Page 7 of Unforgettable Player

I nod. “Sure.”

She gives me a comforting wink before kicking me out. “Later, loser,” she calls through the open window.

After she speeds off, I’m left in the silence of the quiet street.

Our house isn’t as nice or big as Scout and Connor’s house. There’s no pool in the back or three-car garage. It’s just a simple, single-story Craftsman that used to be neat and well-maintained, but now has weeds poking up through the flagstones in the yard and windows that haven’t been cleaned for years.

Letters spill out of the mailbox when I open it. I skim through them as I let myself into the house, taking my shoes off at the door and putting the important-looking letters in a pile for Dad to go through before I toss the junk into the trash.

There are no final reminders or anything ominous looking, so I guess Dad is paying the bills at least.

I call him as I make my way through the house, but I get no answer.

A finger of dread curls around the edges of my thoughts and tells me something bad has happened to him. But I push it down. I know where I’ll find him. I’m just too stubborn—or stupid—to accept it.

The living room looks unlived in and the only sign of habitation in the kitchen is the single coffee mug sitting unwashed beside the sink. I open the fridge to check if he ate the food I brought over last time, and my heart sinks at the sight of most of it still sitting there, going bad in the packets.

Taking a deep breath, I ball my fist up outside his office door and knock.

“Come in.”

I let myself in, unsurprised by the dust motes floating in the air and the slightly musty smell, despite the open window.

“Dad?”

He takes a moment to look away from his computer. The second his gaze lands on my face, his eyes get sad. I note the furrow in his brow and the drooping of his mouth. It’s like looking at me physically pains him. Like he’s resisting the urge to wince.

“Dad?”

“Eli,” he says. His voice is croaky, like he hasn’t used it all day. When was the last time he actually spoke to another human being? He takes his glasses off and wipes them on his hole-ridden cardigan. I take in the greying stubble on his jaw and his uncombed hair, my heart sinking. My dad has never been a vain man, always erring on the side of comfort over style. He used to tease me over how long I’d linger in the mirror, fixing my hair, or shopping for clothes with Scout. But he used to take enough pride in his appearance to be neat and tidy. Mom would have never allowed him to go unshaven this long, or wear clothes with holes in them.

“When did you get home?” Dad asks.

“Just now.”

He nods, his attention already half taken by something else.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

Annoyance flickers in his eyes and I feel like I’m hassling him. But I know this is the right thing to do. He’s my dad and he needs taking care of. I can’t do it while I’m away at school, but when I’m home, I should at the very least make sure he’s eaten. It’s what Mom would expect me to do.

“I’m not hungry,” he says.

“I could cook something. What do you feel like?”

“No, thank you, Eli. I’m fine.”

I could cook you that curry ramen you used to like. The one Mom warned you not to eat too much of because it was fattening. I’ll make it just how she used to make it, is what I want to say. But I know better. Anything that reminds him of Mom sends him into a tailspin. There are no photographs of her up in the house anymore because he can’t bear to look at them. And he refuses to eat anything she would have made, because the taste reminds him of her.

I leave him alone in his study and order Mexican take-out instead, leaving a burrito bowl on the counter for him, just in case he gets hungry, before setting myself up at the kitchen table with my books and highlighter pens.

I put my book down and rub my tired eyes. My contacts are making my eyes dry. I should just wear my glasses, but ever since some guy gave me a compliment about my face without them, I’ve been stupid enough to let vanity take over.

I remove my contacts in the bathroom and find the spare glasses in the drawer beside my bed.

Not much has changed in here since I left for college. The photographs framed on the desk were gifts from Scout. One shows us after a Bat for Lashes gig wearing glitter on our faces and laughing with our arms around each other outside the venue. Another one is a really old photo of us in our swimsuits sitting by Scout’s parents’ pool eating ice cream. Scout’s eating like someone’s going to snatch her food away, giving the camera an ice cream-smothered smile. I’ve got my hair in that awful bowl-cut Mom used to give me that made me look like a LEGO man. There are no pictures of Connor on my desk, or displayed anywhere in this room, and for good reason. My fingers itch to open the desk drawer and pull out the only thing I’ve ever stolen—a photograph of Connor in his swim trunks. Every day for years, I’d come home from school and jerk off to that picture. But I don’t do it, don’t dare even open the drawer. I am way too old to be lusting after Connor. It would kill Scout if she knew the way I think about him.

She isn’t only my best friend—she’s like a sister. When my dad checked out, she was there for me. She helped me get dressed for my mom’s funeral when I wasn’t sure I could face it. She laid my clothes out on my bed, fastened my tie and styled my hair. “So you look good, for your mom.”