Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

Uncle Ryke pulses the blender. “Toradol should fucking help, but you should talk to your doctor first.” Green liquid churns in the glass.

I don’t have a primary care physician, and that unsaid thing noticeably tenses Farrow beside me. He closes the blackberry container.

Toradol. “Is that a narcotic?” I ask.

“No,” Ryke says and pours his shake into a to-go thermos.

“He’s on some decently strong NSAIDs,” Farrow answers.

“Then stop moving around,” my dad snaps at me, his voice sharp and harsh. “You shouldn’t even be here.” He points at the door. “Bed. Rest—”

“I have things to do,” I interject. Which…is a lie. I have nothing to do now that I don’t have a job, but I can’t just lounge.

I want to move.

To swim.

To run.

And I have an ultra marathon to train for—I promised Sullivan that I’d race with her in Chile. I’m not missing it for anything. Not even a broken collarbone. And that—that is the last thing I need to surface in front of my dad and uncle. They’ll bombard me as soon as the word ultra leaves my mouth.

My dad’s brows scrunch at me. “Did your mom and I not teach you the art of being a couch potato? Jesus Christ, I’ve truly failed as a parent.”

Ryke almost laughs, but he turns more to me. This time, I don’t look away. And he tells me, “You’ve got time to rehab. Your dad is right. With these first few fucking weeks, you need to take it easy.”

I freeze even more than I already am. Ryke is offering advice like this is just another day of my life. Not the day after his daughter…I shake my head, confused.

Almost wishing he hated me. “You’re not upset?” I ask.

His brows furrow. “Upset?”

Farrow wraps an arm around my side. He knows. He knows that I’m beating myself up about this, and I can’t help it. I can’t stop the fucking guilt from attacking me.

“Winona was in that car with us,” I tell him. “She has a gash—”

“It’ll fucking heal,” Ryke says, scowling hard at me. Now he’s pissed.

“It’ll scar—”

“Don’t do this to yourself, bud,” my dad interjects.

Ryke adds, “You couldn’t have protected her from a car crash. That’s not on you. Don’t ever put that fucking weight on yourself.”

I breathe.

Farrow watches my expression, and I think he knew I needed them. He’s been urging me to see Ryke, maybe because my uncle is the only one who could come close to absolving me.

But I’ll always wonder if we could’ve prevented the crash someway. Somehow. Stayed in the alley, waited out the storm. If Charlie or Farrow had driven from the get-go. If we pulled over sooner. Anything, anything different and maybe they’d be okay.

It takes a lot of energy just to leave Farrow in the kitchen with my uncle and dad. He’d tell you he can handle the probing questions and sharp sarcasm from my dad, but I’d much rather be there to take half the heat.

Still, I have a goal today.

One that has to be done alone.

Walking down the second-floor hallway, I come to a stop at a door-less room. My fifteen-year-old rapidly growing brother is sprawled on his bed. He’s already six-foot-one, and the day before the auction, he texted me a selfie of pieces of toilet paper stuck to his shaving nicks. His message: Razor vs. Man.

He’s growing up, and he’s going to fuck-up. And as his older brother, I’m trying to figure out how to minimize that damage and protect him.

I have to.

In his bedroom, Xander has on bulky headphones and flips through a thick fantasy novel.

I knock on the doorframe.

He glances up and slides his headphones to his neck. His straight brown hair is tucked behind his ears. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming over.” His amber eyes light up like he’s genuinely happy to see me.

My stomach twists because the conversation I’m about to have—it’s not going to be pleasant. And I’ve been sprinting around inside my head, trying to determine the best way to phrase this stuff without it sounding accusatory.

But it is an accusation, any way I turn it. He did something wrong…he’s doing something wrong.

Before I say anything, I walk further into his room. Distracted at the sparkling clean area. No heaps of clothes on the floor. No soda cans stuffed under his bed or empty pizza boxes littering the ground. It hasn’t looked like this in months.

The metal of his life-sized armored knight seems polished. I look at my little brother. “Did mom cave and clean your room for you?”

Xander snorts. “No way,” he says. “She said if I didn’t clean it, I’d have to do inventory at Superheroes & Scones.” He shuts his paperback. “I think…I really scared her last time. She’s been super strict again.”

Last time.

Where he locked his door and retreated to a low point that scared pretty much all of us. It’s hard to touch that memory. The one where I was on tour and received the phone call from Kinney.

But I’d return to that place if he needs me to.

I roll out his desk chair near his bed and take a seat. “You wanna talk about it, Summers?” I ask him.

He considers for a long moment, and then he shakes his head. “Not really. I’ve already been through it about fifteen times with Dr. Kora. You know she told Mom and Dad that if she didn’t see improvement, she’s going to recommend me going to this inpatient treatment center for depression and anxiety.”

I watch him fan the pages of his book. I didn’t know about the inpatient center, but I’m not surprised that I wasn’t told until now. It’s not something my parents would share with me, and they’d let Xander tell whoever he wanted in his own time.

“But,” he continues. “There’s a zero percent chance I’m going. Check this out.” He rises off his bed and sidles to the desk.

I roll my chair backwards, out of the way so he can bend down and slide open a bottom drawer.

Xander pulls out a folded poster board. “Don’t laugh, it’s rough.”

“I’m not going to laugh,” I say seriously. In all honesty, this is the most excited I’ve seen my brother in years. I don’t know what’s changed. I don’t know if it’ll be a blip, but I’m overwhelmed for him because I recognize how big this is, even if it’s just today. An hour. A moment. It’s something.

He unfolds the poster board. It’s a collage of different medieval and fantasy-inspired costumes and fabrics.

“Mom and Dad helped,” he explains. “I’ve already figured out the LARPing schedule for this summer, and Mom says that if I want to wear prosthetics to look more elf-like I can. That way, you know, less chances for being recognized.”

He’s getting back into Live Action Role-Playing.

It’s huge.

He stopped a while ago, said he just didn’t enjoy it anymore. Falling out of love with things is something he does a lot. But LARPing was so good for him, got him out of the house.

I smile at the costume sketches that resemble the elves and hobbits from Lord of the Rings. “This is awesome, man.” I point out a couple drawings and fabrics, imagining my brother dressed up and out in the world. Doing something he loves. “Which one’s your favorite?”

When I look back at him, he almost smiles. “This one.” He rubs a glassy eye roughly with the heel of his palm, and then points to the elf sketch. “But I’m thinking of going with the red fabric. I’m not that into light blue.”

While we discuss his costume and LARPing, a sinking dread starts washing over me. And by the time he stuffs the poster into the desk, pressure nearly crushes my shoulders.

Ho

w the fuck am I supposed to bring up the pills?

Xander is happy.

Really goddamn happy. And maybe you don’t understand. Maybe you couldn’t, but my brother is literally glowing right now. He looks like he found a bottle of hope and chugged that shit down.

I don’t know how long that’ll last, and I’m so conflicted on what to do. I’m afraid of bulldozing this situation and coming in swinging. I need to think about this. Because on one hand, Xander needs his pills and this other guy shouldn’t be taking another person’s medication. On the other hand, Xander is doing better than okay right now, and I can’t rip him apart.

Tough love is easy for me, but not at this cost.

Biding my time, I reach for his Game of Thrones Daenerys Targaryen figurine on his desk. “What prompted this newfound love of LARPing again?” I ask.

Xander plops back onto his bed. “Nothing really. It just sounded fun again.” He pauses and then adds, “I know you used to go with me, but I think maybe I should do it on my own this time. No family. Like, I love you guys, but you just make it harder sometimes to…blend.” He gestures to me.

I’ve been front-page news lately. Going public with Farrow cranked the spotlight on me, and it sucks that I can’t experience this with my brother because of the media attention but I want him to be comfortable.

I nod. “I get it.”

“Not that I can blend that well on my own.” Hair falls into his eyes and he brushes it back. “Yesterday, there was a Tumblr debate about my shampoo preferences because Mom was photographed buying men’s shampoo at a salon. I was almost tempted to just shave my head.” He touches his chest. “But then I thought—do I really need more teenage and preteen girls now having an opinion about my new hairstyle?”

I’m surprised that he saw any gossip. He’s not supposed to search for that bullshit. “How’d you hear about that?”

“It was on my dash,” he rolls eyes. “I was just searching for some Shannara gifs.” He folds his headphones and zips them up into a case. “You wanna know what else is all over my dash? Gifs of you and your boyfriend.”