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“Yes, but I’m the oldest and I go first. I have a responsibility to be a good role model.”
“You are a human being first,” Timothy says. Look whose psychology class is paying off. “We’re our own role models. You can’t control what we do, but you can be yourself, Cris. Who you can’t be is Mom.”
“She’s cornered the market.” Dennis smirks and then stands and looks to Manuel. “I still say we kick his ass.”
Manuel stands.
“I’ll drive.” Timothy stands as well.
I need to put a stop to this before they stir up trouble for everyone. “Why don’t we eat some chocolate cream pie instead?” I look around at my taller-than-me brothers and realize I’m addressing grown men. Not the little boys I helped with homework or bandaged their scrapes. They tower over me, unconvinced. “I promise I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning. If he says something stupid, then you can kick his ass.” When I’m greeted with stone faces, I add, “I’ll drive you there myself. Okay?”
Manuel nods once. “Okay.”
I start for the kitchen, but Dennis wraps his hand around my arm. Always the affectionate one, he pulls me into a hug first. Manuel embraces me next and then Timothy joins in. I sigh, not crying despite the urge to release the pent-up, confusing emotions swirling inside of me. Instead I soak in the moment and the love of my brothers who have my back no matter what.
I’m then told to sit down. Dennis asks if I want coffee or tea. Timothy and Manuel shove each other playfully as they walk to the kitchen and argue over who will eat the most pie.
Manuel shouts, “Ice cream too?”
“A lot of ice cream,” I shout back.
I shouldn’t feel better, but I do. The heartbreak—fine, I admit it’s broken—will keep until tomorrow.
Hours later, I’m slouched on the couch watching Friends, not having bothered to change out of my jeans and T-shirt. I ate more pie and ice cream than I want to talk about. I don’t want to go to bed. I don’t want tomorrow to come. Not that sitting here watching reruns of my favorite sitcom is going to stop time. If anything the distraction is accelerating it. This episode is particularly funny, but I can’t muster up the energy to laugh.
My cell phone rings. I recognize Benji’s ring tone immediately. I blink at the clock, slightly worried he’s calling me at eleven p.m. Snapping into assistant mode, I pick up, anticipating a work problem.
“Hey, is everything okay?” is how I answer.
“In life coach terms, no. I need you. Can you come over?”
“Of course.” I’m already off the couch and sliding my feet into sneakers. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Cris,” he says, his voice scarily toneless.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” My heart is pounding, sending buckets of adrenaline to my bloodstream.
“Nothing’s okay. I’ll explain when you get here.” Then he’s gone.
Well, that was ominous. I grab my purse and dash out the door. On the drive to his house my mind concocts one worst-case scenario after another. Thankfully the rational part of my brain is functioning. If one of his family members was hurt, he would’ve led with that. If someone was in the hospital, I’d be heading there instead.
He said it was a life coach problem, which could still mean something happened with work. Maybe he has to fire somebody he likes and wants tips for how to handle it.
Except none of that makes sense, either. He doesn’t have a case of nerves at work. That’s the area where he absolutely shines. He’s lost in work every day at his desk. Which is why I refill his water, bring him hot tea instead of a fourth cup of coffee, and schedule his workouts so he doesn’t forget. That’s my job.
No other reason?
No. None.
Mourning what could’ve been isn’t going to help solve whatever problem he’s having tonight. I’m sure he has a very good reason for calling me, and after time well spent with my brothers, I’m more than prepared to tackle it.
I park in his driveway and climb out of the car, my cell phone in hand. He must’ve seen me coming. The garage door opens a second later. I see the shoes first. Shiny, expensive. Then dark trousers, a thick leather belt. By the time his checked shirt gives way to his handsome face, my knees are weak. I remind them to stay strong. We can do this.
Other than the weird garage-door reveal—I typically enter via the front door—nothing else seems out of place. His hair is fantastic as usual and, other than the dark hollows under his eyes suggesting he hasn’t slept much lately, he looks good.
“Boy, am I glad to see you.” He wastes no time coming to me, and my stupid heart, who really cannot take a hint, pounds mercilessly against the walls of my chest. I silently lecture her, a fruitless endeavor.
He takes my hand and pulls me through the garage, past a bench and his latest woodworking project, and finally into the house.
