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TJ glares daggers at the back of her neck. “I rescind my offer to help you land a rich husband.”
“You didn’t offer.” Sienna tosses her sleek brown hair over her shoulders and spins around to face him. “And it’s a good thing too. You’d be eaten alive. Now, come on. Am I giving you a ride or what?”
“In that run-down old thing you call a car? I’d be better off calling an Uber.”
Sienna raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be such a baby. My car works fine, and it gets me to where I need to go, doesn’t it?”
“Coughing and sputtering the entire time… I’m surprised it’s survived this long.”
“It’s got character.” Sienna straightens her back further and folds her arms over her chest. “Now, come on before I dump your spoiled ass further down the street so you can walk.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
I stand up and rub my hands over my eyes. “I don’t know how you guys have the energy to do this all the time.”
“Coffee,” TJ tells me with a wink. “We’ll check on you tomorrow. Oh, and stop trying to avoid us, and come out with us already.”
“Yeah, don’t mind Larson. I’m plenty of fun.” Sienna smiles at me. “And you know I know how to help you relax.”
I give them both a tired smile. “We’ll see. I’ve got assessments coming up and a play.”
Sienna pulls me in for a hug and squeezes. “Stop looking for excuses.”
Over her shoulder, TJ gives me an exasperated look and shrugs.
Sienna soon pulls away, and the two of them shuffle to the door.
I wander over to the large window overlooking the street and watch them, illuminated by the street lamps. TJ lingers on the sidewalk before shaking his head and getting into the car. Moments later, it peels off and disappears into a speck before being swallowed up by the darkness.
Alone with my thoughts, I switch off the TV and make my way down the hallway. In my room, I pause in front of the dresser, take out an old sweater belonging to my dad, and press it to my chest. It still smells faintly of him like wood shavings and paint, and my stomach dips in response. Slowly, I climb onto my bed, curl onto my side, and bury my face in my dad’s sweater.
Before long, the smell is going to fade, and I am not ready for that.
Dad died after a long battle against cancer, and I still find it difficult to come to terms with losing him. Every now and again, I even see him lingering in my doorway. I hear his voice in my ears, but when I look too closely or strain to listen, he vanishes and the void he left inside my heart aches.
I wish you were here, Dad. Mom was a lot more manageable when you were around.
Frank Bright had been the best father anyone could’ve hoped for, and I know he helped soften some of mom’s sharper edges. As a carpenter who valued hard work, family, and integrity above all else, he was exactly the sort of man people rooted for. I used to spend hours watching him work in the garage with a slight furrow between his brows and a smile never far from his lips.
Around him, my mother used to be a different person, warmer, and a lot more relaxed. I remember envying the look in their eyes when they stared at each other.
The two of them were so in love.
Shortly after my senior year of high school, when he was diagnosed, something inside of my mom broke. She used to drag him from one doctor to the next, refusing the facts and adamant that there had to be another way. When he began treatment, she retreated into herself, and I watched the illness chip away at her, taking bits and pieces of both of them. For months, I used to go to my classes in a daze and spent my afternoons by his bedside, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest. At night, I poured over my books with the sound of monitors reverberating inside of my head. In my third year of college, I got the phone call I dreaded.
On a quiet spring morning, he drew his last breath, and nothing had been the same since. Sometimes, I wonder what my life would’ve been like if he was still alive and whether or not my mother would be catering to Grandpa’s demands completely, having kept one leg on either side for as long as I can remember. Hot tears slide down my cheeks and disappear onto the sheets below.
Sleep finally comes for me within a few minutes.
When I sit up, drenched in sweat and with my heart racing against my chest, I have no idea where I am. It takes me a few seconds to realize I am in my old bedroom, with my dad’s sweater still clutched to my chest and the covers bunched around my waist. Slowly, I blink and peer into the darkness, searching for the source of the intrusion into my sleep. I hear it again, louder this time.
Someone is banging on the door.
Suddenly, I am wide awake and fumbling for my phone in the dark. I tie my dad’s sweater around my waist over my pajama bottoms and grope around for something solid. My fingers close around my middle school baseball bat, and I bring it up over my head with one hand and use the other to dial for help. After I place the call, my bedroom door bursts open.
I take a few steps back, press my back against the wall, and swing.
