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“I get it. I’m grounded forever. I ask again, where’s Fletch? I need to apologize. He’s not answering my texts. He always does.”

I shake off that little nugget of information. “There’s lots of apologies to make. I’m going to chalk this up as your one dangerous rebellion. But there’s no Discord or gaming for a month. I’m serious. If I find out you snuck non-camp screen time, you’ll lose it all forever. Do you understand me?”

He’s whining, and it’s annoying. “I do. I do. I get it. Where the heck is Fletch?”

“At work.”

“But he was supposed to stay the night. He was going to make steak and eggs. We had plans. He doesn’t break plans.”

“We had a disagreement. It’s nothing that concerns you.”

He leaves the room, then turns back.

His voice is boy loud. Yelling of great volume. “I’m already in a ton of trouble, so what does this matter? I heard it all. It does concern me. And you do keep everything separate. It’s not fair to him or me.”

“Stop speaking to me in such a disrespectful manner. And you didn’t hear a thing. You were passed out.”

He grabs his backpack, then comes back into the kitchen. “I heard you crying when you got into my bed, Mom. I heard you’re fucking things up. I heard Fletch loves me. It felt nice that he cares. I have to apologize to him for lying. I have to earn his trust back.”

“And mine.”

“And yours, but you have to love me, he chose to.”

My jaw drops. How is my entire world imploding? “I love you. Go to camp.”

“Fix this.”

“I will do what’s best for all of us. And there’s nothing to fix. It will be fine.”

He leaves, and I call into work. I can’t today. I walk out the front door and head out for coffee.

The walk cleared my ragged head. The doctor said my dad showed up to his appointment, and he’s back at his residence after another minor hospital visit that’s delayed surgery again. But this time it was a throat thing. I sent some tea he likes with some new crossword puzzle books. His doctor is pleased he’s not drinking but disturbed he’s not at the rehab facility. Dad told me he could do it on his own. I pray he’s right.

I step into my house and see his profile. I’m numb. I want to run to him, but he’s so distant. His eyes are glazed over with indifference. He’s not angry at me anymore. It’s as if he doesn’t care.

I say, “What is going on?” I can’t stop staring at his luggage by the door. Like it’s some kind of international symbol of ‘I’m leaving you.’

“I wish I knew.”

“We had a fight. It’s no big deal.”

“It is, actually,” he says.

“How?”

“The fight was a symptom.” Liam is stating facts. His lawyer persona is firmly in place. While I was crying last night, he was writing his closing argument. That’s never a good thing. I should probably pull mine together, too.

“Say what you need to say. I see it brewing in your attorney brain. You know full well, despite my lack of a degree, I can lawyer right the hell back. I see you moving the pieces on the board, and I need you to be honest with me right now.”

“I’m the only one who’s been honest in this house. I’ve owned everything and hid nothing. You’ve shared nothing.”

“Are you kidding? What the hell are you talking about? I’ve shared every part of myself.”

“That’s cute you think that. And I know you love me, but I’m not sure you truly understand what that means.” He’s pulling his mug from the dishwasher. The one he always uses. I look at him, dumbstruck.

“Fuck you.”

He sits down but doesn’t remove his black trench coat. Instead, he pulls it around himself like a shield.