I blink. “You’re talking to him?”
“Uh, yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“What do you talk about?” I ask.
“What’s with the interrogation? I’m not allowed to talk to my own son?” Dad asks, grabbing American cheese slices from the fridge. “Hey, can you stay until next week? Jerry’s coming by, and it’d be nice for us to celebrate together.”
This freezes me in place.
“Jerry’s coming?” I say, vaguely. I have no idea what he’s told Dad. He hasn’t updated me in days. He did say he’d tell him about his situation when the time was right. That could’ve been… anytime he felt the time was right.
Maybe he and Danielle will roll up in their van, and his broken legs will be a surprise to garner sympathy. He shouldn’t be putting weight on his legs yet, but maybe they found a way to make him comfortable in their drive across the country.
“Next week,” Dad says again, slower this time. “I have a good feeling for when he gets here. My luck always turns when Jerry comes to visit. I’ve got my eye on a couple of games.”
“And you’re going to take care of him?” I ask. “How long will he be here?”
Dad grabs ketchup from the fridge. “Just for a few days before he’s off to New Hampshire. Or was it Vermont? Wherever you can see the leaves change colors. Young people have so much energy. I envy everyone in their twenties.”
“He’s thirty-two,” I say.
Dad squirts a spiral onto the bottom of each bun. “Is he? I thought you were thirty-two.”
“I’m younger.”
“You’ve always seemed older.”
No kidding.
“Ah, shit. You just had a birthday, didn’t you?” he asks. “I’m working on getting you something nice. I just need some more time.”
“I don’t care about that. Don’t get me anything.”
Dad balks. “Of course I’m gonna get you something.”
“Seriously, don’t. The best present you can get me is to talk through a plan. I worked out a couple of ideas—”
“What ideas? You’re loaded now. Pay off the missing amounts. You can afford to pay the increased payments now, too!”
“You think I should pay off the entire amount?”
“You do want the house, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. One day. But we had an agreement—”
“An agreement before you went and won the lottery!” Dad says.
“There’s also a lot here that needs work. Last time you said you were going to fix the screen door. The rip in it is bigger now.”
Dad waves me off. “Eh, nothing’s getting in through there.”
The dock needs work, and the windows need the deepest cleaning the company offers. Everything in here looks worn down. Unloved.
Across the kitchen, Grandma’s baking corner is filled with boxes of blenders, shoes, and baseball cards. It used to hold glass jars of flour and sugar. That was the perk of Grandpa building a custom home. They could add special details like a kitchen space designated just for Grandma’s hobbies.
“Mom’s candy jar. Where is it?” I ask, scanning the counters.
“What?” Dad asks. “I don’t—What’d it look like?”
