Sunday dinner is about the only time I see anyone other than Jade lately. Occasionally Dad, but Mom and Addie always seem to be at work, which is why I find myself opening the large door to the bar where my little sister works.
I scratch my beard as I take a look around. I'm desperately in need of a shave, especially after being confused for Jade's dad the other day, but right now I'm hoping it disguises me a bit. Lorna's Pub is a Wilmont staple located in the center of town, down the street from Fresco, Mom's catering company. I grew up there, first when it was Abuela and Abuelo's diner, and later when they gave it to Mom for Fresco. It's where I met Dad for the first time. God, that was ages ago, and now here's Addie, slinging drinks down the street. Life is funny.
I take a seat at the bar. It's early afternoon, the place still quiet, so I don't go unnoticed by Addie for long.
"Go home," she says, sliding a Coke in front of me. "You don't even drink."
"I needed to get out of the house," I say.
She rolls her eyes and walks to the other end of the bar. I watch as she pulls her phone out and taps at the screen, her thumbs moving a thousand miles a minute. She pockets it again and makes her way back over to me.
"When did you know you wanted to play baseball?" she asks.
The question catches me off guard, and I'm not sure how to answer it.
"Never mind." She huffs and leans on the bar, her chin on her fist.
"Ads, what's up?" I ask.
"Did Mom always want to be a chef?"
"You know the answer to that. You've heard the story a thousand times."
My phone vibrates on the bar top, but I ignore it.
"She knew at seventeen what she was meant for, Dad knew before that, and you, you were a fucking fetus with a baseball glove," she says with a sigh.
"Yeah," I say, clenching my tattooed fist. It doesn't feel so empty anymore, but it still feels like I'm missing an integral part of my DNA. "Except it's all I had."
She twists her lips into her thinking face.
"Addie, another?" an old man in a trucker hat calls from down the bar. She grabs his glass and refills it, then makes her way back to me.
"Mom didn't know," I say. "I think you missed the part where cooking found her. The part where she had no fucking clue and left home pregnant and alone. Fate found her. What's this about?"
"By the time you were my age, you were already on a farm team. We knew you would follow in Dad's footsteps. And Mom? She wasn't only a mom, but she was building the path to that." Shepoints at the television hanging on the wall at the end of the bar. On it, Mom picks basil leaves off a potted plant on the counter for her home audience.
This is the first time in as long as I can remember that Addie is talking to me, confiding in me, and I don't have an answer for her. She isn't wrong, everything she said, it's all facts. I can't dispute them.
"I just," she continues, refilling my glass. "What if this is it for me? What if I'm the unsuccessful one?"
"Mom, Dad, and me, we're anomalies. We are not the norm."
"You'remynorm."
"Pave your own path, Ads. Success comes in all forms. Sometimes success is simply living a life that fulfills you. It's not always what society thinks it should be. It's not about money or fame. It's about what you have without it. Follow what you enjoy, or let fate find you, but you're only unsuccessful if you ignore the signs."
She narrows her eyes at me, and I'm not sure what I said that pissed her off.
"I hate you," she says, and wipes away the tear sliding down her cheek. "I hate that I want one of your bear hugs right now. I hate that I know you're right. And I hate that you made me fucking cry at work." She grabs a napkin off the stack on the bar and dabs her eyes, a smile creeping over her face.
"Hate you too, Ads."
She walks to the end of the bar, tossing the napkin in the trash on her way by, and rounds the corner toward me. When she wraps her arms around me, I hug her back, not releasing until she does.
"I really needed that," she says as she pulls away. "Now I'm going to regurgitate those words to Jade, and when I get home we're going to do something about all of that." She gestures to my face. I'm not sure if she's talking about my hair or my beard, but either way, I agree.
Addie goes back to work behind the bar, refilling beer mugs that have been empty a little too long and disappearing into the kitchen. On the television, Mom tastes a spoonful from the pot on the stove. Her lips purse, and she shakes her head. I know that look. It's missing something, she's about to—and there it is. Subtitles scroll at the bottom of the screen as she says, "Recipes are not one size fits all. As much as we can measure and weigh, sometimes you need to go by taste."
