Can’t believe that in all of those games, Blake has only been able to convince our parents (well, really, our mom because our dad is more interested in his phone than anything to do with either of us) to allow him to come to a half-dozen of them.
“A celebration with the Sierra?!” she exclaims. “Absolutely not, Blake.”
“Mom! You promised!”
“And what if you get sick? There are twenty thousand people at those games!”
“I’ve already arranged for you guys to have a suite,” I interject. “Blake won’t have to sit out in the arena.”
Silence.
“And none of you have to participate in any of the events if you don’t want to. Though Doc is aware of Blake’s conditions and took them into account. Most of the events will be outside and the inside ones will have handwashing stations and masks available.”
More silence.
Then, “It’s too dangerous. You know if your brother picks up a bug, he can get seriously ill. Do you want Blake to get sick?” Her voice blasts through the speakers, hard and accusing. “Do you want him to die?”
“Mom,” Blake begins, exasperation heavy in his tone. “I’m?—”
“You know your doctor advised that you avoid crowds, especially after the last time. Your lungs are scarred from your medications and we’re going into flu season.”
“So, I’ll wear a mask.” He coughs, his breaths sounding shallower, faster. “And wash my hands.”
Because he’s frustrated.
Because he’s having a bad day.
“I can’t not live my life—” He breaks off, his cough wetter, raspier. “I—” He tries to keep talking, but my mom is talking too, talking over him, all that shrill overpowering him, especially since he’s fighting against the coughing, the shortness of breath.
And I can’t listen any longer.
Can’t be the cause of this shit.
Not again.
“It’s fine,” I say quietly. Then again, more loudly. “Mom,” I finally interject sharply, shouting to be heard over her cacophony of words. “It’s fine. There are always more games. We’ll find one that works better.”
“Only if he’s careful and not sick and?—”
“Enough, Mom,” Blake snaps. “I’m going.”
“Blake, it’s cool,” I say.
“It’s not,” he growls.
A sniff has my stomach clenching, my teeth grinding together. “I just worry about you, is all,” our mom says and I know the tears are getting ready to come. Christ. “I just love my baby boy.”
I absorb that blow as I always do.
The singular baby boy.
Because I’m the afterthought.
“Mom—” Blake begins.
“I need to get to the pharmacy and pick up your prescriptions.”
“I have them scheduled for delivery?—”
