"Sarah made lasagna," he said, holding out the dish. "She thinks you're not eating."
"Sarah always thinks I'm not eating." I took it from him, still warm, and the smell of cheese and tomato sauce hit me hard enough that my stomach growled. I couldn't remember if I'd eaten lunch, but probably not. "Tell her thanks."
"Tell her yourself. She says you never text back."
"I text back."
"Emojis don't count, Red."
I stepped aside to let him in and he pulled me into that one-armed half-hug we'd been doing since we were teenagers, back when full hugs felt too soft for two boys from Ohio who'd been raised on football and not talking about feelings. He smelled like fabric softener and that cologne his wife bought him every Christmas.
"How is he?" Derek asked.
"Good day. Knew who I was. Got his pills down.”
I carried the lasagna into the kitchen and put it in the fridge, which was looking pretty empty except for some leftover pasta, a carton of eggs, and three different kinds of mustard. Derekfollowed me and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking around like he was taking inventory. He probably was, noting the dishes in the sink and the pile of bills on the table, and the crack in the window above the stove that I kept meaning to fix.
"You look tired," he said.
"Thanks. That's what every guy wants to hear."
"I'm serious."
I shut the fridge. "He's watching the game. Probably won't even notice you're here for a while, so you can relax."
Derek was quiet for a second. He was winding up to something, that careful way he had of approaching topics he knew I didn't want to talk about. He'd been like that since we were kids. Always thinking three steps ahead, always trying to find the angle that would get me to listen.
"I called Sunrise again," he said. "The memory care place in Corrales."
"Derek."
"Just hear me out." He put his hands up like I was about to swing at him. I wasn't, but I was thinking about it. "They have an opening. A good one, a single room with a window. I talked to Sarah, and between what I can contribute and Dad's pension, we could cover most of it."
"Most of it."
"You'd barely have to put in anything."
I hated that word. Barely meant a couple hundred bucks a month I didn't have. Barely meant choosing between Dad's care and keeping my truck running, between the protein shakes the doctor wanted him on and my own groceries. Derek didn't understand what barely looked like when you were already down to the margins. He had Sarah's salary and his own, a house with a two-car garage, and two kids. He'd never had to check his bank account before buying gas.
"I can't," I said.
"You can't, or you won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, Red, it matters." He stepped closer and dropped his voice, even though Dad still couldn't hear us. "Look at yourself. You're running on nothing. You've lost weight, you've got bags under your eyes, and don't think I haven't noticed you limping. How's the hip?"
I turned away from him and started doing the dishes just to have something to do with my hands. The water was too hot, and I didn't adjust it. "I've got it handled."
"You don't, though. That's what I'm trying to tell you. He wouldn't want this for you. You know that. He'd hate knowing you gave up everything to—"
"Dad worked his ass off for us." I swallowed hard. "When Mom left. When things got hard. He worked doubles for years so I could play hockey. He gave up his entire life for me to have this chance. I’m not giving up on him."
The kitchen was quiet except for the water running and the muffled sound of the game from the other room. I scrubbed at a pot that was already clean, just to keep my hands busy.
Then Derek reached out and grabbed the back of my neck, the same way Dad used to when we were kids and he was proud of us, or when we were upset and he didn't have words for it. His hand was bigger than Dad's now, and stronger, but it still carried the same weight.
"You're a stubborn asshole," Derek said. "You know that?"
