In A Holidaze(62)

Andrew looks over his shoulder, giving a warning “Dad.”

“Well, at least say ‘Good morning.’ ”

“Good morning.” With a flicker of pain in his eyes that I know is a conflicted blend of guilt and anger, Andrew ducks back outside.

Ricky rumbles a sigh into his coffee. “It’ll be okay. Things always look worse from the inside.”

? ? ?

No matter how much I want Ricky to be right—that I haven’t ruined everything, that it will all be okay—I can’t see how we get there from here. Theo absorbs himself in video game talk with Miles over breakfast so he doesn’t have to speak to me. Mom tries to catch my eye whenever she passes me a plate, which means she’s constantly trying to hand me food and unfortunately, there’s no room inside my stomach with this ball of regret in the way. I can only wonder what Dad or Benny said to her because strangely, she doesn’t push. When Andrew finally comes in—long after breakfast—it isn’t just awkward as hell, it’s painful. He passes straight through the kitchen, mutters something to Lisa in the hallway, walks out of the house, and climbs into his 4Runner.

For several loaded seconds, those of us in the kitchen— Mom, Aaron, Kyle, Benny, Dad, and me—fall into a perceptive hush. The only sound is Andrew’s truck roaring to life and pulling out down the gravel driveway. Once he’s clearly gone, we return to whatever we were doing before—namely ignoring the giant elephant in the room—but the mood has definitely dropped.

It’s discordant for the vibe to be so dark. Normally we’re all crammed in the kitchen together. Music is blasting, we’re dancing and tasting as we cook, telling stories, teasing each other. Not this time; it’s lifeless in here. Not even Aaron’s fitted metallic joggers and giant Gucci belt bag are absurd enough to lift the mood.

The only sound is the wet, squishy squelch of Mom stirring her homemade macaroni and cheese. All I can think is how much it sounds like the zombies eating on The Walking Dead. I can’t even laugh at this. It’s like a laugh has dried up in my chest, turned dusty.

No one says anything to me directly, but the weight of the silence seems to drift steadily my way, landing squarely on my shoulders.

Ricky walks in from outside, where he’d been shoveling the back walkway. “Heard the 4Runner start up. Where’d Drew go?”

We all make vague sounds, and he walks into the living room to ask Lisa. In the kitchen, we fall silent again, leaning slightly to eavesdrop on her answer.

“I don’t know,” her voice filters down the hall. “Just said he wanted to get out of the house for a bit.”

The volume of everyone’s silent question What the hell is going on? turns shrill. I collect a few dirty dishes to be washed and move to the sink.

Benny follows. “Hey, you.”

Turning on the faucet to warm water, I mutter, “I am the human equivalent of a fart that clears a room.”

Unfortunately, I’ve said it loud enough for others to hear, and Benny unsuccessfully fights a laugh. With relieved exhales, they all take the burst of levity to come over to me, hug me, assure me in overlapping voices that everything is going to be okay, that they’re sure I did nothing wrong. I know they don’t know the specifics of what’s going on, but it doesn’t matter to them. They love me, they love Andrew. Whatever is happening is a blip, just like Ricky said.

To them, it’s something we’ll get past, and come out the other side stronger for it.

I guess I’ll have to figure out what that looks like for me, getting over the feelings that have lived inside me every day for more than half my life.

Mom’s voice rises above the others and I know that my respite is over, which is fine. I probably deserve whatever she’s going to say. “Mae.” I feel her turning me, finding my hand, and pulling me out of the fray. “Come here, honey.”

She leads me out of the kitchen and down the hall. Once we’re alone, she runs her hands through my hair, gazing back and forth between my eyes. Shame washes over me, hot, like warm water on a burn.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“Not really.” I close my eyes, swallowing back nausea. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say other than I messed up.”

“What on earth are you sorry about?” she asks, cupping my chin so I’ll look at her again. “You’re twenty-six. This is when you’re supposed to do crazy things and mess up a little.”

I’m surprised she’s not more upset. Mom doesn’t shy away from big feelings; unlike Dad, she lets it all out as soon as it courses through her. Dad is a thinker; he bottles everything up until—out of nowhere—it comes out in a pressurized stream. Only twice in my life have I heard him raise his voice. But I expect it from Mom. I expected her to really let me have it.

“That’s it?” I ask.

She laughs. “I mean, if you really want me to, I can probably work up to something, but it’s Christmas. Consider it my gift to you.”

“Well, in that case,” I say, wincing, “I should also let you know that I quit my job. Now you can let me have it.”

Fire flashes in her eyes for the duration of her long, controlled inhale and then, with a weary laugh, she pulls me toward her. “Come here.” She kisses my temple. “You look like you want to crawl out of your own skin.”