In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(109)

Only Liza gets up.

“Hey,” I say to her. She hugs me briefly.

“Sorry, Daniel,” she says. I nod at her.

“Um, this is Rex,” I say. “That’s Sam, Colin, and Brian, and this is Liza,” I tell Rex, pointing. Sam nods at him, Brian gapes, and Colin’s eyes narrow. Liza holds out her hand and Rex shakes it, smiling at her.

“Nice to meet you all,” Rex says politely, but I notice that his voice is deeper than it usually is. He looks so out of place here, like a figure in a painting razored from its background and pasted in another. He’s so clean and fresh and honest. In our shabby living room, he also looks huge. I look around, trying to see it through Rex’s eyes. The floorboards are dark with oil that’s been tracked in from the shop year after year, the shellac peeling in places near the front door. The plaster is uneven, so the yellow light from the overhead fixture highlights every dip and bulge. The reclining chair is broken, forever over-reclined, so it has pillows shoved in the back so you can still see the TV. The couch is threadbare, with a grimy red blanket thrown over the back that my mother crocheted when she was pregnant with Brian and wanted something to do with her hands.

And suddenly I want to be back in Rex’s clean, cozy cabin more than anything. Want to be watching a movie in front of the fire or sitting on a stool in the kitchen watching Rex cook. Want to be walking Marilyn in the woods around Rex’s house or lying in Rex’s big bed while Rex reminds me how good it’s possible to feel.

When it’s obvious that the guys aren’t going to say anything to Rex, I walk farther into the room and, seeing no safe place to sit down, stand against the wall next to the TV.

“Um, so what the f*ck happened?” I ask. “Was Dad sick?”

“If he was he didn’t say so,” Sam says. Liza has walked back to his chair and is resting her hands tentatively on the back of it, as if she thinks Sam might tell her to leave any moment.

“I don’t think he went to a doctor or anything,” Brian adds.

“So, he just dropped dead all of a sudden?” I say. “Can you please tell me what happened?”

“We were in the shop,” Sam says. “Everything was fine. Then I heard a crash in the office and Pop was on the floor, grabbing at his heart. Luther called 911.” Sam’s getting choked up. “He died at the hospital.”

“Shit,” I say. “So, the doctors said it was a heart attack?”

Sam nods.

“What else did they say?”

“Are you a f*cking medical doctor now too?” Colin’s voice is poisonous.

“No, I just want to know what happened.”

“We’re having the funeral tomorrow,” Liza says, taking pity on me.

“Jesus, that’s fast,” I say. Of course, at this point it’s already been three days since they didn’t call me right away.

“Well, we can’t keep the shop closed and Vic got us an in at his cousin’s funeral parlor,” Sam says.

“Seriously, Sam? Vic’s a f*cking slimeball.”

“Just because you don’t like him…,” Brian says.

“Dude, he’s a criminal; come on.” I look at Liza, hoping for some backup, but she’s looking at the floor.

“Well, you weren’t here to make other arrangements,” Colin says, his voice shaking with anger. “So we took care of it. If you’re too good to go to the funeral because you don’t approve of Vic, then that’s your f*cking business.”

I grit my teeth, at this point just trying to get all the information before I get the hell out of here.

“Of course I’m going to the funeral. What can I do to help?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “It’s taken care of.”

He gives me the details.

“Okay, well,” I say. I feel like I should say something but I have no idea what.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

“Not like you ever gave a shit about him anyway,” Colin mutters.

Fury lances through my chest, propelled by the old familiar cocktail of frustration, pain, and injustice.

“You know that’s not f*cking true, Colin,” I say, furious to hear my voice shaking. “I just didn’t have that much in common with him.” Rex takes a step closer and puts his hand on the small of my back.

“I’m sorry,” Brian says, “but who the f*ck are you?”

“Well, yeah,” Colin says, standing up. He sways on his feet. Shit, he’s trashed. “What would Pop have in common with a stuck-up little faggot?” He puts his finger in my face. “He looked out for you and you didn’t even care enough to stick around.”

“Colin,” Sam warns.

Colin’s staggering drunk, but his speech is horrifyingly clear. He actually believes that they’re the loyal sons who loved our dad and I’m the selfish piece of shit who took him for granted and then bailed. I can feel it: the tickling in my ears and tightness in my throat that means I’m going to cry if I don’t do something quick. So I do the only thing that always works. I get mad instead.

“What the f*ck, Colin!”

I shove him, thinking that this unsteady on his feet he’ll go down like a sack of cement. But, even wasted, Colin’s a fighter, and he sways back to center like a punching bag, grabs me by the shirt, and slams me against the wall so hard the light flickers. I hear Liza’s intake of breath. Colin’s face is a mask of fury. He’s the only one of us who looks like our mom, with light brown hair and light blue eyes. He’s my height, but he’s built like a tank. I’ve never won a fight with Colin. Not ever.