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My mother did not like conflict. She gave me crap in only the mildest way possible. Just like she had never really called Christian out for sticking his dick in my girlfriend. Lorraine liked everyone happy. Sometimes I wondered if she was happy, given what she’d been saddled with, but she seemed determined to be cheerful and pretend her family was well-adjusted.
“Your sister is here.”
“Oh, goody.” I rolled my eyes. I really didn’t mind my sister, but it was my right as her big brother to tweak her.
My mother reached back and slapped my arm. “Be nice.”
Charlie, my sister, was in the kitchen with Camp. She was monitoring his consumption of a banana. It hurt my heart the way it always did when I saw him. He pointed a chunk of fruit at me.
“Dada.” Then he held his arms out, wanting to be picked up.
Yeah, that was a fucking knife to the heart. Of course I looked like the man he thought was his father. Poor little guy had every right to be confused.
My sister fluttered her hands, nervous as hell, probably that I would lose my shit. “Oh, no, Campy, that’s Uncle Cainy.”
Cainy? “Charlie, don’t confuse the kid even further by calling me Cainy.” Or uncle. “By the way, we’re drowning in C names. Thanks, Mom.”
“I didn’t name Camp.” My mother waved to him and smiled. “But I’m so glad he’s a C name too. There’s my cute, sweet baby.”
My heart squeezed, and I felt like I couldn’t swallow unless I had something to pour down my throat. “You got any liquor in the house?” I asked.
Charlie stood up and made a face at me. “You stink.”
“Like literally? Or my character?” I asked.
My sister was three years younger than I was and had the Jordan attitude. Especially being the youngest of five and the only girl.
“Literally.”
Charlie was wearing the shortest denim shorts I’d ever seen in my life and a Patriots T-shirt that I could swear was mine when I was in the seventh grade.
“I just got off work. And what, are you shopping in the kids’ department? Are those Camp’s clothes? That shirt and shorts look ridiculous on you.”
She was showing way too much skin for a brother’s taste.
But then again, Charlie was a stripper, so basically every guy in town except for me and my brothers had seen the bulk of her. Or excuse me. Exotic dancer. She got testy about the stripper label.
“Can we all just have a nice time together?” my mother huffed. “And sorry, Cain. I don’t have any whiskey, but I have some nice Riunite.”
“He doesn’t need any alcohol,” Charlie said as she came back to the table with a damp paper towel and started wiping Camp’s face. “He already reeks of it.”
Irritation started to grow. “Should I just leave? I didn’t come here to get attitude. I already got shit from Darryl tonight. I don’t need it from you too.”
Charlie snorted.
My mother sighed. “Why was Darryl fussing at you? Did you forget to pay your tab?”
“No, I always pay my tab. Give me some credit.” I tried to find somewhere to look that wasn’t at Ali’s son but the kitchen was small, with low ceilings. The table and the high chair were crowding the space. Crowding me. I needed air. I needed a drink.
I wanted to just scoop that kid up and hold him to me. I wanted to breathe in his scent and bury my lips in his soft, white-blond hair. I wanted to go back in time and have Ali and Christian not be the shittiest human beings ever and not fuck. So that this baby could be mine.
Blindly, I turned to the fridge. Rosé wasn’t my normal style but shit, I would take anything right then. It was actually wine in a box. Perfect. I yanked it out and set it on the counter. I went for a glass. My mother hadn’t rearranged the cupboards since Charlie had been born, and in fact, hadn’t gotten new glasses in that time either. There was something both so tired and faded about this house, and yet, so damn comfortable and familiar. I could count on opening that cupboard and finding the chipped souvenir glass from a childhood trip to Portland. My second-oldest brother Cord was the one who put the chip in it, slamming it into his front tooth when he was running to get to the TV remote first.
Camp was crying now, yelling, “Dada” even louder. A pounding started behind my eyes and my mouth felt hot and dry. I pushed the spigot on the wine and listened to the liquid hitting the glass, trying to focus my ears on that instead of the wail of my maybe-son.
“Cain, can you just hold him for a second?” my mother asked. “He wants to be held by his father.”
“I’m not his father, Mom,” I said, refusing to turn around. My heart was pounding in my ears, those cries ricocheting off the walls, around the room, slamming into me. The sound seemed to swell and surround me, to pierce through my chest cavity and crash and collide with the beat of my heart, like cymbals in the hands of an enthusiastic musician. Crash.
