Hospitals smell like death. Not the fresh kind, not the blood and guts and screaming kind, but the slow, sterile decay of people waiting to be taken. I sat next to my dad in the ICU, watching the machines do what his body couldn’t anymore. They’d put him in a coma, feeding tube down his throat, the kind of situation where everyone already knows how the story ends, but they still go through the motions of pretending otherwise.
All around him, the hospital was full of code blue, code red, code yellow. People going in, people not coming back out. No place for hope.
I sat there, talked to him anyway, told him I’d be in town for a few days. I was staying at his house with Nick. At the time, I was living in Bend, Oregon, and Nick—well, Nick was still fumbling through life as a Waterboy for Culligan, hauling water jugs like an overpaid pack mule. His best friend, George, was with him—Army Reserve guy, quiet, dark-skinned, one of those men who didn’t say much but always seemed to be watching.
Nick decided we should go out. Him, George, and me. Somewhere my dad used to go. Somewhere that smelled more like bad beer and cheap perfume than antiseptic and slow death.
So we drove out to some dive in a shitty part of town, the kind of place where hope was left at the door and regret was poured in well shots. The parking lot was cracked asphalt and broken bottles. No windows on the building, just a blacked-out front, like it didn’t want you to know what kind of hell you were walking into.
We hadn’t even stepped inside before a rusted-out junker pulled up next to us, passenger-side window held together with plastic. A woman stepped out. Short, curvy, all tits and attitude, energy crackling off her like a live wire. She looked me up and down and smirked.
“Cop,” she said. “Definitely a cop.”
And then she was gone, disappearing inside before I could tell her, No, sweetheart, I’m a lot of bad things, but I ain’t a cop.
Still, the fact that this was the kind of place where that was a valid concern didn’t sit well with me.
Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and regret. A security guard behind bars let us in, and I spotted the little firecracker girl dart into the bathroom. I timed it just right so that when she came back out, I could stop her.
“For the record, I’m not a cop,” I told her. “You should see the bad side of me sometime, you’d be real sure.”
She giggled. That was that.
We sat at the bar, and Nick and George droned on about their drinking stories—stupid shit, nothing real, nothing with depth. Just remember that time we got wasted? over and over again, as if that counted as a life lived. I let them ramble while I drained my beer.
Then Nick nudged me. “Your little firecracker is staring at you again.”
I glanced over. She was. Hard.
Nick kept watching, more interested in the situation than I was. He smirked. “Oh yeah, you’re in trouble.”
I didn’t think much of it until she walked over, making a slow arc around the bar so she’d pass us one by one. First George. Then Nick. Then me. As she moved behind me, she grabbed my hand, twisted it behind my back like she was cuffing me, and then kept walking.
I pulled my hand forward and opened it. Her number sat in my palm.
Nick and George just stared.
Their stories didn’t have moments like this. Nick had never been the guy who attracted women like this, and neither had George. And with every drink they had, I could see the jealousy creeping in. Nick tried to play it off, but I could tell it was eating him alive.
We left after a few more rounds, heading to another one of my dad’s usual spots. This one wasn’t a total dive—it had windows, for one. No security guard with a shotgun standing by the door.
The bartender was something else. Tight one-piece that fit like it had been stitched onto her body. She moved like she knew exactly what kind of power she had over the room. When she came over to get our drinks, I asked about the outfit. She told me it was vintage, something from her mom in the ‘70s. That was all the opening I needed. I kept her talking, learning her story while the guys went on with their nostalgia-laced bullshit about free race car rallies and some WWF event.
No talk about Dad. Just distractions.
The bartender came back to our table after a while, asked if I wanted to join her for a smoke.
I said yes.
By the time my brother and George settled the tab and came outside, she and I were deep in conversation, tucked away in the shadows. Nick spotted us and froze. His whole face twisted into something ugly.
Apparently, this bartender had been his white whale, the woman he’d been eyeing for years but never had the balls to approach. And here I was, sitting with her, having done in one night what he hadn’t managed in a lifetime of visits.
Jealousy took over.
“Oh, I hope you like what I taste,” he sneered. “She’s done that to me before.”
He kept muttering, kept stewing, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. And then, drunk and bitter, he snapped.
“You know we’re here for Dad, right?” he barked. “And all you do is act like a fucking horndog, chasing women everywhere.”
I wasn’t chasing shit. The women had come to me. I wasn’t the one who turned this night into a pissing contest.
But there was no reasoning with him.
By the time we got back to Dad’s house, he was in a full-blown rage, spitting insults, eyes wild with resentment. We had bad blood already—he never forgave me for kicking him out of my house after I bankrolled his life, bought him a truck, paid his tuition, and watched him throw it all away. He had the gall to be angry at me for that. And now, he was drunk, spiraling, looking for something that would finally cut deep enough.
Then he found it.
“You’re adopted,” he spat. “He’s not even your dad.”
It was the last straw.
I charged at him from the porch, watched his face drain of color as he pissed himself like a coward and bolted around the cars, scrambling to get away.
I’d promised my father I’d never punch my brother in the face while he was alive. I’d held to that promise for years.
But I swear to God, if I had caught him in that moment, I would’ve broken every bone in his smug little face.
Nick always had strong legs, but no upper body. He punched like a woman, ran like one too. And run he did.
I stopped. Watched him from a distance. Let him think he’d won.
That was the last time I saw him.
Ryan, my other brother—I carry guilt for leaving him behind. Nick? There was nothing left to redeem. No saving a man who refuses to stand on his own. He was emotionally handicapped, another casualty of our mother’s dysfunction, and I was done being the safety net.
This wasn’t unconditional love. This was abuse disguised as family.
Apologies had always been one-sided.
And if I ever see him again, I’m breaking his fucking nose.
