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We have until the end of the month to get what we want out of the storage room, or in the eloquent words of our mother, “the lot of it will be burned and trashed.”
Considering that many of the cardboard boxes in there contain mementos from when we were kids, you’d think that our mom would view them as having some sentimental value.
She doesn’t.
I round the corner toward the townhouse that I grew up in.
I remember racing up and down this sidewalk chasing my older brother while he held his cherished baseball glove just out of my reach.
I fondly recall helping Ava find her balance in a pair of roller skates she got for her tenth birthday.
I have little to complain about in terms of my childhood. I was fortunate in that I’ve always had parents who loved me. My father’s support throughout school and college came when I needed it the most.
I’d left the cocoon of a world where I was viewed as a great guy. I did whatever it took to make the people around me happy. If that meant sitting up all night to study because my sister had a test and no belief in her ability to pass it, I was by her side.
I passed on outings with my friends and invitations to weekend getaways to Westhampton with relatives when one of my parents needed a hand.
I was their saint. That’s what they all called me because I was always the one who would drop everything in his life to make someone else’s better.
I’ll still do that, but with the knowledge that people think a saint can do no wrong. I can do wrong, and I have.
I was busted by my mom for being drunk when I was fourteen, and I got pulled over for speeding on my drive up to The Buchanan School after a weekend in the city when I was seventeen.
The police officer found a small zip-top bag in my pocket. I had smoked the weed that had been in it days before, but the scent still lingered. He detained me and reached out to my parents to fill them in on what had happened.
My mother swore I’d tarnished the family name. My dad told me to double-check all of my pockets before I set out on the open road again.
Neither of those things compared to my transgression when I was days short of my eighteenth birthday. I’d taken one of my senior classmates to the ground with a punch to his face. I did that after I caught him bullying a freshman that couldn’t defend himself. I got in the middle of it because I had to. It was that simple to me.
It earned me a month-long suspension from The Buchanan School, and I was banned from graduation ceremonies. All of that was the result of my being arrested for the punch. The charges were dropped, but I felt the impact of that night for a long time afterward, mainly because I’d let my dad down.
“Saint!”
I glance over my shoulder when I hear that name and the familiar voice attached to it.
Declan, dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt, smiles at me as he jogs along the sidewalk with a white paper bag in his hand.
It’s rare for me to see my brother like this without the power suits and styled hair.
He looks like the fifteen-year-old kid who got a tattoo on his chest by flashing a fake ID at a tattoo shop on the Lower East Side.
I give him a once over. “That’s a look, Decky.”
Coming to a stop beside me, he runs his hands over the front of the shirt. “I’ve already been here for an hour. I found this in the storage room. What do you think?”
I tug on the hood. “I think it’s too fucking tight. Can you breathe?”
“Barely.” He huffs out a laugh. “I ran out to grab us some dinner.”
I glance at the bag. “What did you get?”
“Chili fries and loaded hot dogs.” He grins. “Remember when we’d sneak this into my room? Mom was never the wiser.”
Happy to burst his bubble of oblivion, I pat his shoulder. “She always knew. Dad would keep her at bay by dancing with her.”
Both of his brows pop up. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” I smile. “Since they’re in Florida, we can enjoy our dinner on mom’s best dishes and crack open a bottle of granddad’s scotch.”
