“My brother Rory painted those pictures you saw at my place.” His hands shake. “He was only seventeen when he created most of them.”
“Seventeen,” I repeat back. “They’re incredible.”
He nods sullenly. “He was like you. He wanted to be an artist. It was his dream.”
Was...the word that distinguishes promise from loss.
“He died.” His voice quakes. “Suicide.”
I lower my head when the rush of tears hit me. “I’m so sorry.”
I hear his swallow. “He hung himself in the bedroom of my parents’ house in Connecticut.”
“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for your family.”
“We all died in a sense that day.” He reaches for my hand and I grab tightly to him. “My dad disappeared into himself, my brother Draven fought through bitter anger. He still does.”
I start to ask about him, but he squeezes my hand.
“My mom was broken,” he goes on. “Rory was her baby.”
“Losing a child must be devastating,” I offer. “Losing a brother as well.”
He looks at me with tears in his eyes. “We fought that day.”
I struggle to control a sob. It’s guilt. That’s what has wrapped itself so tightly around his heart. He feels guilt over his brother’s death.
“He had been accepted to an art school out in Los Angeles.” He shakes his head. “Some prestigious place that only takes the brightest and best.”
Conrad School of the Arts. I’d applied there too. I didn’t get in.
“He was so smart, so fucking smart and we wanted him to be a doctor.”
I nod through a veil of tears.
He exhales roughly. “That morning I told him that art would never be enough. I insisted he apply to Harvard or Yale. I told him to his face that if he didn’t follow a more traditional path that he’d always regret it.”
“You were trying to steer him in the direction you thought was best,” I say quietly.
“I wanted the best for him.” He nods. “My dad too.”
I move closer to him, pressing my body next to his. “You can’t fault yourself for wanting the best for someone you love.”
“He asked me point blank if I thought his paintings were any good. If I thought he’d ever see one in a museum or an exhibit.”
I stare into his eyes, knowing the answer already. It’s what tears this beautiful man apart every day of his life.
“I told him they were good, but not good enough.”
“Griffin,” I whisper his name as I rest my forehead against his. “It’s not your fault.”
“He was a soft soul.” He catches a sob in his throat. “He looked up to me. He followed me around for years, wanting to be like me. That kid craved my acceptance.”
“You can’t keep blaming yourself.”
“After I left my parents’ place that morning to drive back to the city, he called me.” He presses his cheek to mine. “I didn’t give him a chance to say a word. I just railed on him about expectations and responsibilities.”
He drops his head down. “He was gone a few hours later.”