My dad shrugs like the foul play is just common. I recognize that we’ve all encountered this shit, but whenever the media touches my mom or dad’s addictions, they cross a line. Incinerating all sense of morality and ethics.
“What’s fucked up is this taco,” my dad says. “Where are the extra hot sauce packets?” It’s already dripping in orange hot sauce, but my dad would put Tabasco on everything if he could.
“You’ve probably burned half your taste buds in your mortal life,” I tell him.
“Then you’re doing well by not mimicking me.”
I flip his words over and over in my head.It’s not because I wouldn’t want to be like you, I want to say. But my dad fucking knows this.
It’s the world I’m concerned about.
It’s you.
I stare off for a second, and Ryke throws a handful of hot sauce packets at my dad. They hit him square in the face.
My dad drills a glare between his older brother’s eyes, only a year apart. Ryke is near laughter.
“I’ve decided you’re no longer my brother,” he says to Ryke.
“Who the fuck am I then?” Ryke balls up another dirty napkin.
“Just Some Guy. JSG for short.”
Connor grins wider. “I’ve been wanting to rename him for some time. Though I’d have gone with something else.”
Ryke groans. “We don’t want to fucking know.”
“I do,” I chime in.
“Of course you do,” Ryke says, tossing his wadded napkins into the paper bag. “You’re always on his fucking side.”
It takes him a long beat to finally look up at me. His tough brown eyes meet my steady forest-green, and I say, “I didn’t know there were sides.”
“There are sides.” My dad stands and reaches over to Ryke’s lap. “I’m alwayson the side with the good food.” He snatches the paper bag and plops back down next to me. “Taco?” He tries to break the tension, but I’m not dropping this.
“I’m not always on Uncle Connor’s side,” I rebut. “He called me an idiot last week. Why would I side with that?” I try to holster a smile as I gesture at Connor who archesonebrow. We were playing chess, and when I lost, he told me not to worry. That I didn’t have a chance with my IQ compared tohisIQ.
Subtly, he called me an idiot. He doesn’t deny or refute. And I love blunt honesty, so I actually like that memory.
“You tell me, Moffy,” Ryke says. “You’re the one who’s been dyeing your fucking hair for a year.”
The room quiets.
And he leans forward, forearms on his legs, to be closer to me. “What did I do? Just let me know, and we can fucking fix this.”
I realize that I’m sitting in the exact position as him. Bent forward, forearms on my legs. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I just think.
I think about how Ryke Meadows may’ve had the greatest influence on my life. If I’m more like him than my father—isn’t that the conclusion?
Does that mean I spent too much time with him? Does that mean I love him more? Will the media draw these questions—andfuck these questionsand my mind that won’tstopturning.
My dad raised me, and when I was twelve, I had a choice. I could either resent Ryke or I could love him as much as my dad does.
I chose to love him. As a teenager, he taught me how to ride a motorcycle. We went on annual camping trips. I created the Charity Camp-Away out of my love for hiking, camping, kayaking—and would that even exist without Ryke?
He showed me how to build a fire with flint. How to pitch a tent. How toclimbrock faces. Outside of the Meadows family, I’m theonlyone who’s ever been to their Costa Rica cabin-treehouse.
Ryke and his daughter Sulli invited me.
