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Dylan
My parents had enjoyed many years together before finally deciding to have a kid of their own. But even the happiest couples weren’t without their hardships, and after making the decision to start trying, it had taken seven years and three miscarriages for Mom to finally get pregnant with me.
From the moment I had been born, she’d called me her miracle boy, the greatest treasure of her life. And it didn’t take a genius to know that was why she worried about me in the way she did. Because if God was only going to grant her the gift of one child, she was going to do whatever she could to keep him safe.
I couldn’t imagine how much it hurt to watch her miracle leave all the damn time when it had taken so long to make him stay in the first place.
“Dylan, youwillcall me before you go to bed, okay?” she demanded, kissing one cheek and then the other. Three times each. Always three.
“Mom, Dad is going with me,” I reminded her.
“I know, so he’ll make sure I hear from you.”
Rolling my eyes away from her to watch Dad stuff my suitcases into the trunk of his station wagon, I said, “I’m sure he’s thrilled.”
“Can’t wait,” Dad replied sarcastically, shooting Mom a tired look before smiling with devoted adoration. “We’re going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” she replied, hugging her arms around her middle. “Nobodyeverknows that.”
The lingering pain in her voice triggered a memory from four years ago, when she’d been reminded of that hard truth.
Weeks after the accident, Dad had told me about the call they’d received from the police and how he’d never heard a noise so pained and agonized come from my mother’s lips. How he had to scoop her off the kitchen floor in order to get her into the car and to the hospital.
Mom had never reiterated her side of the anguish from that night, but I knew she relived it often. I saw it now, written in the worry creasing her forehead, and I bit my lip with helpless sympathy.
“You could still come with us, if you want,” I offered. “Greyson wouldn’t give a crap if both of you spent the night.”
She waved both hands dismissively, shaking away the worry. “Oh, please. None of you boys want an old lady hanging around. You’re going to be drinking and partying, and you don’t want your mom getting in the way.”
“Okay,” I said, placing a hand on each of her shoulders. “First of all, if you seriously think we’re going to be drinking, then you know none of us at all. And second of all, I don’t think a single one of them would complain if you made your famous fried chicken.”
Her smile was slow to form, but eventually, it was there. Beaming brighter than the sun above. “Simondoeslove my fried chicken.”
“He really does,” I agreed, nodding.
For a minute, I thought she’d come spend the night at our drummer’s place upstate. Dad was taking me up there, knowing how much I hated driving on the Long Island Expressway, and there was no way in hell he’d allow me to pay for a car. But it could be a positive thing. The drive might do her good, and she might enjoy the taste of old-time closeness on a family outing. Once the morning came, the guys and I would be heading to Connecticut while Dad drove back to Long Island. I would feel better if he had someone to take the ride with him, and when I thought about it like that, I hoped she would say yes.
But Mom relented, shaking her head with eyes squeezed shut.
“No, no. I told your aunt Janet I’d come by tonight for some Scrabble and tea, and you and Dad need to spend some time together. You’ve been so busy writing and seeing that girl. What did you say her name was?” Mom asked, peering up at me with curious eyes.
God, what I would give to go a day without thinking about her at all.
“Lennon,” I said, turning toward the car and marching for the passenger door, as if to run away from another moment with that woman's image in my head.
“Lennon—that’s right,” she said from behind me. “Are her parents Beatles fans?”
“No idea, Mom,” I grumbled, throwing the door open. “I’ll talk to you tonight, okay?”
“Yes, you will,” she said as a promise.
Dad tucked my wheelchair in the car, on top of the bags of luggage, before kissing Mom good-bye. He climbed into the car and closed the door, then asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn't I be okay?” I narrowed my eyes with suspicion, hoping he wouldn't ask another question about the shit show that had been my brief fling with Lennon.
He gestured toward my leg. “I know it gets uncomfortable. I wasn't sure you'd wanna wear it the four hours it's gonna take to get up there.”
“Oh,” I replied, exhaling with relief. “If it gets annoying, I'll just take it off.”
