Chapter 2: Hidden Heir: Chapter 2

“Ant!”

Time screeches to a halt. I’m frozen in place, staring at the body of my brother. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.

Did he overdose? Did he fall asleep? Is he just so high that he has no fucking idea I’m even here?

Is he dead?

He’s rooted to the couch like one of my beloved plants. An acidic burn crawls up my throat as I take in the scene before me. Tiff squirms in my arms, irritated by my action of hiding her face and she begins to wail. That kicks me into gear and I immediately back out of the living room as tears form behind my eyes.

“Mommy!” she says. “Let go!” She begins squirming in my arms like a snake, but I keep her clutched against me as I run to the bedroom. The moment I set her in her toddler bed, she bursts into tears.

“No Mommy! It’s not bedtime!”

“I know sweetie, I know,” I say quickly, smoothing her wild curls. “But Uncle Ant is sick, so I need to go and clean him up. We’ll get pizza right after that, okay?”

“No Mommy!” Tiff screeches. “It’s not bedtime!”

I kiss her head and she immediately pushes me away, bursting into fully fledged tears before flinging herself face first onto the bed. I ache to stay with her but I need to check on Ant. With a final glance at my crying daughter, I sprint back into the living room and drop to my knees in front of my unconscious brother.

“Ant?” Fear grips me with razor-sharp claws as I reach out for his hand with trembling fingers. Expecting coldness, there’s a rush of relief when warmth radiates from Ant’s skin.

Not dead, just fucked up. I hang my head for a moment while my heart pounds wildly beneath my ribs. Then I force myself into action.

I remove the needle from Ant’s arm and set it aside. Then I grab him by his sweat-soaked t-shirt and pull him upward. Despite being older and taller, he’s rather light due to his sickly thin build, so hauling him across the room isn’t much different than hauling heavy bags of compost. Ant grunts when his arm knocks against the coffee table, and there’s some semblance of awareness when his head rolls, but it’s still not enough to wake up. Throwing one limp arm around my shoulders, we half-stumble, half-fall toward the bathroom. I’m able to carry him as far as the door, then he flops forward and I lose my grip on his body. As he begins to fall, I throw myself forward to catch his head before it bounces off the tiles.

Ant groans, then his body convulses and he starts to gag. Gritting my teeth, I drag him onto his knees, supporting him with my own body as I pull him over to the toilet just as a stream of acidic bile pours from his mouth.

I look away, fighting the urge to gag and wait until the vomit stops. Ant coughs weakly and then groans again. From there, getting him over the bath’s edge and into the tub is exhausting. By the time I manage it, I’m panting heavily, and he’s drooled vomit into my hair, but at least he’s finally in. I turn on the cold water and wipe my brow, watching the droplets from the shower batter his face, finally drawing an intelligible noise from him.

“Brooke?”

“You fucking asshole,” I hiss, rising to my feet. “You weak, selfish bastard.”

Ant’s eyes flutter closed once more and he sighs, turning his face away from the stream of water.

How many times have I been in this position? When I was younger, I tried to understand my brother’s drug use. Life was difficult and our parents often forgot we existed. Ant would tell me that the only way he could feel something was if he was high. But once my schooling was going well and my future was looking bright, I realized Ant was just as terrible as our parents.

So I tried to save him.

By the time I turned twenty-one, I had dragged him to countless rehab centers and drug rehabilitation courses and not one of them stuck. I could count on one hand how many years my brother had stayed sober in his twenty-seven years of living.

No matter what I said or did, no matter how many sober chips he earned, the drugs always won out. With each passing year, coming home multiple times to find another nest of needles embedded in his arm, the more heartbroken I became.

Things changed when I became pregnant with Tiff. My entire perspective on Ant changed. No longer was he my suffering older brother, but a man making self-destructive choices that shouldn’t be my responsibility to fix. Tiff became my priority but Ant remained in my heart as the only other family I had.

But it wasn’t until he turned up on my doorstep, homeless, that I realized how bad things were. I knew that turning him to the streets would’ve killed him. So I took him in.

And this is how he repays me. I shouldn’t have to keep Narcan in my cabinet along with all the other medications.

I keep reassuring myself that once my business is successful I’ll be able to drag him out of this hole and we’ll all live happily ever after. Though deep down, I’m not sure he wants to be dragged out.

“Hey sis,” Ant slurs over the noise of the shower and Tiff wailing her confused heart out. “Didn’t hear you come home.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I snap, using Tiff’s mouse cup to get him some water from the sink. “You’re high again, Ant.”

“No I’m not,” he replies, snickering.

They say you shouldn’t yell at someone who is high because it could trigger an adrenaline spike resulting in a heart attack but keeping myself calm is a losing battle when I’m this tired. “Yes, you fucking are! And in my home! Ant, I made it clear you weren’t to do that shit here. I don’t want your disgusting habit around my daughter, you hear me?”

He gazes up at me with pupils the size of saucers. “What?”

“You promised me you were going to get better.”

“What are you talking about?” he says slowly.

“You…” I know it’s like talking to a brick wall right now and there’s no real point in me trying. Leaning over the bath, I support the back of his greasy head and tilt him up just enough so he can take a few sips. “Drink.”

“Nah.” Ant turns his head away but I force it back.

“Drink.”

He obliges, taking a few sips then I let his head fall back.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I ask as I lean back, three fingers displayed.

Ant blinks slowly and sighs deeply. “I dunno. Three, I guess?”

“Right.” Cup discarded, his speech and his clarity tell me that he’s not in any immediate danger. He’s just high as fuck. After a few long minutes, I turn on the hot water. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Ant’s raspy laugh follows me through to the bedroom where Tiff is crying herself hoarse She screams when she sees me and my heart shatters to see her in such distress. She fights me when I sit on the bed and attempt to hold her. With one ear on the bathroom, it takes me nearly half an hour to calm her down, but the tears start again when I cancel our pizza and movie plan. I can’t do that and keep an eye on Ant at the same time.

I spend the night darting between the two of them. Tiff gets a dinner of spaghetti hoops and time on the iPad until she falls asleep. Ant gets me waking him up every thirty minutes to make sure he’s still alive. By the time I tuck Tiff into bed and kiss her goodnight, Ant has more clarity.

After the shower, I moved him back into the living room. I cleaned up his vomit, discarded the needles and every baggie of drugs I could find, cleaned out the bathtub and helped him get into clean, dry clothes. I finally took a moment for myself, showering to get the vomit out of my hair.

He’s exhausting.

I’m exhausted.

By the time I finally close my eyes, the sun is creeping over the edge of the horizon, turning the sky pink and orange. Forty minutes is all I’m allowed before my alarm starts to blare and another day starts. Running on fumes, I get Tiff up, washed, fed, and dressed, all before Ant makes an appearance.

He trudges into the kitchen with a yawn and a groan, rubbing at his chest as if he’s in pain. Tiff waves at him with a mouthful of cereal. He waves back but doesn’t smile.

“Hey sis,” he says sheepishly.

“Don’t,” I snap, keeping a fake smile on my face. “Not now. Not in front of Tiff.”

“Look,” he continues. “I’m really sorry, alright? You know what happens when I get low. I can’t help myself, you know I can’t. I’m not in control.”

“Ant,” I warn, sliding my hands over Tiff’s ears. “I said I don’t want to talk about it right now. I came home and you were passed out cold. I thought you were dead! I’m sickened to think what could have happened if I sent Tiff in there without checking first!”

“I know,” he says. “I know and I’m sorry. You don’t know what it’s like though. This… this monster inside of me takes over and I lose all control. I got some bad news and I was spiraling. You weren’t here to help me and I just…” He blinks slowly, his eyes still glazed. “I’m really struggling here, but it won’t happen again, I swear. That was the last time.”

It’s always the last time.

“What bad news?” I inquire, then shake my head. “Forget it. I don’t want to know. Not right now.”

I tell myself again and again that I won’t fall for it, but Ant has it down to a skill now. He acts broken, and my heart goes out to him because part of me still desperately yearns for the brother who pulled my pigtails and played hide and seek with me for hours to distract me from my hunger.

Of course I want him alive and healthy. Not this hollow shell that wears his face and speaks with his memories. Unfortunately for him, anger rules out.

“Ant. I know you’re struggling, but you put Tiff at risk and I can’t forgive you for that. I have to go to work, but if you want to stay here, you’d better show me proof that you’re getting yourself some help, understand?”

“But those places are expensive,” Ant says woefully. “I know you can’t afford that.”

My patience grows thin. “Well,” I sigh, “find one with a payment plan.”

“Brooke—”

“I have to go.”

Walking into my store, the scent of flowers and plants doesn’t soothe me like it usually does. I dropped Tiff off at her Nanny, promising to pick her up early while apologizing profusely to Hannah for yesterday. Hannah was as sweet as ever, assuring me it wasn’t a problem, but I still feel guilty.

I dislike it when my life spills over into others. Maybe that’s because Ant’s spills so much into mine.

Turning on the lights, I trudge through to the greenhouse, and this time, I’m able to avoid Ant’s boxes, though my ankle gives a lingering throb at the sight of them. In the whirlwind of the night before, I’d completely forgotten about Amy, so it comes as no surprise when I open my phone and find thirteen emails and three missed calls. She loved several of the flowers, including the Angel Amber Kiss Pansies, and wants them at the center of the display. Luckily, I have enough to satisfy her but her other requests will take some time.

After replying, I set my phone aside and take a pause.

Exhaustion sits heavy behind my eyes, taunting me with sleep I can’t have. I feel stretched thin. Between parenting Tiff, running this place, and caring for Ant, I don’t have time for anything else. My social circle has dwindled since Tiff was born, so there’s no one I can call to join me while I drown myself in cocktails, though that’s probably a good thing.

It would be nice to have someone to talk to though.

Sighing heavily, I drag my hand through my hair, wincing when my knuckles catch on some knots. I was so busy taking care of Ant and Tiff that I didn’t fully take care of myself. After last night’s shower I collapsed into bed without combing through my wet hair.

Maybe I’ll take an early lunch.

Forcing my worry for my brother aside, I settle into the groove of work. I spend an hour moving some of the plants into new pots where they can finally breathe and stretch out their roots. It’s calming but tough work when I’m tired, but it does bring me a sense of satisfaction to see an entire row of freshly potted plants ready to bloom.

Just as I finish the last one, the bell above my door rings, signaling a customer entering. I quickly remove my gloves, brush soil from my apron, and hurry through to the shop.

“Morning!” I say cheerily as I move around the counter. “How can I help you this…”

I trail off as my heart leaps up into my throat. Suddenly, the air around me feels thin and hot, as an anxious trickle of sweat moves down my spine.

In front of me are four large, muscular men clad in dark jeans, dark tops, and leather jackets. One man’s neck is so thick it rivals the width of his head. Another is completely bald, his head blindingly reflecting the lights over the counter.

“Miss Harris?” The smallest of the four steps forward and clasps his leather-clad hands together. He’s short but bulky. His pock-marked face twists into a creepy grin as he approaches the counter. “You are Miss Brooke Harris, correct?”

Confirming my name suddenly feels like a terrible idea; I’m highly conscious of the fact that I am alone with four scary-looking men. While their bodies are mostly covered with leather, ink peeks out here and there as the men shift and move.

“I–yes,” I say, swallowing around a sudden lump in my throat. “That’s me.”

“Excellent,” the man replies.

Behind him the bald man moves to the door, and I watch in horror as he flips the sign to closed before sliding the bolt into place.

“We’ve been looking for you.”