Every Night (Brush of Love 1)

“Is that the story where the two of you snuck out, went joyriding, and you learned how to change a flat tire at three in the morning?” Drew asked.

“Nope. This is the story where we snuck out, went to a party, drank alcohol for the first time, and hid our vomit in containers underneath our bed until we could flush it down the toilet.”

“You did what?” Drew exclaimed.

“Yep. It doesn’t take much to get a teenage boy drunk, and we were so sick from the liquor we’d mixed that both of us tried to cover up what we’d done by throwing up into trash cans and hiding them underneath our beds.”

“How did your mother not smell that?” my uncle asked.

“She raised two boys. Nothing phased her,” I said.

I noticed the roar of the crowd was slowly dying down. The laughter and reminiscing came to a dull pause, and that’s when I looked at my watch. It was approaching nine thirty-six in the evening, the exact time my parents and I had gotten the phone call that John had overdosed.

I slowly made my way up to the podium, trying my best not to make a sound as everyone held their breath while the minute passed by.

It felt like an eternity, like I was swimming in a pool full of gelatin. The eerie silence descended all across the bar. Even the children knew there was something going on. The crickets were chirping outside, and the wind was lightly howling by the windows. Besides a sniffle or two rising from the crowd, there wasn’t a human sound to be heard.

The bar was silent until nine forty. Then, I pulled the microphone from the stand and held it up to my lips.

“John’s life might have ended in tragedy, but there was a great deal of joy to be remembered in his life,” I began. “I want to thank you all for coming. For four years we’ve gathered in this bar on this night and remembered the life of my brother. We’ve reminisced, enjoyed the adult beverages he favored during his short lifetime, and enjoyed the finger foods he loved as a teenager. We come together to reminisce about the good instead of choosing to focus on the last couple of hours of his life.”

I looked down at the Guinness I was holding in my hand as a memory wafted through my mind. A memory of the first time John had ever forced me to drink one of these things. It looked like he was drinking sludge, and I wanted nothing to do with it, but he told me he’d order me a full one to down if I didn’t take at least one sip.

I ended up finishing his, and he had to order another one that night.

“My favorite memory of John is a simple one,” I said as I raised my head. “It’s the first time I ever had one of these with him.”

I raised my Guinness to the crowd, and they all chuckled. I told this story every year when we all gathered. But the crowd seemed to humor me in listening to it just one more time.

One more time, just for me, so I could take a little more time to process my brother being dead.

“He dragged me out to this bar to boast about this girl he was dating. ‘She’s the one,’ he told me. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he told me. ‘Ebony skin like this beautiful drink,’ he said to me. He threw it back while I sipped on my water, designating myself as the sober driver for the night. But he insisted I take a sip to toast the new love of his life. I can still remember the smile on his face. The way his eyes twinkled as he talked about her. Even now, I can’t remember a single thing he said about her, other than complimenting the beauty of her skin tone. But I do remember him threatening to make me down a whole one if I didn’t at least try the beer.”

I took a long pull of the Guinness in my hand as a small chuckle ricocheted through the crowd.

“To this day, it’s the best beer I could order,” I said. “But it’s gotta be cold.”

“Ice cold,” the crowd said.

I smiled out at them as my shoulders shook with my laughter. I’d told this story way too many times, and I loved them all the more for allowing me to tell it just one more time.

For John.

I held my Guinness high in the air and everyone else followed suit. I scanned the crowd, taking in all the wet eyes and shaking chests as they all tried to keep their emotions at bay. Yes, this was a celebration of life, but it was a celebration for a man who was missed wholly and completely by a crowd of people that would’ve given anything to the devil himself to have one more day with him.

But as m

y eyes passed over the bar, I saw someone I didn’t recognize.

A woman, her hair short and dyed purple, holding up an IPA with a small smile on her face. It almost seemed like she was toasting with us, though her elbow was resting on the bar. It didn’t shock me that someone was there I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t like I’d rented out the bar for the night or anything. It just struck me as incredibly respectful that a person who didn’t know John would collide with a grieving crowd of people to toast to a person she didn’t even know.

I gave her a small smile before I continued on with my toast.

“To a man who left more influence behind in his pinky than we’ll ever reach in our lives. May John continue to rest in peace, free from the demons that grabbed hold just a bit too tight. We love you, brother, and you’re sorely missed.”

“Here, here,” the crowd said.

I threw back the last of my beer before I holstered the microphone. I backed up into the darkness of the stage, scanning the crowd to try and find my parents. I hoped with all my soul they would show up, put aside their hatred and disgust for the situation and just show up for the memorial of their son.