Hudson sat in the warm,bright interior of his mother’s townhouse. It was a refuge from the Brooklyn cold currently raging outside. The familiar scent of cinnamon and brown butter filled the air. His mother had been baking since the twenty-third and showed no signs of stopping.
Hudson sat on the floor in the middle of the living room. The couch was white and impractical. He’d decided years ago that he was too clumsy to eat anything near it. Gloria Hale loved minimalistic Scandinavian design. But then there was the lopsided clay bowl Taylor had made in fourth grade sitting on the kitchen counter, still holding the spare keys. The height chart penciled onto the doorframe of the hallway that his mother had never painted over. The photo on the fridge of Hudson and Taylor at Coney Island, 2004, both of them soaking wet and grinning.
A game of Scrabble was laid out on the coffee table in front of him.
Taylor was on his right, his mother to his left. This was the annual Scrabble show-down.
“That’s not a word,” Hudson said.
“It absolutely is,” Taylor scoffed, not looking up from her tiles.
“‘Zoetrope’ isnota word.”
"It's a Victorian optical device. Look it up."
"I'm not looking it up."
"Because you know I'm right."
Hudson looked to his mother, but she was busy rearranging her tiles with the diplomatic neutrality of a woman who had been refereeing for twenty-six years.
"Mom."
"I'm not getting involved."
"You're already involved. You're sitting right there."
"I'm playing Scrabble." She placed her tiles. QUAINT. Triple word score. She picked up her tea like nothing had happened.
Taylor pointed at her. "That's where I get it from."
Hudson slumped back against the seat of the couch. Outside, the wind pushed rhythmically against the windows and somewhere down the block a dog barked. The Christmas tree in the corner was still lit, half its ornaments the same ones he'd grown up with—the faded gold star Taylor had made in second grade, the ceramic soldier his father had bought the year before he left and which his mother had kept. Hudson had never asked why.
He played JOINT and got twelve points.
Taylor made a noise. "Big military energy.”
"It's a good word."
"It's a boring word."
"Not everything has to be a Victorian optical device, Taylor."
His mother won the first game. They argued about whether to play again and Taylor went to make more tea.
Hudson studied his mother as she collected the tiles and dropped them back in the bag one by one.
"You seem good," she said.
"Yeah." Hudson turned a tile over in his fingers. "I am. Mostly."
She raised her gaze. Hudson usually deflected that look—the prying, all-too-well-knowing look—but tonight he didn’t.
He turned the tile over again.
"There's someone," he said. "Kind of. It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
