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“I’m good. Thanks, Mom,” I interrupt before she can start telling me which ones my dad likes her to wear or something.
My parents have never understood the concept of these wonderful things called “boundaries.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love that they’re in love. I just don’t want to hear… details.
“Hop to it, dearie. I made your favorite—pancakes! If you hurry, you’ll have time to eat one.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Pancakes were my favorite meal at five years old, and are, indeed, still my favorite. A sudden, sharp rush of warmth fills my body—gratitude for having loving parents who support me, no matter what. Though I’m desperate for change, I can also see that it’s good to have some constants in my life. Family support. Today may be the first day of my future, but this is the first time anyone’s cooked me breakfast in years.
And so, I’m going to dress to impress, eat my pancakes with lashings of maple syrup I still have no idea how to make, and then go impress the hell out of these folks at Stay Inside the Lines.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes, dear?” Mom looks up from where she’s now shamelessly rummaging through my underwear drawer.
“It’s good to be home.”
8
LIAM
I don’t hate Mondays. In fact, I tolerate them fine.
There’s something about getting back into the office and putting my brain in gear after the weekend that makes me feel better.In control of what’s going to happen. The week is mine to shape and mold into something that can be viewed as successful.
My Monday mornings usually go something like this: Wake up at 5am. Drink a green smoothie with exactly one point five cups of casein protein in it. Drive seven minutes to the gym. It’s a boxing gym—not one of those nonsense trendy places with pop music, glittery boxing gloves and people clad head-to-toe in Lalalemons or whatever those ridiculous leggings my sister likes are called. I’m talking about a boxing gym that smells like sweat and testosterone, and has first aid kits on hand for inevitable bleeding.
I spend an hour with my trainer before driving home. This leaves me with twenty-three minutes to shower, shave, suit up and scramble four eggs. At 7am on the dot, I drive to the office and get a large black Americano at Sugarland (stupid name, great coffee) on the ground floor before making it to my desk for 7:30am. I usually have half an hour of peace and quiet before everyone else rolls in.
This Monday morning, however, goes a little more like this:
“Legs, where does your mom keep your lunch box?” I move from one cupboard to the next, opening and shutting as I go.
“Uncle Liam, Harry Styles pooped on the carpet!”
Oh dear Lord in heaven, give me strength.
“He also coughed up a hairball.” A pause. “Eww, it’s allslimy.”
That damn cat.
I open the next cupboard a bit too forcefully, and a pink, plastic tumbler falls out and bounces off my head.
“Ow!” I swear under my breath. “Legs, I’ll clean it up. Come down and eat your”—crap, the toast!—”breakfast.”
Buzz. Buzz.
My phone vibrates on the counter.
Patience. I just need patience.
I race to the toaster—which has black smoke billowing from it—and carefully remove the two incinerated pieces of bread. I reach for my phone with the other hand. “Hello?”
“You sound flustered, little bro.” Luke chuckles, then takes a loud sip of what must be coffee. I’m in dire need of caffeine, but I haven’t had a moment to brew anything. How does Lana Mae do this?“Parenthood keeping you on your toes?”
“Good morning to you too, Luke.” I rub my hand over my face. “And for the record, I’m not flustered.”
Feeling, in fact, very flustered, I cup the speaker and turn to the stairs. “Legs, get your butt down here! It’s breakfast time!”
