and heading to bed. I’ve been sleeping on the second floor as Brooks’s master suite on the first is the one room I’ve yet to explore fully. I’ve avoided it completely, as a matter of fact. It was his personal space. It was private.
He kept the only photo of us together in there, and I don’t think it had anything to do with shame. He didn’t want it where other people could see it because it was more special to him than the others.
That bedroom was also a space where he could be himself, and I’m talking about his sexual orientation. It doesn’t offend or bother me that his bed may have seen things that aren’t my jam—if they made him happy, I’m glad. I don’t want to disrupt anything that might obliterate the last of his presence because then he’ll be gone for good.
But mostly, I don’t want to go in there because I’m afraid the closet will call to me. The place where Harlow said he kept the journals he wanted me to read.
I’m not ready for that. Thus, I’m staying in the guest room for now.
Another round of laughter interrupts my thoughts, and because they were centered around all the confusion my brother has caused in my life recently, a flash of irritation rolls through me. It’s probably time to introduce myself to my neighbors, and by that, they need to know I’d like the noise to be kept down.
I slip on my tennis shoes, pocket my house key, and exit the condo. I turn right and head to my next-door neighbor in unit five.
When I reach the door, the laughter is louder—male and female—and I hear some faint music behind it.
After knocking sharply, I step back, punching my hands down into my jeans pockets.
The talking and laughs don’t subside, but I hear someone opening the door. It swings wide to a blond woman about my age, a smile on her face, but my eyes drop to the large Bernese Mountain Dog standing beside her.
Our eyes connect, and he issues a warning growl. It’s that damn dog, Odin.
The woman—not Harlow—puts her hand on the dog’s head. “Stop being a jerk, Odin.”
Her eyes come back to me, apologetic. “Sorry. He’s usually a sweet dog.”
“He’s yours?” I ask, confused as to how that dog is standing there.
In the condo next to mine.
Before the lady can answer, Harlow appears at her side, and now things are making a bit more sense. Her green eyes take me in, warm with welcome. “Hi, Stone. Happy St. Paddy’s Day.”
“Happy what?” I’m confused again.
The blond woman melts back, pulling Odin with her. Harlow steps up to the threshold. “It’s the seventeenth. St. Patrick’s Day. We’re having a little get-together.”
“We’re? As in…?”
Harlow waves a hand behind her—to whomever is in the unit—and grins. “The residents of this building. We’re all friends and we get together more often than not. St. Paddy’s Day seemed like a good idea. You’re not wearing green, but I’m going to invite you in, anyway.”
“Wait a minute.” I can’t help but scowl because I’m still confused as fuck. “You live in this building?”
“I live in this unit,” she clarifies and then waves her hand, stepping back. “Come in and meet your neighbors.”