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“I don’t know what to say...”
“It’s okay, baby. You did great. You’re doing great. We’re going to come be with you, and we’ll talk more about this man of yours. We’ll get it sorted out, don’t worry. Now, do you want to tell Mafi or should we? I know you two haven’t spoken much, but he misses you and would be there in a heartbeat if you asked.”
Melinda’s head was swimming.
Her chest squeezed with fear, then released. Oh. Her mother wasn’t trying to expose Melinda’s week of sordid undoing. Her mother was visiting a state where both of her children lived and Christmas was coming and she wanted to invite her son. How had Melinda missed this family reunion?
“I will,” Melinda said. Suddenly she wanted to. She didn’t want to jinx things, but the conversation had gone so well with her mother that she dared to hope for a renewed connection with her brother.
Yes. She’d call him. Tomorrow.
~
After his mother had died, Grant hadn’t been one for Christmas. Not that while she was alive he’d been decking the halls. Every year, he’d enjoyed the time with family, and every year he had, at the first opportunity, gotten back to work. Since she’d been gone, he was comfortable adopting the more overt role of family Grinch, and purposefully did nothing celebratory the whole Christmas season. He dodged gatherings, vetoed parties, and nixed mixers and countdowns. This year, however, he finally had an inkling of what coupled people might do, and the recognition rankled.
“Dad,” Grant called from behind his computer where he drafted the next month’s schedule.
“Yeah,” said Buck from the doorway to the office and Grant jumped.
“Christ,” he said.
“You lookin’ to put Him back in the season?” his dad shot back, deadpan.
Grant refused to laugh. “What are you doing hovering there?”
“I wanted a front row seat to you pissing your life away.”
“I’m not pissing my life away. I have a great life. We have a great life.” Grant didn’t know exactly why he was arguing or what he was defending, but it was important, whatever it was.
“We’re biding our time until death comes and bags our asses,” his dad said, but then belied his jab by taking a swig of some kind of freshly-pressed green beverage.
“How can you drink that stuff in the dead of winter?” Grant asked. “It’s too cold for something so bitter.”
“You want to argue with me about vegetal enzymes, or did you have something relevant to say?”
Grant’s father had no time for anxiety, which was inconvenient, because Grant’s anxiety felt like it was going to take a while.
“I just hate this season. Want to get out of Dodge for a while?”
Buck snorted into his glass and shot the juice’s fluffy green foam into his whitening eyebrows.
“Contemplating a cruise, are we? Where do you want to go? Jamaica? Might not be far enough away to escape your tomfoolery. Oh wait, I know—Egypt. Then you can sail right down your favorite river—denial.” He turned away chortling at his own joke.
“Wait!” Grant stifled the urge to combat the insinuation.
Buck’s head swiveled toward Grant but his body was still bound for the hallway. “Make it worth my while.”
Dammit.
“You’ve got juice in your eyebrows.”
“I’m leaving,” his father said from the hallway.
Grant leapt to his feet.
“First, how do I know if I’m in love with her? And second, what’s the maximum years I could get for sexual coercion?”
Buck returned to face Grant where he stood.
