I stop chewing. “I know, man, I know. But you’ll get better.” He makes a pensive hum. “I’m really proud of you right now,” I tack on. “You’re doing the right thing.”
“Yeah.” A heavy silence follows. “How is she?” We both know he checked into that place because of Freya. He always needed to do this for himself, but he's doing it now for her.
“Missing you. Constantly on my ass about you.” I swallow a sip of beer, washing the awful taste of the food down.
He huffs a small laugh, then pauses before adding, “Have they been talking?” I know who he means—he’s trying to spare me because the mention of Kayla’s name usually causes a burst of anger. Alex is one of very few who knows the whole story.
“Yeah, I saw them at the diner together,” I answer, instinctively crinkling my nose in distaste.
“Good. That’s good.” He’s worried about Freya and wants to be with her, but he and I both know that right now, the best thing he can do is to take care of himself and come back healthy—however he defines that. “How’s Jake?”
“I dunno,” I answer honestly. Jake seems to be separating himself from us more and more every day. I feel like I now have two siblings going through shit, and I can't help either. Some big brother I am.
“I’ll talk to him when I’m back,” he promises.
I roll my eyes as if he can see me. “What, you’re planning on coming back now?”
“Jackass.” His laughter is a hint at the old Alex.
“I appreciate it, Alex.” A word from somebody who’s been dealing with trauma for years might help more than me throwing in my two hugely lacking cents here and there.
I hear muffled voices on the other end of the phone. “Okay, I gotta go. I’ll call you,” Alex tells me, sounding distracted.
“Yeah,” I reply, but he’s already hung up.
I try another bite of food, but it tastes like shit, so I give up on that and go grab a couple apples. At this rate, I’ll turn into a rabbit soon. A visit to mom tomorrow it is.
* * *
I open the door, and the delicious smell of freshly cooked food welcomes me to my parents’ house. That’s how it always smells here: mouthwatering and homey. I wonder how Alicia manages to stay skinny with all this goodness in the house.
“Mom?” I yell, taking my jacket off.
“In here, honey,” my mom calls from the kitchen.
I find her beside the stove, as usual, cooking mountains of food that she’ll dole out to everyone we know. That’s why my father tends to eat everything he can put his hands on and fast—he knows whatever he doesn’t snatch will go to friends, neighbors, and the church.
“Whatcha making?” I ask, peeking at the sizzling pan from behind her.
“Oh, just meatloaf with veggies. Nothing fancy.” She’s being modest as usual. I try to stick my finger into the bowl of mashed potatoes on the table, and she smacks me with a wooden spatula—the oneIgot her as part of a fancy kitchen set, by the way. Life is unfair.
“Ouch, Mom! That hurt!” I nurse my poor, offended hand.
“You’ll survive,” Alicia chimes in, strolling into the kitchen. As usual, she’s dressed in her baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt three sizes too big for her. My heart aches for my little sister. She used to be a girly girl, always happy and bubbly, wearing bright clothes meant to be noticed. Now, she wears clothes meant to hide. Her long blonde hair is pulled into a low, messy bun, and a few strands frame her face—which looks like a feminine version of mine. She has fewer freckles on her face—a clear indication that she hasn’t seen the light of day for too long. She’s turning into a vampire—like in one of her books.
“I might not. Will you miss me then?” I reply, enveloping her in a bear hug.
She mumbles something, pulling away and tapping her chin as if pondering it.
“What did you say?” I ask with a devious smile, grabbing her again and squeezing harder.
“I said ‘maybe,’ but I’m not so sure anymore," she jokes after she unwraps herself from my embrace. She pinches my biceps, and I pinch the tip of her nose. That’s what we always do, so I feel a little better, sensing she’s in a good mood today.
“Behave, children.” I’m thirty-one and still live by my mom’s rules when I’m in her house, and I’m not ashamed to admit that.
“Yes, mom!” we singsong, taking our usual seats at the breakfast table in the kitchen. My parents’ kitchen is a work of art. I don’t know how much my dad spent on it, but it must have cost a fortune. He loves my mother, though, so I’m sure it was a pleasure for him to make her happy. My parents have been married for thirty-three years and still behave like teenagers, stealing kisses in hallways, smacking each other’s butts, and making all of us gag. When I look at them, I know I'll never have that, and I'll never agree to anything less, so here I am—the forever bachelor of Little Hope. I like to swim in a pool of choices, though, so I don’t complain. And once our pool becomes too small or too boring, I take my truck and drive. There is always a bigger lake out there.
“I’m guessing you could eat?” Mom asks me, barely containing her smile.
