Page 30 of All the Ugly Things
The group in front of us moved toward the green, finally far enough away where we could hit. Brandon pushed the ball and tee into the ground and pointed his driver at me. “Just think you need to get out there so you don’t end up a grumpy old man.”
“I’ve always been grumpy.”
“No. You’ve always been serious, maybe stoic. It’s only the last year you’ve become increasingly grumpy. And spending too much damn time alone.”
He dropped the club, turned to the fairway. After a practice swing, he let it rip and his ball sailed two hundred and fifty yards straight down the middle.
“Nice hit.”
“So, drinks?”
“Fine. Drinks, and I’ll contact her myself. And I’m only doing it because I love Jenna.” He was right. I was under no illusions ofwhythe last year made me grumpy. Since I was determined to kick her out of my head for good, I didn’t think of her.
“Not me?”
“No. You’re a pain in my ass.”
“But still your best friend.”
“Always, dickface.”
I swung, almost matched his shot perfectly. We hopped back into the cart where we opened a beer from the cooler we’d purchased before hitting the course and finished the round.
An hour later because of the group in front of us moving like molasses, we smelled like grass and sweat and dirt, he’d given me Harper’s phone number, and we were pulling up to my dad’s house.
* * *
Dad was grillingwhen we walked into my childhood home. Photos placed on every surface always made my heart hurt. Our family hadn’t been traditional by any means and Mom and Dad never wasted an opportunity to snap a memory. Now when I walked in, every picture that held my mom or Melissa’s smiling faces brought back all the bad memories.
The accident. The diagnosis. The months of someone I loved smelling like medicine while they lost their hair.
The burials.
The grief.
The mess I was left to fix.
As I always did when I walked in, I kicked off my shoes, dropped my keys onto the table, and pressed two fingers to my lips before touching the glass covering my mom’s beautiful face.
Brandon headed straight for the fridge and another beer, grabbing one for me before we met Dad outside on the deck.
“Great day, boys,” he said, not bothering to turn toward us at the sound of the glass door opening. “How’d you shoot?”
“Decent,” I said, and brought the beer to my mouth.
Brandon, the cocky jerk he always was, laughed. “I outshot him by four.”
Dad turned and smiled at us over his shoulder. “Good job, son.”
Every time Dad called him that, Brandon turned sheepish. It amazed me, still, how that could be and yet, I hadn’t had the start in life Brandon did.
“Please. I let him win because he still cries and needs his blankie when he loses.”
“You dick.” Brandon shoved me, laughing harder. “That was years ago.”
“Like four.”
“Fourteen.”
