Play Along

“Died.”

“Who is Justin?”

“My brother.”

“He died?”

He nods solemnly as he picks up his drink. “Six months ago.”

I grab his hand over the table. “Oh, Stace, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“He was a year older than me.” He smiles sadly as he remembers. “A cop.”

I frown as I listen. “He was always the good kid, did his chores first, looked out for me and Mom.” He sips his drink as he thinks, sadness falling over him. “My dad died in a car accident when we were six and seven, so Justin took on the man of the house role.”

“Did he have a family?” I ask.

He smiles and his face lights up. “Yes, Cindy his wife and Sebastian his son.”

I sit still as I watch him struggle through this conversation. You can learn so much about a person by the way they grieve. A piece of the puzzle clicks into place. The family in the photo were his brother and his family.

“We were always best friends.”

I smile and I can tell the affection he had for his beloved brother.

“Man, we got into some trouble as kids. We rode around on our bikes looking for mischief.” He smiles sadly. “I was the only one who ended up finding it and yet it was he who was taken.”

I frown. “You say that like you feel guilty that he died and you didn’t?”

He nods. “I do.”

We sit for a moment in silence. “How did he die?”

“He got caught in a case at work and wouldn’t let it go.”

I frown.

“I told him.” He shakes his head. “I told him time and time again to let it go, but he wouldn’t.”

His eyes cloud over as he remembers his brother’s death. “He thought he could bring them down and went to a warehouse alone in the middle of the night to talk to an informant.”

I sit still as I imagine the scenario, alone at a cold warehouse in the middle of the night. How terrifying.

“It was a trap. They tied him up and tortured him. Electrocuted him to death.”

My hands fly over my mouth in shock.

His eyes are cold, distant, and he stares into space. I know he is imagining his beloved brother dying alone and in pain.

“Stace,” I whisper. “I am so sorry.”

“We all have our baggage, Rosh.” He sighs sadly as he picks up my hand and re-cups his face with it. I don’t know if my hand on his face is a comfort to him, but it’s definitely a comfort to me. I dust my thumb back and forth over his bottom lip. Our eyes hold each other’s and I feel so stupidly close to this man, it’s crazy.

He shakes his head as if trying to remove the dark thoughts from his mind and raises his glass again. “Another toast.”

I smile broadly and raise my glass to meet his.

“To new beginnings.” Our glasses clink and he widens his eyes. “And non-depressing dates.”