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“Don’t apologize like it’s your fault instead of shitty fucking luck. And don’t tell Mom yet. I want to know exactly what the prognosis is first.”
“Okay. I’ll call Shawn, find out what my options are for getting out of my contract with Kluvberg.”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You just told me you’re paralyzed, Tripp. You seriously think I’m going to write a Get Well Soon card and head back home like nothing’s changed?”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Except you can skip the card because all you ever do is scribble Love, Will inside.”
I snort even though he’s not wrong. I’ve never been better at written words than spoken ones.
“You’re not a doctor or a physical therapist, Will. What the fuck are you going to do? Mom will already be around, hovering. I don’t need you doing it too. What I need is to watch my big brother doing what he loves. What I need is for you to show that bastard in Seattle what a mistake he made. What I need is for you to go home and tell that girl you’re in love with her because I’m positive you haven’t done that yet.”
I exhale. “Tripp…”
“I mean it, Will. I need to act like this is no big deal to get through this. I need you to act like this is no big deal to help me get through this. Mom and I were planning a surprise trip to come see you play in the spring. Except I’m maxed out on surprises now, so I guess it won’t be one. But I still want to visit. I’m still going to visit, and I can’t do that if you’re not there.”
It feels so wrong, agreeing to change nothing about my life when my brother’s has just been totally upended. But I nod because I don’t know what else to do. Then head out into the hallway, trying to hide the sorrow from my expression when I spot my mom. She heads inside the room, and I remain in the hallway, staring at another one of those senseless, stupid paintings on the wall.
“I thought I’d find you in here.”
I grunt, taking a swig of the whiskey I found hidden in the bottom of one of the toolboxes I pulled out, next to a wad of cash. Nothing’s changed in the garage. My mom hasn’t cleared this place out in the eighteen years since my dad left us—first forced, then voluntarily.
We spent all day at the hospital with Tripp, not leaving until he was pumped so full of painkillers that he couldn’t keep his eyes open. My mom made meatloaf for dinner—one of my childhood favorites—and then I came out here.
Retreated to the garage, just like my dad used to. I’ve been sitting on the hood of the old, dead Pontiac that’s parked in here ever since. Shocked it’s still here. I’ve stayed with Tripp the past few times I came to visit, avoiding this place for a long list of reasons. When Tripp mentioned our mom was cleaning out the house, I assumed this had been hauled away a long time ago.
“Why haven’t you gotten rid of this?” I ask, nodding toward the useless muscle car. “It might be worth something. At the very least, you could get someone to haul it away for free.”
“I want to keep it.”
“Why? Isn’t it just a reminder of—” Dad is right at the tip of my tongue. But I can’t quite make myself say it. Not in this garage, where his memory is strongest. Where he spent the most time. Pretty sure he loved this car a hell of a lot more than he ever loved us.
“It’s a reminder things can take a while to fix. But that you shouldn’t stop trying.”
I don’t think we’re talking about cars anymore.
I don’t meet her gaze, focused on the chipped paint I’m sitting on instead. This is too much right now. Talking to Sophia last night and realizing how serious this thing between us has become. Relief that Tripp is alive and heartbreak about how his life has been forever altered. I can’t deal with my mom and our messed-up relationship right now.
She doesn’t leave, like I’m expecting. She shuts the door that connects to the rest of the house and walks closer, hauling herself up onto the hood beside me. Takes the glass bottle I’m holding, surveying the label.
“Would have been a week’s worth of groceries.”
“Dad was never great at sharing.”
My mom makes a sound of amusement. “No, he was not.”
Then, to my surprise, she tilts the bottle back and takes a sip. I’ve never seen her have more than the occasional glass of wine. My father didn’t leave a lot of space for other people’s indulgences. He was the irresponsible parent, so my mom had to shoulder all the responsibility of raising us.
“I’m going to stay for a few more days, as long as that’s okay.”
As far as I know, none of the tests of Tripp’s motor function have come back yet. Until they do, I can’t picture leaving. Hell, even once they do, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to fly back to my life. He’s right that there’s little I’d be able to do. But it’s a level of selfishness I’m not sure I’d be able to stomach, not changing my life at all when his has been totally toppled.
“Of course that’s okay, Will. This is your home.”
“I hate this house,” I tell her candidly.
My mom sighs. “I hate it too.”
