Together. Somewhere warm. You told her to go, idiot .
So much for good cheer.
My house was dark, but I made no attempt to walk in quietly. Dad and Tiff were most likely out at some function, playing the part of the power sales couple. I went to the fridge, determined to reignite my buzz, and reached for a can of whatever beer my father chose to stock. I popped the lid, walked over to the great room, and screamed like a second grader when I saw a shadowy figure sitting on the sectional.
“Pop, what the hell?”
His throaty “Gotcha” cackle made me smile in spite of my heart, which was ready to tear out of my chest. “That was a good one.”
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Eh, don’t know. I’ve been sitting here awhile. It’s peaceful. Tiff’s out at a Black Friday blowout sale with her friends. Where’ve you been?”
“I got a job. At the Camelot,” I said.
“Really? Why?” he asked, tipping his nightly glass of Bushmills to his lips. I sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.
“Don’t know. Seemed like a good thing to do. A way to keep busy,” I answered.
“Guess it’s better than pounding those drums.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Your mom called.”
I swallowed, hard, the cold beer burning the back of my throat. The taste of grease and cheese snaked its way up, not as good the second time around. Pop and Tiff had been out when I got in the night before and were still sleeping when I’d left in the morning. We hadn’t discussed Thanksgiving at all.
“Why did you hightail it out of there before dessert?”
I shrugged. “Watching my figure.”
Pop took another sip of Bushmills. “Your mother told me about the lacrosse thing. Grayson, if it bothers you so much, there’s got to be some league you could play in.”
“Pop, it doesn’t bother me,” I said, not wanting to get into a conversation about how I missed St. Gabe’s, which would just set him off into stories from his glory days. Today had been a good day, a day I’d forgotten about all that other crap.
“Then why’d you leave? You know how much this stuffupsets your mother. You have to take one for the team now and again.”
“What team? I’m definitely not an Easton.”
He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Grayson, you know, if the tables were turned and you agreed to live with her, there’d be no way I’d put up with your bullshit. They are your family. It’s about time you came ’round to it.”
The day my mother left wasn’t monumental. My parents’ divorce was sickeningly amicable . That’s the word I heard them use when talking to friends. I remember looking it up. Peaceful . And on the surface, it was true. There were no shouting matches. No glasses thrown across the room. No heated debates over who got what. They simply woke up one day, decided they didn’t like the life they were living, and said, “Okay, done with this . . . next.” But the one thing they couldn’t split down the middle was me.
My mother had wanted me to live in Connecticut with her and Laird. This was before I figured out they’d probably been together before she broke up with Pop. I was in sixth grade and didn’t want to leave my friends. That was natural, she’d said, but I’d make new friends. Have better opportunities. A whole new world. And a dog.
I’d been groomed by Pop to go to St. Gabe’s. The silver and crimson Crusaders. Sat and froze my butt off during every Turkey Day game with him telling me, “That’ll be you someday, kid.” And even though I had no interest in football, theway he took such pride in it, the way he talked about the good old days, made St. Gabe’s sound like the only place for me.
But the dog . . . the dog was a tipping point. My mother had given me an out clause: If I completely hated it, I could come back and live with Pop. I would have weekends and holidays in Bayonne and summer vacations wherever he chose to take me. It would all work out great, she assured me. And I
So much for good cheer.
My house was dark, but I made no attempt to walk in quietly. Dad and Tiff were most likely out at some function, playing the part of the power sales couple. I went to the fridge, determined to reignite my buzz, and reached for a can of whatever beer my father chose to stock. I popped the lid, walked over to the great room, and screamed like a second grader when I saw a shadowy figure sitting on the sectional.
“Pop, what the hell?”
His throaty “Gotcha” cackle made me smile in spite of my heart, which was ready to tear out of my chest. “That was a good one.”
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Eh, don’t know. I’ve been sitting here awhile. It’s peaceful. Tiff’s out at a Black Friday blowout sale with her friends. Where’ve you been?”
“I got a job. At the Camelot,” I said.
“Really? Why?” he asked, tipping his nightly glass of Bushmills to his lips. I sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.
“Don’t know. Seemed like a good thing to do. A way to keep busy,” I answered.
“Guess it’s better than pounding those drums.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“Your mom called.”
I swallowed, hard, the cold beer burning the back of my throat. The taste of grease and cheese snaked its way up, not as good the second time around. Pop and Tiff had been out when I got in the night before and were still sleeping when I’d left in the morning. We hadn’t discussed Thanksgiving at all.
“Why did you hightail it out of there before dessert?”
I shrugged. “Watching my figure.”
Pop took another sip of Bushmills. “Your mother told me about the lacrosse thing. Grayson, if it bothers you so much, there’s got to be some league you could play in.”
“Pop, it doesn’t bother me,” I said, not wanting to get into a conversation about how I missed St. Gabe’s, which would just set him off into stories from his glory days. Today had been a good day, a day I’d forgotten about all that other crap.
“Then why’d you leave? You know how much this stuffupsets your mother. You have to take one for the team now and again.”
“What team? I’m definitely not an Easton.”
He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Grayson, you know, if the tables were turned and you agreed to live with her, there’d be no way I’d put up with your bullshit. They are your family. It’s about time you came ’round to it.”
The day my mother left wasn’t monumental. My parents’ divorce was sickeningly amicable . That’s the word I heard them use when talking to friends. I remember looking it up. Peaceful . And on the surface, it was true. There were no shouting matches. No glasses thrown across the room. No heated debates over who got what. They simply woke up one day, decided they didn’t like the life they were living, and said, “Okay, done with this . . . next.” But the one thing they couldn’t split down the middle was me.
My mother had wanted me to live in Connecticut with her and Laird. This was before I figured out they’d probably been together before she broke up with Pop. I was in sixth grade and didn’t want to leave my friends. That was natural, she’d said, but I’d make new friends. Have better opportunities. A whole new world. And a dog.
I’d been groomed by Pop to go to St. Gabe’s. The silver and crimson Crusaders. Sat and froze my butt off during every Turkey Day game with him telling me, “That’ll be you someday, kid.” And even though I had no interest in football, theway he took such pride in it, the way he talked about the good old days, made St. Gabe’s sound like the only place for me.
But the dog . . . the dog was a tipping point. My mother had given me an out clause: If I completely hated it, I could come back and live with Pop. I would have weekends and holidays in Bayonne and summer vacations wherever he chose to take me. It would all work out great, she assured me. And I
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