Do people have free will?

Another month went by in a flurry, and before long, I forgot about all of my worries. There was no reason to dwell on such insignificant things, so I didn't. I chose to focus on the happier parts of life. Why would I even think about vice when there was so much virtue in the world?

One day at the Aubergine, Brendon managed to remind me why I still had to keep vice and tragedy in the back of my mind.

It was a relatively normal day in early April, and I walked into the Aubergine shortly after dinner. At first, everything seemed ordinary. All of the regulars were there, crowding around each other and gossiping incessantly. Gerard was at the center of it all, telling the others about his senior project, which had managed to turn into two projects. "I couldn't decide whether I should do a series of paintings of the members of the Guyliner Club or a graphic novel, so I did both," Gerard said with a terrifying grin etched across his face. "It was a lot of work, but I think I created two works of true art."

When I first heard that, I couldn't resist the opportunity to consider what "true art" was, but I had to find my boyfriend first. I walked past Gerard in an attempt to find Brendon, but I quickly realized that he was nowhere to be found. At first, I wasn't worried. Brendon occasionally disappeared like this, but he always managed to stand out in a crowd. I walked past Laura and a few other Kale students plotting to throw bricks through a Starbucks window, and I found Pete asking Spencer about the arcade machine that he supposedly kept in his dorm room. However, I couldn't find Brendon.

As it turned out, he was hiding behind the piano, gulping down a can of beer. "Brendon, what are you doing back here?" I asked him.

"Ryan," he slurred. "I'm so glad you're here! Heidi is so mean. She told the bartender that I couldn't have anything stronger than this goddamn beer." All of a sudden, he poured the beer all over himself. I gave him a confused look as I sat next to him.

"How many of those have you had?" I asked.

"I don't know," Brendon said. "I lost track a while ago." He looked away for a second and said, "Ryro, have you ever heard Patrick sing? He has a soul voice. Yo, watch this, I might be able to imitate him. It's like YeAaAaAaAaAahhh!"

"I've never heard Patrick sing," I said, trying to suppress a laugh. I had also never seen Brendon this drunk before. In fact, sometimes it seemed like no matter how much he drank, he could never get drunk. I knew that wasn't true, and this only proved it. At least he was somewhat funny when drunk.

Brendon looked around again, and suddenly exclaimed, "Ryan, you took my beer away!"

"No, you poured it all over yourself," I said.

"Stop lying to me!" Brendon shouted. "You took my beer away! Why the hell would you do that?!"

"I didn't take your beer away," I said. Both lying and stealing were immoral, and Brendon knew that I would never do anything like that. He would know that if he was sober, I corrected myself.

All of a sudden, Brendon started to sob. "You're just like Dallon," he whined. "You're just pretending to love me just so that you can betray me by taking my beer away!"

I wrapped my arms around Brendon and said softly, "I would never do that. As I said, you poured it on yourself."

"Whatever," Brendon said as he tried to wipe away his tears. "It's just not fair. Everyone else is so mean to me, but not you, Ryan. You're my favorite."

"Thanks, but how is everyone else mean to you?" I asked.

Brendon suddenly began to cry again. "It started with Dallon," he said. "He and I were together during our freshman year, and I thought that he loved me, but when I started coming here, he broke up with me. He said that I drank too much, and that I needed help, but I don't! It's not my fault that I can never seem to stop once I start."

"Brendon, it's okay," I said. "You don't need to cry." However, I was beginning to panic a little bit myself. Could Dallon's whole story be true?

"Then, it was all of those people at Yale," Brendon said. "My grades kept going down a lot, so I had to drop out. I want to go to college, Ryan! I get so jealous whenever you talk about Kale, but I didn't even finish one year at Yale. My mom and dad were so proud of me - they thought it was dope that I got into an Ivy League like Yale, but they were mad when I dropped out. They told me that I was throwing away my future, and I kind of think they're right. I have a job and a boyfriend, but I still get lonely. I wanted to be a Broadway star, Ryan. Don't you think that I should be on Broadway?"

"You do have a gorgeous voice," I said. It was nearly impossible to be a supportive boyfriend when I was falling apart myself.

"I would see my name in lights, and you would be the narrator telling another tale of the American dream," Brendon said. "It will never happen though. All of those theaters only hire people with college degrees. You have a better chance of getting a part than I do, and you can't dance at all!" Brendon tried to laugh through his tears before he started to bawl again. "I'm turning twenty one on the twelfth," he said.

"Happy early birthday," I told him.

"Don't be silly, Ryan," Brendon said. "You'll see me on my birthday. I see you everyday, and that's the way it should be. Anyways, I don't think you know how hard it is. I don't want to be like this, but I can't help myself. Every time I come here, I think I can have a few drinks and then stop, but I can't. Sometimes, I can't even feel anything at all when I drink. I've ruined my own life, Ryan, and I...I don't know what to do anymore."

Brendon burst into tears again, and I held him even closer. "I think that we can find a way out of this," I told him. "There are lots of people out there that could help you."

"I don't need help," Brendon said. "I can do it myself. Now, I think I'll go get myself a daiquiri, since you did take my beer away..."

"You poured it on yourself," I said, but Brendon didn't listen as he walked away. Meanwhile, I sat on the piano bench and took a few deep breaths, trying to keep myself from breaking down completely.

At first, I only felt anger. I was furious at Brendon for lying to me so many times, at Dallon for telling me the truth, and at myself for not listening to either of them. I should have known that Brendon was like this, but I couldn't stay mad for long.

My next thought was that I had turned out exactly like my mother. She had married an alcoholic, only to have a son who had fallen in love with an alcoholic. It was only proof that history repeats itself over and over again. I didn't like to think about my father much, but childhood memories of hospital visits and the smell of liquor creeped up from the back of my head as I thought of Brendon.

Was this all just fate? I hated to think that God or the gods or society or genetics had pushed Brendon into his addiction, but I also couldn't believe that Brendon would choose this for himself. Perhaps we had free will in some ways and not others, and in this case, I doubted that Brendon had chosen his path, just like I hadn't chosen to fall in love with him. It was purely destiny.

I remembered all of the wonderful times that I had spent with my boyfriend, from Thanksgiving to our first date to our trip to the pool. He was worse than nicotine, but I needed Brendon in my life. Letting Brendon go wasn't an option, so I had to help him somehow. However, I was clueless as to what I was supposed to do. If my mother, the strongest person I knew, couldn't help my father, then how was I, a lovesick but terrified eighteen year old, supposed to help Brendon? It seemed like an impossible task.

"Ryan, are you okay?" Spencer asked all of a sudden.

"I'm not okay," I said. "I promise."

"Well, the show's starting soon," Spencer said. "Hopefully, that will make you feel better."

I was tempted to tell Spencer about everything that had just happened, but there was no use. Brendon would tell him on his own terms, if he hadn't already done that. I didn't think that anything could improve my mood, but when I glanced at the clock, I did see that it was nine in the afternoon. It was time for us to play.

As it turned out, Brendon's drunkenness didn't affect his singing at all. He struggled to remember a few of the lyrics, but his voice still sounded amazing. I couldn't figure out how he did it. As usual, I just played along, wondering if the piano knew something that I didn't. Had the piano known about Brendon's alcoholism all along? I suspected that it had. Perhaps it had been trying to tell me, and I was just trying to shield myself from the truth.

I walked home alone that night, since my friends wanted to stay at the Aubergine for a little bit longer than I did. I couldn't stand to stay for too long - I had too much on my mind. As I walked home, my thoughts drifted back to Brendon. Perhaps all of us had an addiction like his. He was addicted to alcohol, and I was addicted to Thai food and asking deep questions. What was the difference? Brendon's addiction was more harmful than mine, but I could help him get past it somehow.

The only problem was that I had no idea how to help my boyfriend, especially since it was perfectly clear that he didn't want my help. What was I supposed to do now? Was it even moral to help Brendon if he didn't want me to help him? How could I help Brendon move past him addiction? I had to figure something out, but it was late, and I needed some sleep first. I opened the door to Flack Hall, entered the building, and climbed upstairs until I entered my dorm room.

Someday, I would find a way to help Brendon, but for now, sleep seemed like a better idea.