The brown leather monstrosity in my father’s living room was probably trendy in 1997. But now it’s lumpy, sagging in the middle, and makes ominous creaking sounds every time I change position. Which is often. Because I haven’t slept more than three hours straight since the night we brought my dad home from the hospital.
The night with Chloe.
Which I’m not thinking about.
I’m standing at the stove in my childhood kitchen, making scrambled eggs at nine a.m. on a Thursday because that’s my life now—playing nurse-slash-chef to my father, who can’t lift his arm above his shoulder without wincing.
I always forget how small this kitchen is. Outdated. Old cabinets that should have had a fresh coat of paint years ago. Linoleum floors patterned with what’s supposed to look like hardwood but absolutely does not. An ancient refrigerator that hums from the corner like it’s planning a revolt.
Everything in this house is frozen in time.
Including me, apparently. I’m a child, still trying to keep everything calm and happy.
My father isn’t handling his sudden withdrawal from alcohol too well. Not since I went through the house and poured all his bourbon, whiskey, and even a half pint of Macallan down the drain.
The eggs are cooking too fast. I turn down the heat. Scrape them around the pan with a spatula that’s missing half its rubber edge.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Again.
It’s been buzzing all week. Texts from Chloe that I’ve been answering with increasing brevity.
Chloe
How’s your dad?
Brody
Better. Thanks.
Chloe
How are you holding up?
Brody
Fine. Busy with the team.
Chloe
See you Saturday?
Brody
Yeah.
One-word answers. The conversational equivalent of a brick wall. Because if I write more than that, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
Like Please come over.
Or worse. I need you.
My defensive game has gone back to being garbage too. So all around, things are just…great.
The toast pops up. Burnt on one side, pale on the other. Naturally. I scrape the black parts into the sink. Plate everything. Pour coffee that’s been sitting in the pot for forty minutes and is now thick enough to be a biohazard.
“That smells good,” my dad says from the doorway.
