I swipe my finger through the frosting and bring it to my lips with a shake of my head. Seven years in the city and my life hasn’t changed since the day I moved here. The thought makes me cringe.
I don’t know what, but something has to change, and soon.
2
Weston
The stack of Thai takeout containers wobbles precariously in my arms as I step through the front door of my house on Fruit Street, Brooklyn Heights. Sneakers litter the entranceway, and the unexpected minefield causes me to stumble.
I set the takeout on the hall table and sweep the sneakers to one side with my foot before toeing off my loafers. Three years ago, coming home to a mess like this would have made me furious. Now, I can’t help but smile as I survey the pile of shoes by the door.
It means my son is home.
“Jesse?” I call, closing the heavy oak door behind me.
Usually, I hit the pool after work and swim laps—anything to delay coming home to an empty house—but this evening I came straight back, hoping Jesse would’ve finished moving his stuff in and, if I’m lucky, be ready to eat.
“Jess?” I call again. “I got dinner.” My voice echoes through the silent house, and disappointment washes over me. He probably dumped his stuff and went out with friends.
I sigh, taking the food through to the kitchen and dropping it onto the marble countertop. It’s been less than twenty-four hours and he’s already avoiding me. Great.
But the sound of footsteps on the stairs makes my heart lift hopefully. Jesse ambles into the kitchen with his headphones clamped to his ears, and I give a small chuckle.
Of course. What did I think, that he was just sitting up there in silence? That’s a skill his generation doesn’t seem to have.
He notices me and tugs his headphones off. He’s wearing my old New York Yankees hoodie, probably because he hasn’t done a load of laundry in months. His gaze lands on the food and a frown pinches his brow, but he doesn’t say a word.
“I thought we could have some dinner and see what’s on,” I say, motioning vaguely to the living room. I know if I appear too eager, he’ll bolt. My son is as disinterested in hanging out with his old man as any other twenty-three-year-old.
But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is that he can’t stand me.
I loosen the tie around my neck before reaching into the drawer to grab two forks. When I set them on the counter, Jess is still surveying the food, and it occurs to me that there’s a chance he might actually join me. If he’s desperate enough.
“You hungry?” I ask, casually taking the food from the bag and popping off the lid. The smell of Pad Thai wafts from the tray—my son’s favorite meal. At least, it was when he was last speaking to me.
Jesse swallows, and I can practically see the saliva pooling in his mouth. I know I’m playing dirty, but I’ll do anything to get my son to stay in the room with me for longer than two seconds. You’d think giving him a place to live would help, but I sense he’s planning to hole up in his old room and pretend I don’t exist.
Still, a man’s gotta eat.
I nudge the Pad Thai container closer to Jesse, then pull two bottles of Miller High Life from the fridge before popping the tops and handing him one. I grab my own food and head into the living room, plopping nonchalantly onto the huge leather sectional as if I couldn’t care whether he follows, but I’d be hurt if he took his food and left. I’m desperate to heal this rift between us, even if I did nothing wrong in the first place. Even if he blames me for something that was never my fault.
Jesse’s sigh reaches me from the kitchen, then he reluctantly enters the living room and settles at the other end of the sofa, taking a long swig from his beer. Reaching for the remote, I fight the urge to grin as I flick through the channels, stumbling across a rerun ofSeinfeld, which we used to watch together back in the day. I grew up on this show, so it’s nostalgic for me, but Jesse watches it to laugh at the anachronisms, such as adults calling each other on landlines because they don’t have cell phones, which he finds hilarious. I’m forty-three, and this kid makes me feel old as fuck.
I glance at Jess, wondering if I’m being too heavy-handed by choosing a show we once enjoyed together, then decide to leave it on. He’s tucking into his Pad Thai with gusto, and I doubt he’d leave because ofSeinfeld. In fact, he’s probably forgotten we even watched it.
I take a sip from my beer, pretending to watch the show, but it’s hard to relax when this is the first time my son has sat down to eat with me in three years. His eyes stay glued to the screen, and I steal a glance his way.
“Get all your stuff moved in okay?” I ask when there’s a lull in the show.
He nods, shoveling food into his mouth. At the rate he’s going, he’ll be done soon and this whole evening will be over. I have to move quickly.
“I could have sent a moving company,” I add, and he shrugs. All I want is one sentence from him. Just one. “Must be weird being back in your old room,” I try again.
He freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth.
Fuck. Why the hell did I say that? He doesn’t need to be reminded of what his life was like when he was last here. He doesn’t need to remember what we all went through.
He swallows, slowly lowering his fork. I wait for him to storm out of the room, maybe tell me again how much he hates me, but instead, he finally meets my gaze.
