“Turns out there’s a limit to how many times I can be asked about my homework before I lose my cool with Mom, and that limit is twenty-seven.”
“You have homework?” The words sound soggy as Jonas spits them out around a mouthful of cereal.
“Thankfully, no. But Grandma gets a bit confused.” Blair gives him a reassuring smile.
My hands prop up my chin. “Rookie numbers. Shereminded me to take my clean laundry home with me at least forty times the other day. Was I doing laundry at their house? Nope.”
Blair’s laughter comes out weak, followed by a sigh of understanding. Mom’s early-onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis last year hit everyone hard, but Blair has always been the quintessential eldest daughter, so she stepped into the primary caregiver role without a second thought. Practically shoulder-checked our dad out of the way.
Not that I mind. I’d done my best to help our parents, but Dad rarely called for assistance, and the first time Mom called me by another name, I crumpled to the floor in my laundry room. While she hasn’t always liked me, at least she loved Whit Hart as any parent loves their child. The loss of maternal connection feels like smoothing out the last few rough patches, removing the only places we still catch on each other and stick.
The silence that follows is deafening; only the crunching of Jonas’s sugary cereal cuts through the still air. Then the slurping of milk from his bowl.
I yawn. Loudly and for a long time.
Jonas blinks up at me, studying my face. “If you’re younger than Auntie Blair, why do you look so much more tired all the time?”
I take a long drink of hot coffee, doing my best to ignore Blair’s snickering as she places her empty mug in the dishwasher.
“Really funny.” My mug clunks against the table, and I press the pad of my thumb to my temple with a wince. “Bowl. Sink. Now.”
Popping a shoulder, he does as he’s instructed. But not without a little bit of sass, naturally. “Just sayin’. Maybe you should try using all those creams you have in your bathroom or something while I’m gone.”
The slight tension in my skull might become a full-blownmigraine before he sees himself out the door. And on a day with more than one hundred résumés and a dozen interviews to get through, no less.
“Want a kid?” I turn to my sister, who’s desperately trying to wipe the smirk from her lips. “He’s free, he’s potty-trained, and he occasionally listens.Please,take him.”
“But then I might look old like you,” Blair quips.
“Oh, you definitely will. Bet you have gray hair by the end of the day. But look at his cute little face—isn’t it worth it?”
Jonas’s lip flips in disgust, making him arguably less cute.
“Yeah, you’re doing a crappy job of selling him. I like looking young”—she flicks the ends of her long brown hair with a dramatic flourish—“and beautiful.”
Jonas slides into his shoes and looks at me with pleading eyes. “See?I have to stay home today so she doesn’t get ugly.”
The last of my coffee goes down in a rapid gulp. The next cup sounds like it might need a shot of liquor in it.
“Good try, buddy.” Blair ruffles the mop of dirty blond hair on top of his head.
“If I stay here, I promise I won’t be too loud while Mom works.”
“Jonas,” I wearily reply. “We’ve talked about the summer plan a million times. You get Mondays and Thursdays at home.”
The summer plan, also known as operation keep Jonas from having fifteen hours of screen time every day while simultaneously ensuring he’s not out with his awful friends causing trouble. He spends two weekdays with Blair and one with my dad. I wish I could rely on Alex, instead of my dad and sister, but he’s blown us off twice in the last week. Last Friday I made the mistake of promising Jonas that his dad was coming—you’d think I’d know better after ten years of this bullshit—and I was left with a sulky preteen for two full days when, inevitably, Alex didn’t show.
Jonas huffs, pushing past Blair to get out of the house asfast as possible. So desperate to prove he’s pissed off, he skipped tying his shoelaces during his irritated escape.
I mouth an apology at my sister.
Slowly shutting the front door as she follows him out, Blair says, “Nothing I can’t handle. I’m gonna need a Sephora gift card sent my way, though.”
The house is silent, save for the melodious percolation of coffee, and though I should get ready for work, I sink into my chair with an alleviating breath.
Once I finally work up the energy to start my day, the morning goes by in a flurry of résumés and job interviews. Corporate recruiter might not be most people’s dream job, and I can understand why. The upside is that conducting interviews for a variety of positions in the private healthcare sector means I meet a lot ofinterestingpeople. Plus, I have the flexibility of working from home and scheduling my own calendar, which has proven to be a lifesaver when it comes to Jonas.
Was it my dream job at seventeen? No.
