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Help your brother's boat across, and your own will reach the shore. ~ Hindu Proverb
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“Remember, don’t make eye contact.”
Your temper, already dangerously frayed, slips another notch at the faintly condescending tone in his voice. Slamming the car door shut, you glare at him across the roof of your third stolen vehicle in two days.
“You really think three months on the inside makes you a criminal mastermind, don’t you?”
Michael’s mouth falls open as he stares at you, wounded. It’s a look you’ve seen so many times before - caused so many times before - but today you don’t give a damn. Not today, not with Veronica’s last shocked breath still burning in your ears, not with grief choking every thought in your head like a ravenous overgrown weed.
“I just don’t want anything else to go wrong,” he finally mumbles in a quiet, strangled voice. “As long as we stick to the plan, we’ll be okay.”
“This isn’t a game, Michael.” You stare at him, unable to decide if he’s in denial or if he actually believes what he’s saying. “This is life. Shit happens, and it’s going to happen whether we stick to the plan or not.” His jaw clenches, and you wonder if he’s clenched his hands behind his back as well, the way he used to do when you were kids. “The sooner you accept that, the better.”
He stares at you with glittering eyes. Crying for everyone but himself as usual, you think darkly. You know why he’s trying so hard to believe there can be a happy ending to this fucking mess, and your anger slowly starts to bleed away. “I’ve been on the wrong side of the law most of my life, Michael. I know what I’m doing.”
He draws himself up, indignant. “I never said you didn’t.”
You stare at him, your own clenched hands itching with the urge to either hug him or punch him. Instead, you jab your thumb at the store behind you. “Let’s just get this done, okay?” His eyes still brimming with tears, he nods his head with a jerk, and you suddenly feel as though time has slipped its tracks, flinging you back twenty years to when squabbles over chores and homework had felt like the end of the world. “Michael.”
His hands are on his hips, his shoulders hunched as though he’s trying to catch his breath. “What?”
His shoulder feels almost frail beneath your hand. “Thanks, man.”