It was sometimes easier to help others than to help yourself, and my gut told me he'd be good for me. I wanted to return the favor, so whatever he told me he needed help with, hopefully, I could come through for him.Chapter 6
It would take some serious adjusting in order to help Julian. I'd ordered bagels and cream cheese and juice for breakfast, and he had quietly spoken up about his hopes and plans while I had resisted the temptation of pouring vodka into my OJ.
Right after, I promised I'd do my best to assist him, but even now, a couple hours later, I still didn't have a fucking clue.
I stood in the kitchen and reluctantly poured all the alcohol I had down the drain. He was sorting through silverware, glasses, plates, utensils, and appliances, not-so-subtly side-eying me every now and then.
Of course, I admired him for what he wanted, but it didn't make it easy for me. He'd told me he wanted to pay rent; that was easily taken care of, I guessed. Not necessary at all in my opinion, but I knew where he was coming from.
Next, he wanted a job. He wasn't quite ready yet—understandable—but he hoped to be soon. And when he was, I wasn't allowed to use my connections. Not even to get him into some PA agency or have him pour coffee at a studio. Again, I understood where he was coming from.
Lastly, he needed a car, but he was gonna give public transportation a try first…
In fucking LA.
He was gonna regret that—fast.
All in all, my so-called help would come from sitting by, twiddling my goddamn thumbs.
It wasn't what I called help.
As I emptied a bottle of the finest Irish whiskey into the sink, I added stubborn and admirable to the list of Julian's traits.
"Are you addicted?"
Though I had half expected his question, his soft, apprehensive tone still packed a punch.
"No…" I grabbed the last bottle, phrasing myself carefully. "It's too soon, I think. But my mind's adapted fast enough, and it's my first escape route. Soon as anything's wrong, slightest mood change, or if memories hit too hard, I seek out a bottle."
"I understand." He carefully placed a stack of new plates in a cupboard. "I'm on medication, but if I hadn't been, perhaps I wouldn't have stopped at emptying Dad's liquor cabinet. I don't know."
I furrowed my brow. "What kinda meds are you on?"
"Antidepressants."
"Because of the plane crash?"
He shook his head and moved on to wineglasses. "It's been about a year, but I did see a grief counselor in Pittsburgh. He said I should continue taking them, and he prescribed me a mild sleeping pill, too."
My mind spun. He'd done the right thing, obviously, going to a shrink for professional help. I'd failed at that, too. But what baffled me was the antidepressants he'd been on for a year.
How come I didn’t know? Mia would've told me. Despite our mutual love for riling each other up and driving one another bonkers, we could still talk. I calmed her down. She explained shit to me. It was what we did.
Had done.
*
When the Fourth of July rolled around a couple days later, I used the morning to set up the last furniture in my study. I hooked up the computer and then threw my lazy ass on the couch. Julian was borrowing my car to run some errands, and he was picking up lunch on the way home.
I wanted a drink.
Instead, I watched movies and dicked around on my phone.
Julian was a musician, and I wanted to encourage him. Since he didn't want me to help him with a job or a car, I'd pull a sneaky move and place a baby grand in the corner behind the dining area. He could suck it.
Before noon, I'd received texts from my friends wishing us a good holiday, and it wasn't long after that Julian returned. And he wasn't alone. I was surprised to see Nicky with him.
"Hope you don't mind I let him in," Julian said. He headed to the kitchen with a bag from a local sandwich place.
"Of course not." I looked over the back of the couch where I was sprawled. "You not spending the holiday with family?" I asked Nicky. I didn't get up from the couch 'cause…well, I was the new me. I did everything half-assed, it seemed.
"No, but I'm going to a barbecue later with some friends." He walked over with a thick, familiar envelope. "Tennyson Wright overnighted this to me. He wants you to read it."
A script.
Persistent fucker. Tennyson thought he could get me back to work by throwing scripts my way?
"I like what you've done with the place, Mr. Collins."
I waved a hand and flipped open the script. "Julian's work. And I thought I told you to call me Noah." There was a note from Tennyson on the first page.