The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters), Sheehan-Miles, Charles [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

I closed my eyes and suppressed a laugh. “God, you’re an asshole, Paris.”

So I grabbed the coffee pot, and Dylan got four mugs, and we moved into the living room. Alex was sitting next to Carrie on the couch, and she was showing Carrie ... what the hell was that? Patterns? I slumped into one of the chairs, and poured myself a cup.

“They’re talking bridesmaid dresses,” Dylan said. “Thank God you woke up, I thought I was going to die of boredom.”

A throw pillow went flying across the room from Alex and hit Dylan in the head. He chuckled.

I eyed Carrie, and asked Dylan, “How come your girl just throws pillows?”

Carrie froze in place, and gave a bark-like laugh, then said, “I’ll get you for that, Ray Sherman.”

And somehow it was okay. We didn’t need a whole lot of talk and psychobabble. Carrie did just the right thing. She reminded me—with one simple visit from my best friend and the girl he loved—of why it all mattered.

Carrie and Alex went back to looking at patterns or colors or dresses or whatever the hell it was, and Dylan waved me toward the porch. Carefully, we navigated through the broken door and stood at the edge of the porch clutching our coffee cups. Mid-morning Saturday traffic crowded Wisconsin Avenue far below us. I lit a cigarette, then sipped my coffee and soaked in the sunshine.

“When did you guys get in?”

“We took an overnighter, got into Union Station at 5 am.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So ... I take it Carrie called you last night after I fell to pieces?”

Dylan nodded.

“That’s not something I do often,” I said.

“I know it, Ray. But I’m worried about you. You’re going through the shit right now.”

I shrugged. “Not much to be done for it. But thank you for coming. I don’t know why but ... it makes a difference. A big one.”

He grinned. “It wasn’t hard to convince Alex. She wanted to corner Carrie about the wedding anyway. Apparently we’re way behind schedule on planning.”

“You still got, what, a few weeks?” I asked. “What’s to plan? You get some clothes, show up at the church, bam, you’re married.”

Dylan chuckled. “It’s more like a military operation, Ray. Lot of moving parts.”

He looked out at the sunshine. “Alex wants to go picnic on the Mall today.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, let’s do it, it’ll be fun.”

“She says she thinks you and Carrie are close to getting engaged. You thinking about it?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, we’ve talked about it. A lot. But ... I can’t really formally ask her. Not when I’m about to go to prison.”

He muttered a curse then lit another cigarette. “You aren’t going to prison.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m glad I’ve got you here to tell me these things, Paris. But my lawyer says it might be otherwise.”

He shook his head and said, “Well, I’ll visit you if you do.”

“Asshole.”

He grinned. “Seriously, Ray. You need anything, just call me. I mean it. Anything at all. All right?”

I clapped my hand on his shoulder and said, “I will.”

I’ve never been the type to brood over the little things. In high school I didn’t get into the silly give and take of relationships where you wondered over every little thing. None of this, She called five minutes late, oh God she hates me, for me. I’m straightforward. I do what has to be done, I take people at face value, and I don’t indulge much in regrets or worries or anxiety. I like to think of myself as pretty damn well-adjusted.

But how do you not brood over somebody committing suicide while you’re on the other end of the phone line? How do you not brood over a twelve-year-old kid nicknamed Speedy getting murdered? How do you not brood over it when your platoon sergeant, the guy you admire and respect and look up to for advice, turns around and tries to get you sent to prison to keep himself out?

It was hard for me to get my brain around all of it. And to be honest, it was even harder for me to talk about it. Dylan tended to spill his guts at the drop of his hat. In some ways I’d always admired that about him. But it’s not who I am. I’m not in the habit of confession or introspection. But right now? I needed to be able to dump some of this pressure and pain. The hell of it was I didn’t even know how.

I looked out at the traffic again and said, “I’m not so good at asking for help.”

“Sometimes you have to,” Dylan said. “You’re the one who taught me that.”

I sighed. “Yeah. It’s true. Well ... here’s the deal. I’m scared shitless, friend. I’m scared I’m going to end up in prison. I’m scared I’m going to end up leaving Carrie all alone, and she’s one who would die before actually asking someone else for help. I worry about what will happen with her if I end up going away. She’s so self-sufficient, but ... she’s too self-sufficient. She needs to learn to take some help too, not just give it.”

Dylan looked back inside at the girls. Then he looked at me with a serious face, and said, “Nothing’s going to happen to you. But ... worst case ... we’ll be there for her.”

I nodded, sucking in a breath, and said, “Thanks.”

I can make this whole thing go away (Carrie)

So we got the door repaired, and while we were at it, the mirror in the bathroom. And calling Alexandra and Dylan turned out to be just the right thing to do. We spent a wonderful weekend together, though we had to sneak out of the building through the loading dock in order to go anywhere, because the press was back in force after Martin’s suicide was reported.

Sunday afternoon we saw Alexandra and Dylan off at the train station, and then we took the metro back