At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(5)
Not waiting for their reply, I step back into kid world and consider picking up a handful of rocks—or maybe grabbing the spitball contraption it appears Jonas is holding—and aiming right for Megan’s face. The problem with trying to raise a child who isn’t like Alex is knowing I need to set a good example for him. Even—or maybe especially—when it’s hard.
The noise of parents slowly fades into shrieking children, the incessant squeak of a seesaw in need of oil, and sneakers running through dense gravel. Kids mill about everywhere, already in cliques that mirror the adults, and Jonas slips the dismantled ballpoint pen into the back pocket of his jeans when he sees me looming.
“Hey, buddy.” I sidle up next to him, reaching down and discreetly yanking the spitball weapon away. He turns to glare at me, and I slip my free hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a hug. I plant a loud, smacking kiss on the top of his messy blond hair, much to his disgust.
Teach him to give me nasty looks on the playground.
“I’ve gotta go. We have dinner at your grandparents’ tonight. Come straight home after school, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs off my embrace.
“Straight. Home.”
“Yes, Mom. You can leave now.”
“Weird of you to call me mom like it’s an insult.” I tousle his hair for good measure, doing double duty by humbling him in front of his friends and making us look like a loving mother-son duo to any gossips on the sidelines. “See you at home. Love you.”
* * *
? ? ?
Shortly after six p.m., Jonas and I stand on my parents’ front stoop with the sun at our backs and a wisp of a breeze fluttering the tips of my hair. My hand hesitates on the door handle, and I give him a look. “Best behavior.”
“Don’t make that face. You look like Roz from Monsters, Inc.” He mock frowns, launching into a rough impression of Roz’s throaty voice. “Jonas Hart, you better behave at Grandma’s house.”
“I’m serious, Jonas. You’re lucky to be seeing the light of day right now.” I give him an earnest look. “Grandma’s been having a rough time lately, and you make her happy. Only reason you’re out of jail a night early.”
Jonas’s lips roll together for a moment, and he murmurs, “Best behavior. Promise.”
Late last year, Mom was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, and while having the actual diagnosis was difficult to stomach, it also came as no surprise to me. Because I work from home and live around the corner from my parents, I’ve been the first point of contact for every missing set of keys, forgotten item, and general brain fog moment. Rather, I was that go-to person until my sister moved back home a few months ago to take care of Mom.
“Hey,” I call out from the entryway, kicking off my sneakers next to Jonas. He gets a running start and slides into the living room in socked feet, earning a laugh from my mom. Whether she’s lucid or not, he seems to know exactly how to brighten her day.
Nothing in my parents’ house has changed in decades. The forest-green couch I had my first kiss on, the white-and-baby-blue geese decor in the kitchen, and my sister’s various achievements lining the mantel. The entire place has a golden hue, our family photos look happy, and a warm cinnamon aroma lingers in the air.
It feels homey, but it doesn’t feel like my home. Never really has.
I’m the puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit, and I spent years whittling down my edges in an attempt to be part of this family in any meaningful way—inadvertently becoming jagged and even less likely to connect. I love my parents, and I know they love me, but our relationship is surface level at best. And since the diagnosis, I’ve come to terms with the fact that we’ll never have an opportunity to change it.
Without fail, Jonas heads straight for the fridge to grab a can of root beer, then settles into the corner of the couch. Sticking to a promise for once, he entertains conversation with my mom about his last day of school.
“Where’s Dad?” I plunk onto a counter stool next to my sister.
Blair stretches her lean torso across the counter, and brown hair curtains either side of her face as she reaches for a wineglass balanced on the dish drying rack. “Outside cooking burgers.”
I should’ve known. It’s the one thing our dad can cook well.
“Is that all you guys eat around here?” I raise an eyebrow, watching my older sister give me a heavy pour of red wine.
“On the nights he cooks? Yes.”
The first sip slithers down my throat, instantly warming my stomach, and I cradle the glass in two hands like it’s a warm mug of cocoa on a wintry night. The heat continues through my bloodstream, pumping hard in my chest, when I overhear Jonas agree to do a puzzle with Mom.
“How was the school party today?” Blair stares over the rim of her glass.
I snort. “Splendid.”
“That bad, huh?”
“No shortage of nasty looks from the mom squad.”
Blair tilts her head at me with a questioning expression.
I stop to look over at my son, lowering my voice so Blair’s forced to lean in to hear. “He drew a penis on his English test a couple weeks ago. No doubt all the parents heard about it.”
My sister seals her mouth with a flattened palm, muffling a small bout of laughter.