“I’m so sorry I’ve been gone for so long.” I shiver, inhaling his familiar aftershave scent. The one Mom used to buy him for both Christmas and his birthday, so he would never run out.
We hobble to Dad’s car, but Renn is the one who gets behind the steering wheel. It reminds me that he drives now. I have been so wrapped up in my own misery these last few years that I’ve failed to witness the amazing blossoming of Renn Lawson from a kid to a very handsome, very goofy man.
The secret they’ve been keeping from me is hanging over our heads like a guillotine. Or maybe it’s just me. I want to ask about it, but I don’t want to ruin the mood, which is currently friendly.
“So, am I going to find out you turned the house into a brothel? Just wanna know what I’m dealing with when I open the door.”
“She found out about the surprise, Dad,” Renn says seriously. “Told you it was obvious. We should’ve gone with a circus theme.”
Dad elbows Renn. “The house is exactly how you left it. We’ll discuss the changes in our life after you’ve settled.”
Anxiety robs me of my breath.
Dad asks what I want to do when we get home. Since it’s late afternoon, I suggest we drop Loki at the house to give him a chance to explore his surroundings and grab a bite. Dad says it’s a good idea, and when I ask Renn if he is hungry, he tells me he is always hungry, which I guess makes sense when you are six two and surf all day.
As soon as we get home—which, thank God, is not a brothel—I open Loki’s carrier and fill him two bowls with water and food. I set a fresh litter tray in the laundry room, even though I’m pretty sure he is going to spend the first day or so hiding under the couch.
After I’m done, I look around me. The house looks almost identical to how I left it. Almost. But not quite. I don’t know how to explain it, but it doesn’t look so sad anymore. Mom’s things are still here—paintings, pictures, and her favorite throw. But the place has been freshly painted, including one purple accent wall. There are a few paintings that weren’t here before, and there are fresh flowers on the counter.
“Ready to roll?” Dad claps my shoulder. It is so awkward but so endearing that he is trying. I nod. We go back to the car. This time, I drive. It is important for me to get behind the wheel, especially after what happened to Dom. I could see myself swearing off driving due to trauma. I avoided my hometown for the same reason. I will never be able to take the BART again. There are just too many painful memories.
“Where to?” I ask.
“Cheesecake on Union Square?” Renn’s eyes light up. “I could smash two of their bread baskets while I wait for my entrées.”
“Too busy and touristy.” I blow a raspberry at Renn, looking at the rearview mirror. For a moment, we’re just normal teens fighting for the purpose of fighting.
“It’s your call, Ever,” Dad says, sitting beside me.
“Aw, but her choices always suck,” Renn complains.
“How do you know?” Dad asks. “It’s been years since she was here.”
Aaand I want to throw up all over again.
Deciding to play it safe, I take us to a diner the entire family used to go to every Sunday. It’s in Chinatown. It’s called George’s Greasy Spoon. From the outside, it is a train wreck of epic proportions. Nestled in a dilapidated four-story building, with people’s laundry hanging over the sign, concealing most of it.
We step inside, and old George greets us at the door himself, even though the place is jam packed. I’m so taken aback I almost fall over my feet.
“Martin. Renn. Ever! Now that’s a face I haven’t seen in a while here.” He hurries to show us to our table, asking me all about Boston—Is it rainy? Is it beautiful? Is it as expensive as here? It’s like I never left. Like I am back in an old neighborhood. Despite feeling devastated on the inside, I feel the first green sprout of hope pushing through the ash inside me.
It’s called hope, bitch. And it was always there. You just had to give it a little nudge, Pippa’s voice laments in my head.
I’m still in a daze when George takes our order. Because I’m currently incapable of reading a menu without bursting into tears （thanks, Dom）， I ask for my childhood Sunday staple—the hash brown sandwich. I’m not surprised when Renn and Dad order their favorites too. Renn goes for a double cheeseburger with crinkle-cut fries, and Dad asks for a big Cobb salad with extra bacon. In the same breath, Dad adds, “And the usual for the missus.”