[Private; written in Quentin's sketchbook/journal]Renee called. The reading of Kevin's will was this morning. "We thought you were going to fly home for it," she said, with only a trace of the guilt Mom would've layered on, if she made the phone call. Yeah. Right. What was Kevin going to leave me?
A boat, apparently. A model of one, anyway. One of the ones inside a glass bottle, that sits on display. Renee said it reminded him of me, when we used to play in the marina as kids, or something. Kevin had a whole ton of those models laying around and they all knew damn well that I want nothing to do with them. But Renee's still boxing it up and shipping it out to me, despite me telling her I'd just get it the next time I was home.
Sometimes, I do miss Kevin. We didn't exactly get along, but he kept most of the idiots off my back when we were in school, too. That's what a big brother was supposed to do. It's the only reason why I took the painting with me, the one of the wreck. Because he was my brother and I need to figure out why this is happening to me. For closure.
That's what I tell myself, over and over. Every time I look at the box in the corner, knowing what the painting is inside it.