She stares at the piece of meat dangling from my fingers before I cram it into my mouth. Definitely doesn’t want to chit chat. I make the sandwiches in silence, making enough for Scott when he gets back. Nothing worse than getting home and finding other people eating something you really want to chow down on.
“Bright eyes?” Scott’s panicked voice echoes through the otherwise empty house. Bacon makes a shuffling dash toward the newcomer and crashes into something with a thud, probably Scott. Bacon’s always ready for scratches. Because of course Scott is only there to deliver attention to the piggy. “Athena?” A pause. “Hen?”
“She’s in here.”
Her head snaps up like she realized he’s really here and sad, red-rimmed eyes meet mine.
“Doubt he’s calling me bright eyes.” My attempt at lightening the mood falls flat.
Her face pales.
“Don’t worry. He’s not my type.” Humor’s all I’ve got in this situation. I grab my sandwich, my go bag, and offer what I hope is a reassuring smile before I walk past Scott. “Sandwiches are on the counter.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off Athena. “Thanks, man. And I hope it goes without saying…”
I shake my head. “Never saw a thing.”
“Thanks.” Athena’s voice is small as I leave the room.
The last thing I hear before the door to the house slams shut behind me is a fresh wave of tears hitting the most badassest of bitches any of us have ever met.
Twenty minutes later, my mood hasn’t improved. I’m distracted by whatever the hell has Athena crying to Scott, and the possibility of having my own kid, but I’m standing outside my parent’s house. Mom’s spied me through the window, so I’m on the hook for a visit.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She rushes out in her robe and slippers. “How’s my favorite superstar hockey player?”
My chest caves a little.
Can’t I just be her son? It’s like a constant reminder of the weight of their expectations holding down my shoulders. What would happen if I didn’t become a superstar hockey player? What would I be to her then?
She’d still love me, right?
Would they complain about all the money they invested in me, in the game, their time, all the driving to and from practices and games? It’s been quite an investment all around.
Fuck. That’s unfair. My mood is sour, my mind so distracted with everything going on.
Mom releases me from her bear hug. “What’s wrong? Moms always know, sweetheart. What is it?”
With a shake of my head, I follow her inside. My ass is barely on a stool at the breakfast bar before she’s in a blur of motion, pulling stuff out of the fridge. “Are we talking cheese and crackers level, or…?”
I can’t lie to her. Apparently I can’t school my face either.
“Alrighty then, time for the big guns.” She bends over into the freezer, digging in the shelves for something. “Travis. Travis! Get in here, Raffi’s back. Traviiiiis.” She won’t stop yelling until he answers or appears.
“Ani, I’m right here. There’s no need to yell.”
Mom’s Armenian—her name means “very beautiful,” and her mom, mytatik, is named Heghine, which means “luminant and radiant.” I’ve never really seen people as their names,butmayrikandtatikare the two most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
The contrast of Mom’s dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin is striking when she stands up from the freezer next to Dad. He has red hair, bright blue eyes, and skin so white it’s almost transparent. Not to mention that Travis is the most un-Irish name for a man with Irish heritage, but I guess his mom really liked the name when she moved to the US.
My brother Razmik, Raz for short, is an ice road trucker who lives in Canada. We see him once a year when he and his family come south for some sunshine. He got red hair and brown eyes, and I got brown hair and blue eyes. Some days I wonder if we both came from the same parents, but then I see pictures of our grandparents and there’s no doubt we’re all from the same family line.
“What’s wrong?” Dad’s forehead wrinkles as he takes me in. “You take another hit?” He rounds the breakfast bar and grabs my face. He’s not a doctor, but you bet your ass he knows what the symptoms of concussion are, and he quizzes me regularly to make sure I’m not losing my memory.
“Dad.” I flap at his arms but he doesn’t let go.
“Are you getting enough sleep? You look tired.”
Jesus, here we go.
