Chapter Nine

The pounding in Nate's head woke him before the sunlight did.

He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow.

Every heartbeat felt like a hammer striking the inside of his skull.

His mouth was dry.

His stomach churned.

He'd made it back to the Elsher house sometime after one in the morning, but the details were hazy.

He remembered the bar.

Three... maybe four whiskeys.

A conversation with an old man who'd lost his wife.

Driving home.

After that...

Nothing.

He rolled onto his back and immediately regretted it as the room spun.

"Fantastic," he muttered hoarsely.

"Doctor of the Year."

The irony wasn't lost on him.

A future physician who knew exactly what alcohol did to the body, yet kept poisoning his own.

He closed his eyes again.

Maybe if he stayed perfectly still...

His brain would stop trying to escape through his temples.

----------------------

Downstairs, the house was already awake.

Sarah hummed softly as she folded laundry in the living room.

Micah had to leave early for the rehabilitation clinic.

Max was nowhere to be seen.

"Has Nate come down yet?" Sarah asked as Micah slipped on his shoes by the front door.

"He got in late."

"I heard."

"I'll check on him after work."

Sarah nodded.

"Don't push."

"I wasn't planning to."

"You always plan not to."

Micah smiled sheepishly.

"...Fair."

He grabbed his bag and headed out.

----------------------

Upstairs...

Max opened his bedroom door just enough to peek into the hallway.

Empty.

Good.

He'd managed to avoid everyone since breakfast.

Exactly how he liked it.

He padded quietly toward the bathroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

As he passed the guest room, he noticed the door was slightly open.

He frowned.

Curiosity won.

Just for a second.

He glanced inside.

Nate was asleep.

Or at least...

Trying to be.

He lay sprawled across the bed, one forearm covering his eyes, breathing unevenly.

There was an empty glass of water on the bedside table.

His complexion looked awful.

Max stared longer than he intended.

He remembered the smell of alcohol when Nate came home.

He remembered the bloodshot eyes.

The unsteady footsteps.

The silence.

Without warning, a memory surfaced.

He was nine years old.

He'd caught a nasty flu and refused to take his medicine because it tasted terrible.

Nate had sat beside his bed for nearly an hour, making ridiculous faces and telling awful pirate jokes until Max laughed hard enough to swallow the spoonful of medicine.

"See?" Nate had grinned.

"Doctors are basically magicians."

Max had believed him.

Back then...

Nate had seemed capable of fixing anything.

Now he couldn't even fix himself.

Max looked away.

Why was he thinking about that now?

He shook his head and continued toward the bathroom.

----------------------

Twenty minutes later, Max stood in the kitchen filling a glass with water.

Sarah looked up from the sink.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She smiled knowingly.

"You always say that."

He shrugged.

"It's true."

She raised an eyebrow but let it go.

As Max opened one of the cupboards, his eyes landed on a box of aspirin.

He hesitated.

His hand hovered over it.

Then, almost against his own will, he picked it up.

Sarah noticed.

"Headache?"

"...Something like that."

She didn't question him.

----------------------

The hallway was still quiet.

Max glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.

Then he stepped into the guest room.

Nate hadn't moved.

His breathing was slow and heavy.

The curtains were half-open, letting thin strips of sunlight stretch across the bed.

Max quietly placed the aspirin beside the empty glass.

He picked up the glass.

Walked to the bathroom.

Filled it with fresh water.

Returned.

Set it back down.

For several seconds, he simply stood there.

Nate looked... older.

Not in years.

In exhaustion.

There were dark circles beneath his eyes.

A healing bruise along his jaw from the bar fight.

His shoulders, usually squared with confidence, seemed weighed down even in sleep.

Max frowned.

He'd never seen Nate like this.

Not once.

The Nate he remembered had always been smiling.

Laughing.

Studying.

Playing football with Micah in the backyard.

Teaching Max how to throw a proper punch without hurting his wrist.

Somewhere along the way...

That version of Nate had disappeared.

Max quietly turned to leave.

Halfway to the door—

"Ngh..."

Nate shifted beneath the blankets.

Max froze.

Nate's eyes fluttered open.

For one confused moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Nate noticed the glass.

The aspirin.

He looked back at Max.

"You..."

Max shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets.

"It was on the counter."

Nate blinked.

"You didn't have to."

"I know."

Silence.

Neither seemed to know what came next.

Finally Max shrugged.

"Hangovers are annoying."

Nate almost laughed.

"They are."

Another awkward silence.

Then Max turned toward the hallway.

"Don't read into it."

"I wasn't planning to."

"I still think you're an asshole."

Nate nodded once.

"Fair enough."

Max disappeared before either of them could say anything else.

----------------------

Later that afternoon...

Nate sat alone on the porch swing with the glass of water in one hand.

The aspirin bottle rested beside him.

He rolled it slowly between his palms.

Micah stepped outside carrying two mugs of coffee.

"You look less dead."

"I feel... marginally less dead."

Micah handed him a mug before noticing the aspirin.

"I didn't leave that."

"I know."

Sarah walked out a moment later.

"I didn't either."

The three of them looked at one another.

Realization dawned simultaneously.

Micah smiled to himself.

"Well..."

"What?" Nate asked.

"I think my little brother just committed his first random act of kindness."

Nate looked down at the bottle again.

He remembered the brief exchange.

"Don't read into it."

He smiled despite himself.

"I'm not."

But as he stared across the quiet backyard, he couldn't stop thinking about the boy upstairs.

Maybe Max didn't hate him quite as much as he wanted everyone to believe.

And upstairs, sitting on the floor of his bedroom with his back against the bed, Max stared out his window and silently wondered why helping Nate had felt... right.

He didn't have an answer.

Neither of them did.

But somewhere beneath the resentment, the grief, and the misunderstandings, the armor each of them had built around their heart had chipped—if only by the smallest of cracks.