Chapter Six: Archer

Chapter Six

Archer

“I’ll call you when I get home.” Quinn slides her hands up my back. She’s already pressed up against my chest, but I pull her in even tighter. I knew her leaving would be hard, but I didn’t expect it to be as hard as it is. This long distance thing fucking sucks, and is made worse with her being pregnant.

Not only do I miss her so much it hurts, I hate leaving her alone to deal with the symptoms brought on by our baby. I want to be there for her, bringing her water after she gets sick in the morning, running out to get whatever food she’s craving, and helping her with just everyday living since I know she’s exhausted.

Having her here with me the last few days felt so natural. We’re supposed to be together, and it’s crazy to think I was right all those years ago when I first saw her. I wanted her then solely based on her appearance, but the more I got to know her, the more she worked her way into my heart.

I spent years denying it. If I had said something back then, after she turned eighteen of course, would something have happened? Would we be married with children already? Or is it presumptuous to assume Quinn would even have wanted me back then?

Pressing my forehead against hers, I close my eyes for a beat, wishing we were back in my bed. “Hopefully you can sleep on the plane.”

“I’ve never been able to sleep on planes. Or in cars. I’m jealous of anyone who can,” she says with a laugh. “At least it’s a short flight.”

“True.” We’re at the airport, and she has to get on the plane in fifteen minutes.

“I don’t want to go,” she says softly, turning her head up to kiss me.

“I wish you didn’t have to.” There’s so much unsaid right now, and bringing it up might sour our otherwise passionate departure. She shouldn’t have to leave. We kiss again, and I walk her farther into the airport. We’re at a smaller one, full of private jets owned by rich businessmen. Quinn, wearing pink leggings, an oversized t-shirt, and pulling a Chewbacca suitcase, looks out of place, but she’s every bit as smart, successful, and well-off as anyone in here.

“And I’ll let you know as soon as I find out about that blood work from my OB,” she says, slowing her gait. We’re nearing the hangar, and her departure is nearing. “Hopefully I can get it as soon as possible. I really want to know what we’re having.”

“Me too.”

“And then we can start talking about names. It’s not too early to get some lists going.”

I smile. The more we talk about the baby like this, the more I feel like we’re a family. “I’d like that.”

We’re by the plane now, and the pilot is waiting. We kiss again, and I have to practically peel myself off Quinn so she can get in the plane and head home. I wave and go back to my car, feeling like a part of me left along with her.

And I think it actually did. Quinn has had part of my heart for years.

*

Someone knocks on the door, bringing me out of the dream I was having. About Quinn, not surprisingly. I run my hand over my face and sit up. I dozed off on the couch after getting back from the airport. My parents are coming over for dinner, but they shouldn’t be here for another hour and a half.

If they found Bobby, they’d call. Unless they found him at the morgue and are coming to tell me he finally overdosed, that his abused body couldn’t take it any longer. My stomach knots up and my chest tightens. I can’t fucking stand Bobby, but he’s my brother. I want him to get better. I want him to be an uncle to my child and be in our lives again.

I’m a doctor. A realist. People like Bobby don’t recover just because their loved ones want them to. Getting up, I go to the door. Thinking it’s my parents, I open it without looking. It’s not my parents.

It’s Bobby.

My fingers curl into fists. Anger surges through me, and I grab Bobby by the collar and yank him inside.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand as Bobby staggers, trying to catch his balance. All I can think about is my fist hitting his face. He holds up his hands, and I notice the scratches on his knuckles.

And the bruises on his face.

Someone already beat the shit out of him, and as angry as I am for him hurting Quinn, a small voice in the back of my mind reminds me he’s sick. Addiction is a disease. I lower my fist, still pissed as fuck.

“What are you doing here?” I repeat through gritted teeth.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I let out a snort of laughter. Bobby has apologized a hundred times. Half of those times he doesn’t remember saying he’s sorry, and the other half were meaningless words said in hopes we’d be stupid enough to think he was better so he could get more booze or drugs.

“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

I close the door and round on Bobby. “How do you know she’s pregnant?”

Bobby twitches. “She put her hands over her stomach.” He brings his hands in, fingers trembling. He’s coming down from whatever he took. I need to take him to the hospital and get him checked out. Withdrawal can be dangerous.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s mine,” I snap, then realize all Bobby knows is some girl answered the door wearing a Duke University shirt. Putting two and two together leads you to the conclusion Quinn is my pregnant girlfriend, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Did you tell Mom?”

“Yeah. I did this morning. They’re here in Indy looking for you, you know.”

Bobby smiles. His teeth are decaying, which is a fucking shame. We used to look a lot alike. Now he looks like a cleaned-up model on a ‘many faces of meth’ poster. “Was she excited? Mom’s always loved babies.”

“Yeah. She was pretty excited.”

Bobby swallows hard, still not sure if I’m going to clock him in the jaw or not. “You didn’t get hitched, did you? I’ve been clean long enough I think I’d remember.” He’s trying to be funny, and while he almost is, his words just make me sad.

“No, we didn’t. So yes, before you ask, this baby wasn’t planned.”

Bobby shrugs. “The good things in life never are.”

“I suppose so.”

“Who’s the chick? She’s pretty, but you always did have good-looking girls on your arm.”

I ignore the subtle insult. “Her name is Quinn.”

“You two been together long?”

“We’ve known each other a long time but didn’t start dating until recently.”

Bobby cocks an eyebrow. “Until you got her pregnant, you mean?”

“Pretty much.” Other than Sam, no one knows the nature of Quinn’s and my relationship. 

Bobby laughs. “And I thought you were the smart one. How long have you known her?”

“Do you remember Dean Dawson?”

He blinks, face twitching as he tries to think. I wonder what a scan of his brain would look like. He’s done considerable damage, I’m sure.

“Your roommate in college?”

“Yeah.”

Bobby nods. “You spent a lot of time there. Mom and Dad talk about the Dawsons like they’re the fucking Kardashians.”

I laugh. “They’re much better.”

“They sound like good people.”

“They are. All of them.” I can’t find fault in any of the Dawsons, not even Logan and Owen, whose main reason for opening a bar was to have one-night stands with female patrons.

“Dean’s okay with you dating his sister?” His eyes widen, and he holds up his hand. “Fucking fuck. You knocked up your best friend’s little sister,” he says with a laugh.

I bring my hand to the back of my neck, laughing. “No, he’s not okay with it at all.” And in that moment, it hits me hard right in the chest how much I miss my brother. We were close once. I looked up to Bobby. He was everything an older brother should have been. And then he wasn’t, and suddenly I didn’t matter anymore.

Fuck, I wish things were different. It’s weird to think about, actually. Sitting down with a beer, talking to my brother about how dramatic and stupid Dean is being. Confessing how I’m upset over losing a friend but even angrier about how Dean’s childish behavior is upsetting Quinn.

I’d tell him how I’ve had the hots for Quinn since the first time I saw her when she was only fourteen but looked much older in that tight black dress she was wearing. Fifteen years of friendship and brotherhood is gone, and we’ll never get it back. And I wish with all my heart Bobby could recover. That he could go to rehab and stick with it.

But he hasn’t, and he won’t.

There’s a good chance he won’t even remember this conversation in the morning.

“Dean’s pissed at me for hooking up with his sister and pissed at Quinn for hooking up with me. He’s getting married two days before Quinn is due.”

Bobby’s eyes widen. “Man, that’s fucked up,” he says and bursts into laughter. I look at him hard for a few seconds, and then the knot in my chest loosens. “What about the rest of them? They think they’re better than everyone, don’t they?”

And the knot tightens back up. “No. They don’t. They—” I stop. I don’t owe Bobby an explanation. He’s not going to change. I’m never going to get my big brother back, and I’ve already accepted it. Sighing, I turn away to get my phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Mom and Dad are looking for you.”

“I’m not a baby,” he rushes out and I work hard to bite my tongue. “Can’t we hang out? Catch up? Look at you, little bro! You’re a motherfucking doctor with a baby on the way.” He looks around, almost as if he’s realizing where he is for the first time. “Where is your baby mama?”

“Don’t call her that. And she’s at home.”

“Fuck. You weren’t kidding when you said you just started dating, huh?”

I get my phone from the coffee table and sit on the couch. Bobby starts to walk forward, but I hold out my hand. “Take off your shoes. And your socks. Actually, hang on.”

I hurry down the hall and grab a pair of socks from my drawer and a sheet from the closet. Call me paranoid, but the time Bobby brought home bed bugs is still seared into my memory. He’s still standing in the small foyer when I get back, looking around the apartment like he’s trying to figure out where he is.

“Bobby?” I extend the socks. Still not sure of his surroundings, Bobby takes the socks from me and puts them on. Our roles have reversed, and he’s not the older brother looking out for me anymore.

I spread the sheet on the couch and motion to it. “You should sit. Get something to eat. I need to call Mom and let her know you’re okay.” ‘Okay’ is a relative term here.

“You always were a buzz kill, doctor,” he spits as an insult.

“I’m always looking out for you.”

“Are you, Arch? Are you looking out for me?” He wobbles his way to the couch and plops down. I text Mom, letting her know Bobby showed up and is alive.

“I shouldn’t have to.” I sit on the armchair across from him. I don’t trust my brother at all. He might mean well but will end up leaving with anything he deems valuable, desperate to sell whatever he can for drug money. “What the hell happened to you, Bobby?”

“You,” he sneers.

“Me?” I huff, leaning back.

“Yeah. Do you know what it’s like living in your shadow? Mom’s always bragging to anyone who’ll listen about her son the surgeon. It’s fucking sickening.”

“You started using before I even graduated high school, so don’t even try to put this on me.”

“You’ve always tried to one-up me,” he goes on. “And now all I hear about is my son the surgeon,” he says in a high-pitched voice, imitating Mom.

I think of Quinn’s pretty face. Of the sound of our baby’s rapid heartbeat. Stay calm…stay calm…stay calm…He’s sick. It’s not right to take it out on him. But, fuck, it’d feel so good to let loose. To tell him how I really feel while throwing a few punches.

I missed senior prom.

Mom and Dad almost didn’t make it to my pre-med graduation.

They were out of town and out of touch when I started my residency.

I didn’t tell them about my child because they were busy dealing with his shit.

He. Hurt. Quinn.

“It’s not my fault you pissed away your future. I worked my ass off and went to med school.”

“You think I wouldn’t like to be a doctor? I could do it, you know. If I really wanted to I could,” he rants. “But I’m not a sell-out like you. I stand up for what I think is right, and the healthcare system in our country is bullshit. I refuse to be part of it.”

“Okay,” I say with a nod. I can’t disagree about our healthcare system needing work, but I’m not even going to get into it with him. Bobby becomes the world’s greatest debater when he’s drunk or high.

Mom replies to my text, saying she and Dad are on their way.

“You think I’m a loser, don’t you?”

I look at Bobby and the anger turns into pity. “No, Bobby, I don’t. I think you’re sick and need help.”

“I don’t fucking need help!” He stands up, eyes getting more and more bloodshot. I let out my breath, wishing I were back in Chicago with Quinn. Hell, I’d even take Eastwood over this. Dealing with Dean and his petty drama would be a welcome change.

“Okay,” I say again, knowing there’s no reason to go round and round with Bobby. He’s under the influence of something, and as it wears off, he’s losing whatever small touch with reality he has. “Sit down.” I motion to the couch. When it comes to Bobby, I can either be angry and pissed or disconnected. It’s how I deal, and I know it’s not healthy.

I just don’t see the point in investing more.

“Are you hungry?” I continue. “I have leftover tacos in the fridge.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He sinks back down, shoulders twitching up and down. Hurrying into the kitchen, I take Quinn’s leftovers that she couldn’t finish and pop them in the microwave. I move back, needing to keep Bobby in my line of sight.

He leans back on the couch, and I can’t tell if he’s twitching or shivering. The microwave beeps, and I grab the tacos and go back to the living room. Bobby looks at the plastic take-out container and narrows his eyes.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, still holding out the tacos.

“Who the fuck doesn’t eat their tacos from a restaurant?”

I wish I could laugh. “Quinn.” Saying her name is like taking a pill, and I instantly relax. “She’s been having a lot of morning sickness.”

“Oh yeah. You fucked her and got her pregnant.”

“Don’t talk like that. She’s the mother of my child and I love her.” The words escape me before I have a chance to think about them.

But they’re true.

I love Quinn.

“Sorry, dude.” Bobby holds up his hands, shaking his head, and then goes back to the taco, eating as if it’s his first meal in days. It probably is. “Didn’t realize this shit was serious.”

“It is. She’s having my baby.”

“But she’s not here.”

Leave it to my junkie brother to get under my skin. I run my hand over my face and stand, wondering if I should hide all the booze in this place before Bobby finds it. Watching the minutes crawl by, I sit back, waiting for Mom and Dad to get here and deal with their firstborn.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I came to apologize,” Bobby says with his mouth full, looking at me as if I asked what color the sky is.

“Before then. When you threw the door open, hurt Quinn, and almost hurt my baby.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” He licks taco grease from his fingers.

“No.”

Picking up Quinn’s half-eaten burrito, he meets my gaze. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to go on. He’s lying, and it’s painfully obvious. He twitches again, and sweat breaks out along his forehead. Something isn’t right.

“Hey,” I say and sit up. “Stop eating.”

“Fuck you.” He stuffs the food in his mouth. Dammit. It’s frustrating enough to deal with patients who eat before surgery. The last thing I need is for him to start seizing with a mouthful of Mexican food.

“No, really. Stop.”

He shoves the rest of the food in his mouth just to prove a point. I stiffen, trying not to let myself think of the dangers of throwing up while unconscious. Mom and Dad aren’t far, but time is crawling. I wait for what feels like an hour and check the time on my phone again. It’s been two minutes.

Bobby finishes the food and sets the empty container on the coffee table. He leans back, brows furrowing, and looks at me.

“I am sorry, Arch. I’ve been a shitty brother.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “You have.”

“It’s just…it’s so hard, you know?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I don’t.”

He rubs his forehead, becoming agitated. “I can’t explain it. It’s just there. Inside. Deep inside.”

Shaking my head, I exhale. I wish I could understand what he means. Maybe I could help him.

“Forget it,” he says and leans back, hands twitching even more. Then he brings his hand to his chest, pressing hard.

“You need to go to the hospital.” I stand, phone in hand.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re going through withdrawal.”

“Stop acting like you know everything because you’re a fucking doctor.”

“I don’t know everything,” I say. “But I do know what withdrawal looks like.” I didn’t learn that in med school though. I’ve seen it enough times firsthand. “Come on. I’ll take you.” I extend a hand to help him up.

“No.” He stands and swats my hand away. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he’s not fine. The color drains from his face and he staggers back, falling to the floor.