Page 12 of Not on the Same Page

For our whole lives, my brother has thrived on routine. Anything out of the ordinary would risk sending him into a full-blown tantrum when we were younger. Now, it manifests as something closer to anxiety. I can see it as he rocks back and forth slightly in his seat.

“Everything’s fine, Robert. Great, even. I have some good news.” I check my watch. “I wanted to tell you and Dad together.”

He nods emphatically, though I can tell from the distant look in his brown eyes that he’s trying to convince himself I’m telling the truth. I reach out to place one hand over his, noting not for the first time how worn his hands have become from washing dishes here five days a week. He looks up, calmer from my touch, and flashes me a tight-lipped smile.

Our parents were in their late thirties when they had me and tried for years to have another baby. At five years younger than me, I remember when Mom and Dad brought him home from the hospital. It was joyous, for sure. But I was old enough to sense some worry. And by the time Robert started missing milestones, what we already kind of knew became clear—he was on his own schedule. Our parents had him enrolled in physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy…and when he started school there were IEPs and meetings and special classes.

He did well in those classes, but once he aged out of the public school special education system and was home with Mom and Dad without seeing his friends every day, he started growing restless and depressed. So, when Mom passed away a few years ago and Robert’s name came up on the waitlist for a group home, Dad made the decision to let him live there. A year into his new living situation, he’s thriving. He lives down the street from his job here at the restaurant with two amazing men, and his caregivers work overtime to make sure they are all safe, fed, and able to provide for themselves. It truly is a dream come true for our family.

But it comes with a hefty price tag, even despite the subsidies Robert receives from the state of Illinois. And with Dad being retired and on a fixed income, this new position I’ve been offered is going to help. A lot.

“What time is Dad supposed to come?” Robert asks, his eyes still pinched with worry.

“He should be here any minute.”

“Is it about Dad? Is something wrong with Dad?”

I soften considerably at that. Mom’s death wasn’t a surprise—she had been sick for a long time before she passed. But Robert had a hard time processing it. He still gets nervous that something terrible is going to happen to Dad or me.

Squeezing his hand, then releasing it, I lean forward and lower my voice to a whisper. “Okay, I’ll give you a hint. It’s about my job.”

Robert’s eyes light up. “Is it a really good book you’re working on?”

“No. Better.”

Just then, the bell over the front door rings and I turn to see my dad walking into the space. He looks happier than the last time I saw him. Lighter, almost. With a spring in his step. And that’s saying something for a man who worked hard every day for thirty-six years to provide for his family. He hugs Robert first, holding him tight like he always does.

“Retirement looks good on you, old man,” I tease when it’s my turn to hug him.

“Don’t get too jealous,” he retorts as he claps me on the back a few times. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a surprise dinner with my two favorite boys?”

My heart squeezes at the reminder that, no matter how old Robert and I get, we’ll always be his boys.

“Casey has news.” Robert claps a few times with excitement. “About his job.”

Dad raises his graying eyebrows with interest. “Well, don’t keep us waiting. What’s the news?”

The huge grin that spreads wide across my face makes my cheeks hurt. “We’re merging with a new imprint, and my boss wants me to be the editorial director.”

Dad and Robert blink at me for a moment, both still smiling but clearly confused.

“Well, I’m happy for you, son, but I have no idea what that means,” Dad finally admits.

I laugh as I launch into the job description Anastasios gave me, filling in details as they ask questions. Their excitement grows with the details I give, and it feels so good to have them both here, proud of me. Since Mom died, these happy moments have been few and far between. Her absence has left a cloud dangling over our heads, and all the change that has come in the wake of her passing has been positive, but difficult.

Without thinking about it, my gaze lingers on the empty chair at our four-person table. As if they can read my mind, Robert and Dad grow quiet too.

Dad squeezes my shoulder. “She’d be so proud of you,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Robert adds. “She would.”

Swallowing against the sudden lump in my throat, I nod. “I know.”

“She’d tell you she was so proud and then ask if this meant you’ll have more time to meet a nice young lady and give her some grandbabies,” Dad jokes. But it works to break the tension. We all laugh because that is absolutely what she’d say. She asked me that same question so many times that I stopped giving her excuses and let her set me up on some truly horrible dates.

What I wouldn’t give to have her here now, pestering me about marriage and babies. But I’d have to be honest. With this new job, I don’t think I’ll have time for anything serious for a while.

And with that realization, Trina flashes through my mind. Her platinum-blonde hair splayed out on the pillow next to mine, her hazel eyes hooded as her delicate fingers danced over my chest.