“Do you want me to grab you some water?” I sigh, wondering if sixteen year old me knew I’d still be checking on my sister’s alcohol intake into our twenties.
“Stop actin’ like I’m unhinged, Grant.” Shoving up from the chair, she stalks away from me, moving into our parent’s study to siphon more of their good whiskey, no doubt.
Just like the good old days.
“Well, you’re spillin’ your guts about Connie to anyone who will listen, so,” I challenge, stealing the bottle out of her hand before she can add more to the crystal cup meant for punch.
“Some of us have totalkabout things. I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”
“I talk to y—” Her loud “ha” stops me in my tracks, and she steals the bottle back.
“Notme, Grant—her. Mom. Talk to mom. Hell, talk toGen. You just shut down the moment things get hard, or real. You’re never goin’ to feel anything worth feelin’ if you keep livin’ like this.” There are tears in her eyes, more than there would be were it not for the fact that her blood might be pure whiskey right now.
The small amount of liquor in mine sings to me that she’s right, but the lived-in part of me wins over, and I feel the urge to run from this conversation before it’s even started.
“Let’s not talk about this here, Sloane,” I tell her softly, hoping it’ll convince her.
“Why not!?” she explodes, slamming her glass down, the contents sloshing onto the desk.
“Because it’s Thanksgiving,” I tell her, my voice a deep rumble as I fight against the current she’s pulling me into. “And Mom is having a great time, if you’ve even noticed, and no one wants to hear about the dead beat who abandoned us,” I finish, through gritted teeth, my sadness over everything pushing against the back of my eyes.
“How long are you goin’ to pretend thatthis,” she motions to the dark paneled study, overflowing with golden threaded collector’s editions and Fielder family history she’s never cared about, “is the entirety of your life? Have you even told Dad about the draft?”
“I don’t need to tell him yet, there’s time for?—”
“No, Grant!” she shouts, and I take a step back. “There isn’t time. Eventually, the words are due. The feelings come. Life happens. And the longer you keep pushing off anything that leaves you feeling even a little vulnerable, the longer you’re going to spend that life alone. Unhappy. A sad excuse of the person you could be.”
The words feel like a slap in the face, the truth of themstinging. And instead of agreeing, I feel myself get angrier by the second.
“So what do you prescribe, Sloane? Since you’re so fucking wise?” I spit, unable to stop myself. Her tears start to fall, face red with fury as she clenches her jaw in an attempt to stifle them. “Am I supposed to live like you? Don’t look any happier than me, from where I stand. You say I don’t face my problems—you literallyrunfrom yours. What even happened in California?”
“Fuck you, Grant,” she seethes, her face crumpling in real time as she shoves past me and out of the study, the sound of her frantic footsteps fading within seconds.
“What the hell did you say to your sister?”
My dad stands there, hands shoved into the single pocket of his signature quarter zip, none of the anger in his voice anywhere on his face.
I clear my throat, shame coursing through me because while she pushed me, I never should’ve spoken to her like that. Never should’ve used her pain against her.
“I, uh… we were arguing,” I tell him, the explanation falling flat.
“Yeah, I gathered that, otherwise she wouldn’t have run upstairs sobbing.”
Fuck.
“It’s fine. I’ll talk to her.” I offer him a curt smile, making to leave, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Sit down, son,” he says, his anger dissipating as he studies my face. I don’t have a reason not to—it’s Thanksgiving, I have nowhere else to be—so I do, my molars grinding the entire time. “We never talked about Genevieve.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” I stare into the firekeeping this room even warmer than the rest, the flames looking a lot like all the fires raging in my mind.
“Seemed like things were serious.” I just shrug, not sure of the answer myself. “I wish you’d talk to me, Grant.” At this, I finally laugh.
“It’s not like you ask,” I tell him, the liquid courage I’ve been sipping on all night pulling the words out of me with ease. My dad nods in long, languid motions, ruminating over his response.
“You’re right. I could’ve done a lot of things differently—with you. Sloane was easier for me, I think, ‘cause she was so obvious with her disdain. Made it easy to figure out how to get to her.” He loses a sigh, sinking back into the sofa. “But you always had it together. I guess I convinced myself that if you needed me, you’d let me know. You were good like that. Always knew I could depend on you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t want to be dependable,” I tell him, giving voice to the feeling I felt every time my parents looked at me with unquestionable trust. I wanted just an ounce of distrust—just an inch to do something outside the careful confines they had created for me .
