Page 6 of Loss and Damages

Dominic

I stumble into Leo’s apartment. I’ve had so much to drink I believe it when I say that I’m going to be okay without him in my life. We didn’t get along and I didn’t correct it, didn’t try to be a better brother. I thought I had time to repair our relationship and didn’t bother to try.

Now my time has run out and the only thing I can think of is how I’ll never get another chance to apologize for the type of person I am. The type of person he hated.

Staggering to the bathroom, I clamp my mouth shut against the vomit threatening to spew up my throat, and I drop in front of the toilet and lift the lid just in time.

I heave until my stomach’s empty, then dry heave some more, my muscles tensing with the effort.

Around the gagging, I struggle to catch a breath.

My stomach stops trembling, and I suck in air that stinks of regurgitated liquor.

The bathroom’s dark except for a weak nightlight, and I’m glad I can’t see what I threw up in the toilet bowl. I flush, use the back of my hand to wipe my mouth, and prop myself up against the shower’s glass door.

My head spins, keeping me thoroughly nauseated, and closing my eyes doesn’t still the room.

A headache feels like it’s going to split my skull in two, and the cool glass does little to alleviate the pain.

I tug at my jacket and pull it off. Grappling with the knot in my tie, I want to give up, but I can’t draw air into my lungs.

Finally I’m able to loosen it enough to yank it over my head.

The floor calls to me, and I lie down in front of Leo’s twin sinks, a nubby rug under my cheek.

I miss my brother.

I’ve been strong all day. For my father, for my mother.

Jimmy and my other cousins. A shoulder to cry on, someone in control who could make decisions, talk to Father Dan, greet the mourners.

Comfort the other pallbearers and hand out programs. I let myself cry now.

For me, for Leo. For the woman who said her quiet goodbyes at his wake.

I sob on Leo’s bathroom floor, alone, having no one to share my grief.

My father will cry holding his mistress tonight.

My mother will weep in the arms of a man I’ve never met.

The keening sobers me up, but just a little. Washing my face helps, and in Leo’s bedroom, I push off my shoes and collapse onto his bed. The bed is made, and the comforter smells freshly laundered.

I roll onto my side, the city’s lights streaking across the walls fighting with the stars bursting behind my eyes.

The party at Jimmy’s restaurant was too much. Too much crying, too many stories. Too much whiskey. Too many memories.

Press crawled around the church like starving rats looking for scraps.

The fucking scavengers. Filming the mourners walking into the church, filming us carrying Leo’s casket to the hearse to be driven to the cemetery.

I know what the reporters say. That the Milano family deserves what we get.

That we court every terrible, horrendous thing that happens to us.

Why should we be punished because we’re smarter, richer? They claim I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and turned it to gold.

If I did that, it was because I worked hard, took risks, and didn’t care what anyone thought.

I should have cared about what Leo thought. Maybe he would still be alive if we’d had the relationship brothers were meant to have.

The inside of my mouth tastes like shit, but I can’t bring myself to crawl off the bed and find a toothbrush to brush my teeth. The room tilts and despite the central air, sweat covers my skin and soaks my clothes.

It isn’t until the sun is rising that my stomach settles enough to allow me to drift to sleep. I keep replaying the funeral over and over again and Father Dan’s words. Leo was too special to leave on this earth and God called him home, where he was meant to be.

Leo was kind, and he was a good man.

I swat the little voice away, the one that niggles at me even in slumber.

It should have been me.

I was too drunk to close the room-darkening blinds, and bright, unrelenting sunlight rouses me. I cover my eyes with my arm and try to block it out. My stomach’s raw, my throat even more so. I threw up a couple more times and my entire body aches.

I’m fucking miserable, a feeling that likely won’t go away anytime soon.

I have to get it together by tomorrow. Monday morning means work.

Sunday Mass is a big, “Fuck no,” despite telling Father Dan I would attend.

I slept through the early morning service, and I’m too sick to try to go to the one that will be starting soon.

What do I care about God and Church? My father takes communion while cheating on my mother.

My mother does the same. Church means nothing to me, and God can go to hell for killing my brother.

There is no comfort in the arms of Jesus Christ. As far as I’m concerned, He’s the cause of my misery.

I roll out of bed and stand under a scalding hot shower.

It doesn’t seem right to use Leo’s apartment, but I can’t bring myself to leave.

Not only do I lack the energy to go back to my penthouse, but the picketers have started protesting in front of my building as well as the office building.

They shout obscenities and throw themselves in front of my car hoping to get hurt and sue me.

One went so far as to try to bash a picketing sign through my window, but he made little headway against the bulletproof glass.

No one would suspect I’d spend time here and last night I was left in peace.

I don’t have a change of clothes, and I pull on a pair of Leo’s sweatpants.

They’re a little tight, I was always more solidly built than my whip-thin brother, but they’ll do.

In the kitchen, I down two full glasses of water and four ibuprofens and put coffee on to brew.

I don’t know if my stomach can handle the acid, but I need the caffeine.

While it drips, I walk around his living room.

His cleaning service is thorough and there’s not a speck of dust anywhere, but it’s also clear he didn’t spend much time here.

His walls are bare and there isn’t one magazine on his coffee table. There aren’t any flowers or plants, and he never had a pet, not a cat that would poke her head out from underneath the bed and beg for breakfast. I never cared where he spent his time. I was too busy and too resentful.

He didn’t put in time at the office, not one second. His desk was always uncluttered, his phone silent. He lived off the money our mother gave him, not a care in the world.

How I’d love to be able to float through life, but fighting to earn my father’s approval has never let me enjoy a single moment.

Now the purchase of the 1100 block will be the one thing that’ll give me that admiration.

After the sale goes through, after the evictions and the razing of the buildings, after construction begins, maybe, maybe, I can rest.

The luxury building on the 1100 block is the biggest, most lucrative project I’ve attempted since I started working with my father. If this doesn’t earn me a coveted slap on the back and a nod of satisfaction, nothing will.

The coffee’s strong and it settles my nerves.

It sloshes around my empty stomach, but there’s nothing in the fridge, not even a piece of stale bread to shove into the toaster.

Still, I sip the miracle liquid, the grounds coming from a small café in Hollow Lake I’ve never heard of.

It’s good. As good as some of the premium roasts I’ve bought, and the thought comes and goes to buy the little café.

I’m not ready to leave the safety of Leo’s apartment.

I don’t feel his presence, he didn’t spend enough time here that his soul would linger within the walls, but it’s still soothing to pad down the hallway to his study and I give my heart time to rest after the emotional forty-eight hours I’ve endured.

It surprises me that his desk’s surface is cluttered with papers and brochures.

The cleaning woman may have been in, but after dusting, she left everything exactly as it was.

I sit in his desk chair and pick up the pamphlet laying on top.

It advertises a little art gallery that offers to sell paintings, sculptures, and other pieces on commission.

The owner is a woman named Jemma Ferrell, but the name doesn’t trigger anything until I flip the pamphlet over and see her picture on the back next to a short biography.

It’s the woman who attended the wake. She’s as gorgeous in the photo as she was in person: bright blue eyes, milky white skin, the reddest lips. Her dark hair is pulled away from her face revealing an elegant neck, a delicate gold necklace, and ample cleavage.

Tapping the edge of the brochure on top of another that highlights a different art gallery, I wonder how he came to meet her and how long they’ve been fucking.

She doesn’t look like someone he normally dated, glitz and glamour like the whores I drag around town.

No, she’s the epitome of the girl next door and I can almost hear the laughter bubbling out of her mouth.

I’d like to shove my cock between her lush lips.

No chance I’d last longer than five seconds.

I stiffen. I can’t touch her. My brother’s shared her bed, and out of respect for his memory, I have to keep my hands off her. I know plenty of women who will screw me for less than a smile. No need to cross the line and fuck my dead brother’s girlfriend just because I can.