The Hard Count(58)

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, leaning back at the sound of my parents’ bedroom door opening at the end of the hall. I smile when my mom’s weary eyes meet mine, and when her expression looks questioning, I jerk my head toward Dad.

“I got the job at Cornwall. And I don’t know…I just couldn’t say no,” my dad says.

“Honey, what in the hell are you doing? It’s…Saturday. Aren’t you going in to watch films?” My mom shuffles over to the coffeemaker, pulling the water container out and filling it at the sink. My dad leans into her, kissing her cheek, and she raises an eyebrow at him.

“I am. But, film can wait…for breakfast,” my dad says. “Omelet?”

He holds the pan forward for me to see, and I take in the perfect egg speckled with cheese, peppers, bacon, and onion.

“Wow. Yes, please,” I say, sniffing one last time before he pulls the pan away and slides the perfect breakfast creation onto a plate.

“You want one, Lauren?” my dad asks my mom. She stands still, the water container for the coffeemaker now full in her hands, and she stares at my dad with an expression of disbelief.

“Uh…sure,” she says, her lip curling on one side.

“Cheese?” my dad asks as he cracks two eggs.

“Yes,” my mom says, her brow still bunched. She turns to me, and I shrug, pushing my fork into my breakfast and lifting a steaming bite to my lips. I blow for a second or two, but shovel it in quickly—unable to stave off the desire any longer, because the smell is just so damned tempting.

“Holy crap!” I say, the delicious flavors melting around my tongue. My breakfast is usually a granola bar, and the only other times we’ve had food prepared in our kitchen, it was from a caterer making mini-somethings for a party.

“Glad you like it,” my dad says, sliding a napkin toward my plate.

“I’m planning the homecoming barbecue today with Linda. She’s coming over at noon, which is in…seven weeks,” my mom says, her lips blowing the steam from her cup of coffee while she holds it between her fingers under her mouth. My dad twists to the side and lowers his head, looking at her with pursed lips, and my mom’s mouth bends into a smirk. “What?”

“It’s not that early,” my dad says.

“Chad, I haven’t been awake this early in…”

My dad interrupts her with a kiss on her lips, and my eyes are frozen on my parents. The moment is unnatural, but sweet nonetheless. My mom’s mood shifts from surprised to shy, her cheeks red and her eyelashes fluttering. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my parents look like love. All it takes is a single phone call to end it.

The machine picks up after the second ring. The only reason we even have a home phone is for all of my mom’s party planning. But that’s not who’s calling at this hour. They won’t leave a name—they never do. My father’s voice on the recording clicks in.

“You’ve reached the Prescott home. We are unable to take your call right now, so please leave a message. Thank you.”

I stare at my plate, only four bites gone, but my appetite no more. The beep follows.

“You’re a disgrace to this program, and if you think we’re going to let you continue to make a mockery of this team, you’re sadly mistaken! Last night was unacceptable. Do you hear me? Your days are numbered, Coach Prescott. We want change! We want results!”

The woman hangs up.

Our kitchen is silent.

My dad leans back, clutching the handle on the oven while he bends, leaning his head forward and shutting his eyes. He can make all of the omelets he wants, but the fact of the matter remains—my dad isn’t a chef. He’s the coach of The Tradition. And with that great honor comes great sacrifice.

“I’m going in,” my dad says, the light gone from his eyes.

He flips the dials on the stove forcefully, and grabs two of the pans, stepping on the lever for the trash and tipping them over so the food—freshly made—slides in. He drops the pans in the sink heavily, and my mom steps to the stove, grabbing the final two pans with him, their hands overlapping.

“I’ll get these,” she says.

I watch them stare into each other, so goddamned helpless. After a few seconds, my dad nods, leaving her to finish what he started. He grabs his keys from the counter and pushes his Cornwall hat down on his head, the brim low enough to hide his eyes from view.

“I’ll be late,” he says, flipping the door open and shut without another word.

I’m no longer hungry, so I stand and move to the trash, sliding my uneaten breakfast in, then moving to the sink to help my mom rinse dishes. I hear her pull out her bottle of pills behind me, the rattling sound as she shakes them into her hand. I glance over my shoulder, relieved only to see one in her palm. She puts it between her lips, then turns to find her coffee, taking a sip and tilting her head back while she shuts her eyes.

“Sometimes it all just doesn’t feel worth it,” she sighs. When her eyes open on me, they seem sadder than they have in months.

I turn the water off on the sink and dry my hands on the towel, stepping close to my mom and wrapping my arm around her waist. Her eyelids tremble closed as she leans into me.

“Hoorah,” I whisper.

It takes her a second, but eventually, my mom’s body quivers with her laughter. It’s quiet, but it’s not crying, and that’s all I can ask for.