Maybe what he needsissome solitude, to sort out his life without me pressuring him to fit in before he’s ready.
But Joyce called this morning.
Family dinner tonight, bring Will. I don’t argue with my mother-in-law.
So now, I’m doing the exact thing I said I wouldn’t, standing outside room two with Ollie’s hand in mine and Addie beside me, knocking on the door of someone who has no interest in seeing me.
Will opens the door in sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt, a few days of stubble grown longer than I’ve ever seen on him, a pale shine to his skin. He looks like someone who’s been inside for a week.
And he probably has.
His eyes narrow in my direction, ready to start something, but then his eyes drop to Ollie, and to Addie, and I knew bringing them to the door was the right decision. He can’t help but be happy to see them, his face lighting up the way it always does at the sight of the kids.
I’m saying my thanks to whatever in him makes him such a great uncle right about now because I was one argument away from having to admit to Joyce that I couldn’t handle him.
“Uncle Will!” Ollie pulls free of me and launches himself at Will’s knees, wrapping both arms around them. “We came to get you!”
Will steadies himself against the doorframe, putting his other hand on Ollie’s head, ruffling his hair. And this is the first time I’m noticing that Ollie’s hair is the same color as his. A lighter brown. Different from my brunette and Jess’s blonde.
“You have a mustache like Daddy now,” Ollie says, tilting his head back to look up at him.
“Don’t say that,” Will argues, and I roll my eyes at the classic ‘make fun of my appearance’ thing he always has to do.
Addie is quiet beside me, watching him with an insight that my six-year-old doesn’t have. Will doesn’t look right. We haven’t seen him for a week. And the last time…
“You okay?” she asks.
“Sure thing, kiddo,” he says, and it would almost be convincing if he didn’t look like shit. “What’s going on?”
“Grandma wants us all for dinner,” Addie says. “You too.”
His eyes flick to mine, like an instinct he didn’t mean to have, and he looks away before I can acknowledge him.
“You should come,” Ollie says, still attached to Will’s knees. “Grandma’s making Spaghetti. It’s the best thing I ever ate.” He looks down at Ollie, then at Addie, and I know he wants to say yes. I can see it. He missed them. But spending time with his parents…
“Let me get dressed,” he says, making up his mind quicker than I thought he would.
Addie takes Ollie back to the car, playfully arguing with him across the parking lot, while I linger by the door, hoping to clear the air before another uncomfortable evening.
According to my watch, it only takes him eight minutes to look presentable in a hoodie and jeans, his facial hair shaved to an intentional scruff that suits his face. “This is a terrible idea,” he says, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Maybe it’ll be fine.”
“Not likely,” he counters, moving toward the car. We walk in silence across the parking lot, Ollie’s voice drifting from where he’s shouting at Addie about something.
At the car, Will pauses, his hand on the door handle, and I don’t think this discomfort is about me. He’s worried about dinner. About walking into his parents’ house and trying to find some semblance of normal after he spent the last twenty years being anything but.
I reach out for him, my hand on his shoulder, trying to be there for him the best way I can. But the moment we make contact, he shrugs me off and pulls the car door open, leaving me standing outside my car.
So much for clearing the air.
The fence has needed to be patched up since last winter, when a storm knocked some boards loose, and Frank has never once suggested we do something about it until today. About five minutes after I got here, he came into the living room with his toolbox and told me to come on.
So here I am, putting up some boards that aren’t the same color as the fence, but Frank tells me will settle. And I’m doing a terrible job. No help at all.
Maybe making itmoredifficult than it should be.
But Frank is patient, watching me with the look of a man who has accepted that his son-in-law doesn’t have a handy bone in his body. “You’re holding it wrong,” he says, gesturing toward the tool I can’t name.
