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Briar and Busy aren’t due in until Monday morning, and since it’s late on a Saturday afternoon, the twins are probably grabbing a drink at one of the two bars in town. My mom let me know she and my dad would be over at the Perrys’ house for a monthly game night until around eight.
So, that means I have the whole house to myself for a few hours to possibly grab a little nap after my long flight. The jet lag is always rough coming east to west. Going back to Boston is never an issue, but without fail, the first few nights in California are always rough.
Dropping the keys to my rental on the little table near the front door, I lug my bag up the stairs, walking down the long hallway to my bedroom at the end.
There’s the same blue B on my door that was there in high school, a funny joke Bishop thought of when he was in the third grade, deciding we should each have our first initial on our bedroom door. We all got a good laugh, though at the time, Busy was a little too young to understand why it was so funny.
Maybe it’s weird that I still have a room at my parents’ house when I’m 29 years old, but when I open the door and step in, I know any kid who says they don’t need a room at their childhood home is lying.
It looks significantly different than when I was younger. As the only two fully independent adult children so far, Briar and I have been told we can keep our rooms as long as they also function as guest rooms, so the posters are long gone and the walls have been repainted.
In truth, my mom completely redid this room, leaving only my favorite color—blue—as the marker that it belongs to me when I’m in town. She did the same with Briar’s room as well, but Bishop, Bell, and Busy still have actual bedrooms because Cedar Point is still their primary home. Bishop is off at college but only an hour away, so he’s home a lot. Bell never moved away, opting to do her coursework online, and Busy just finished her freshman year at a little college in southern California, way too young to give up her childhood bedroom.
I used to love to hang pictures on the walls, and while my mural of photos has been replaced by a beautiful painting of the view from Kilroy, my mom salvaged some of my better pictures and placed them prominently along the window sill and along the wall with the closet in fancy frames of different sizes and shades of blue.
It really does feel like an adult Boyd bedroom, and I love her for knowing how to make me feel at home in a way nobody else could have managed.
I set my suitcase on the bed and begin to unpack.
When I was younger, I used to just live out of the suitcase, but a few years ago, my mom unpacked all my clothes for me when I was out with friends, and it was so nice to have things put away. Now I do it everywhere I go.
After I’m done, I head to the kitchen to grab a quick snack. I’m poking around in the fridge to figure out what I want when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
When I look at the screen, I see a new message in our family group text, The Bitchells. Leaning up against the counter, my fingers fly over the screen in reply.
Dad: Boyd, you home yet?
Me: Yup, got here about 30 minutes ago.
Dad: Great. Looking forward to seeing you, son.
Bishop: Ah the prodigal child. Welcome back, loser.
Bellamy: Yay, you’re here!
Bishop: Go away, Bells. No one likes you.
I roll my eyes. They’re a mess. I settle on warming up a piece of pizza and pop it into the microwave as my phone continues to ping with message after message.
Bishop: If you’re hanging out at the house by yourself, you’re an idiot. Come out with us.
Bellamy: Yasssss come drink with meeeee
Mom: You two better make good choices tonight. We are taking our family picture tomorrow and I don’t want anybody looking hungover.
Briar: How are you doing the picture tomorrow if Busy and I are not getting into town until Monday?
Mom: What? Since when?
Briar: That was always the plan.
Busy: We both told you Monday.
Mom: It absolutely was not the plan. You told me you were driving home Sunday morning because Chad had some event he wanted you to go to on Saturday night.
I groan, locking the screen and putting my phone on silent. The minute Chad gets mentioned in any conversation is the minute I exit.
Any text, any FaceTime, any room—it doesn’t matter.
