Bombora by Mal Peters

the biggest loudmouth I know, it’s about as serious as if Callie started hatching kittens.
    I decide to help myself to a beer from the fridge, not caring if it’s early in the day. Some would call it irresponsible to go within fifty feet of alcohol, given my past substance abuse, but my sponsor at the clinic trusts me to handle a couple of beers every so often, as long as I don’t go about getting shitfaced. The line is as easy for me to spot these days as a neon sign that reads DON’T FUCK UP AGAIN, ASSHOLE.
    “So, Nate,” I say casually, popping off the bottle cap against the counter, “what’s with the surprise visit? You know I never complain to have you here, but usually you, well… call first. How long did it take you to get here?”
    Nate gives a nervous smile, and I don’t miss the way his eyes flick over to Phel, like he’s afraid to answer and is trying to choose his words as carefully as possible. “I left in kind of a hurry,” he answers, and shrugs in too offhand a way to be natural. “Started out five days ago and didn’t stop until I hit San Diego. I grabbed a shower before I got here, though, since I didn’t think it’d be polite to turn up on your doorstep smelling like a truck stop.”
    “How considerate,” murmurs Phel, and that’s the first thing he’s said so far this morning not in response to a direct question. The words make Nate’s back go up—I can see his shoulders tighten—but he fails on the return volley. Definitely weird. And Phel… well, Phel can be a bit of a princess sometimes, but one thing he isn’t is ill-mannered. I’m sure they saw to that in finishing school or wherever. At this point, I think, we’re obligated to have a confrontation about this later. I moodily swig my beer.
    Much to my annoyance, I’m equally unimpressed by Nate’s explanation. This is exactly the type of nonanswer he likes to give when avoiding something major. It’s probably impolite for me to pursue an interrogation in front of a complete stranger—strange to Nate, at least—but I’m compelled to take advantage of his sudden timidity. Brothers are like that, always exploiting weaknesses out of love.
    “Didn’t Emilia have anything to say about you taking off like that? Normally she’d have called to make sure you arrived in once piece by now.” When Nate’s face darkens, I fold my arms and grunt in displeasure. It’s one of those uncontrollable responses of mine that remind me why Nate sometimes calls me a Neanderthal, but right now I’d rather get some answers than worry about my image. “Nate, is everything okay?”
    “Yeah, everything’s peachy; just needed a break,” he tells me—too quickly—and that’s about as much as I can stand of him lying to my face. It’s 100 percent clear that’s what he’s doing, playing me off like I’m some fucking nitwit and not his only brother, not the person who knows him better than anyone else alive.
    “Nate,” I repeat. I catch the look in his eyes that begs me to drop the subject, let it go, but my hackles are up and I just can’t . We aren’t so different, Nate and I; the thought of there being something wrong with him makes me crazy. “Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll phone Emilia myself.” Well, that’s a bit extreme as far as strong-arm tactics go, but from the wild expression that flashes across his face, I know I’ve hit pay dirt. I don’t know what to make of the fact that Nate is freaked out by the prospect of me speaking to his wife, especially since Emilia and I have always been on great terms.
    “I should… go,” Phel interjects, starting to rise from his stool. He and Nate both look like they’re going to be sick, but I’m not letting Phel out of my sight just yet either.
    I throw out my hand to grab his arm. “Stay,” I tell him, and Callie makes a small noise of confusion, dancing on her paws in front of me. Clearly she thinks the order is for her, even though she hasn’t moved since we