Chapter 3

3

Troy

After Atlas leaves, Glen gets back to talking about the game.

Before we arrived at our parents’ place, I guessed we might make it ten, maybe fifteen minutes before someone snapped, but Atlas really beat his record this weekend.

Not that I blame him. Atlas only seems like less of a dick when he’s around Glen, who makes a sport out of being an ass to his son. But as far as parenting goes, at least he gets participation points, which is more than I can say for my dad.

Mostly, I’m just glad that Atlas’s outburst kept Glen from going into his usual spiel: “I’ve been talking to my friend, and they could use a guy like you once you graduate next year. Says the job market’s really good right now.” Despite how many times I told him it’s not my dream to go into the corporate world, he’s the kind of guy who can’t imagine anyone wanting anything other than the life he’s got, which, admittedly, is impressive. It’s probably the kind of life plenty of other guys would want, but it’s not for me. I’m perfectly content with working at the auto repair shop, like I’ve done since I was sixteen, but I know that can’t seem like enough for a guy like Glen.

After a time-out in the game, he heads into the kitchen and chats with Mom for a bit, and I check the time on my phone, wondering how long Atlas is gonna need for his breather.

I settle back in my seat, scanning the room—and do a double take at a bookshelf in the corner of the room, where Mom displays some of the awards and certificates her sons earned.

Something’s missing.

I push to my feet and hurry over, my gaze frantically searching before I call out, “Mom?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Where’s Brandon’s stuff?”

Silence, and I’m waiting for her to gasp or say, “What?” in horror, but the next thing I hear is, “Honey, I took them to the basement.”

You what?

He’s my big bro, not an old trophy.

I can’t even manage words as I turn to see her standing in the entryway to the family room, her expression casual, as though she’d said, “Do you think I should make extra garlic bread?”

“Why would you put them in the basement?”

“I was talking to my therapist about it, and it’s been seven years. I thought it might help me.”

Help you what? Forget him?

“They’re in one of the bins with the rest of his things,” she adds. “I’m keeping them in case he comes back.”

I’m lightheaded. I can hardly think straight. All I want to say is, Why would you do that? He’s still my goddamn brother.

Dad leaving was hard on all of us, and while Mom and I turned to therapy, my brother looked for anything he could swallow, snort, or inject that might help him forget.

Then he wound up disappearing on us too.

I head through the family room, pass Mom, and start for the basement door, but I stop myself. Do I really want to go down there? Do I really want to see the photos and the stuff that will bring back all the memories?

I imagine dirty-blond locks, bright blue eyes, a wide grin, and my chest constricts.

“Troy, are you okay?” Mom asks, probably because I short-circuited in the middle of the kitchen.

“I…I just wish you hadn’t done that,” is all I can manage.

“When he comes back, it’ll all be together, so he can take them with him,” she says as though this is totally fucking normal. As though my heart isn’t breaking all over again.

Seven years. Too fucking long not to see one of the people I care about most in the world.

The back door opens, and Glen steps in.

When did he leave?

“Atlas has cooled down a bit. He’ll be in by the time dinner’s ready. Just another of his antics. What’s the matter with you, Troy? Did the Volunteers fumble?”

Glen throws his arm over me and guides me back into the family room, and I’m in a daze until we’re all around the table. Atlas hasn’t “cooled down.” He’s eating like that chicken Alfredo did something to him personally, while I fork my noodles around the plate so I’ll at least look like I’m enjoying the pasta.

Glen’s going on about something, and I’m barely paying attention until, “…you should come golfing with me again. Maybe next month.”

I look at Atlas, who doesn’t respond. Is he really giving his dad the silent treatment right now? This is so childish. So like him.

Atlas’s gaze shifts to me.

“Troy?” Mom asks.

“Huh?”

Glen snickers. “Where have you gone, son? I was just asking if you wanted to come golfing with me again.”

Me? Oh fuck.

“Yeah. Sure.” I wish I’d had my wits about me enough to turn him down. Last time I went golfing with him, he introduced me as his son who’s going to be a big player in engineering. The way he shows me off, like I’m some kind of prize he won, doesn’t feel good. But I’m too distracted to make an excuse to get out of it. Maybe I’ll think of one later, when he sets a date.

Of course, it isn’t lost on me that he invited me after Atlas made a big deal about the fact that his dad was more interested in what was going on with me than him. I’d say there was something vindictive about it, but having known Glen since freshman year of high school, I know that being vindictive would have required him to have given more thought to his son than he likely did when he extended the invitation.

I grit my way through the rest of the dinner, and I’m relieved when it finally comes to an end and Atlas and I are heading back to Peachtree Springs. I can hardly remember finishing dinner or helping Mom with the dishes or hugging our parents goodbye before I’m behind the wheel.

For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. Like we both just want to forget today ever happened. I feel Atlas’s gaze burrowing into my cheek, and he takes a breath before asking, “So what’s eating you?”

“What?”

“Did your team lose or something? I mean, I know you get into those games, but come on. For the guy who conned me into coming, you were totally out of it all through dinner.”

I’m surprised he caught on, since Mom and Glen hadn’t mentioned it. Like they were oblivious, getting on as if everything was totally normal and I wasn’t dying inside. Although, that was how they were when they dragged Atlas and me through their wedding, which was only three years after Dad left, a year after Brandon left. And Atlas’s mom had just died like a month before they started making plans. So not exactly out of character for either of them to do what was in their best interest.

“Fine. Don’t answer me,” Atlas says, his voice spearing into my ears.

I barely open my mouth to say, “You’re such a prick.”

“Asking how you are makes me a prick? That’s a new one.”

“No, suggesting that I’m just some blockhead who gets so overwhelmed by football games and that nothing else could be going on in my life—that’s what makes you a prick.”

“You were perfectly fine on the way there. What’s up? Are you worried Glen’s going to judge you because he wants you to climb the corporate ladder and you’d rather work at the shop? Oh no. What if he’s embarrassed to talk to his buddies about you when you’re on the eighth green?”

He’s trying to goad me into a fight. I know it. I should just drop it, but I’m so mad, I can’t help myself. Now I want a fucking fight.

“That’s a pretty glass house the kid born with a silver spoon in his ass is throwing a stone from,” I note.

“You think that’s so clever, don’t you? How long have you had that one in your head, waiting to spit it out at the right opportunity so you could sound smart?”

“You’re right. What sort of dumb jock could think of that off the top of his head? I guess I should come clean. You’ll find out sooner or later. When I’m at school, I actually have a notebook where I come up with clever retorts for when my asshole stepbrother starts talking shit. I don’t even do any of the work in my classes because I’m too busy trying to think of all the things I can say to make him think I’m clever because I care so much about his opinion of me.”

“You must be really obsessed with this stepbrother if you talk about him in the third person even when you’re with him.”

“Well, he’s the kind who talks about himself in the third person, so it goes hand in hand.” I turn to give him a quick wink.

“He sounds like a cool guy,” Atlas says.

“I must not be describing him very well, then. He’s the kind who keeps to himself because he thinks everyone else is so beneath him.”

“Oh, that’s why he keeps to himself? You know him that well? At least it’s better than the guy who forms his whole identity around high school and is so desperate for attention that he’s always wearing his jersey in the halls and nabbing acquaintances so he can be voted prom king. I don’t know if I ever told you, but congratulations, by the way.”

“It’s delayed, but appreciated, even though I know you didn’t vote for me,” I say, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.

I know why I’m pissed right now doesn’t have anything to do with him, just like he must know I’m not responsible for his dad’s behavior, but as we’ve always done, we take our pain out on each other, using each other as emotional punching bags.

Maybe because all that anger has to go somewhere.

Maybe because the fighting distracts us from how much we’re hurting.

Whatever the reason, it’s working, and I can feel myself calming down.

I turn my blinker on to get off at the next exit.

“Fuck, I knew this was going to happen,” he says.

“What?”

“You’re gonna kill me because I didn’t vote for you for prom king.”

I finally break into a laugh, and when I glance his way, he’s smirking too. Not in that way that bothers me—when his narrow gaze is searching to see how his dig landed. This smirk has a sharper twist, his eyes wide like he’s enjoying how much he made me laugh. I hate to admit, it’s kind of charming. A side of him I don’t want to strangle.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with us, but it’s clear we both needed that.

I start to explain why I’m getting off at the exit when he says, “You’re going to McDonald’s. You forced yourself to eat a bite at dinner, and now those beefy muscles are hungry and screaming at you to feed them.”

Sometimes he just gets me.

At the drive-thru, I order two Filet-O-Fish, two McChicken with pickles, large fries, and a vanilla shake. Without asking, I order him a ten-piece nugget and fries, something he doesn’t object to because with some things, I get him too. I park, and Atlas hands me a wrapped sandwich, knowing I don’t care which one. As I unwrap it, he dumps the nuggets and fries together into the bag to make his little McDonald’s mix. I take a healthy bite of my sandwich, my tongue excited by the mayo and pickle of the McChicken.

I throw my head back against my seat, cherishing the taste as my body reacts like the first time I ever came.

“Just what I needed,” I say after I swallow.

I notice Atlas watching me as he pops a fry into his mouth.

“What?” I ask as I thumb my chin to see if some sauce dropped onto it.

His expression shifts. “Maybe next time we should ask Ellie what she’s making so we can swing by McDonald’s first.”

We share another laugh, and it’s apparent we’re both just happy we survived another dinner night with our fucked-up family.