“Yeah.” She walks over to me and flicks the patch on my arm. “Keep telling yourself that, kiddo. Whatever makes you sleep better at night.” Landon walks into the kitchen and grabs one of the dinner rolls, making Sally throw a fit. “Hell, boys, why don’t you eat the whole dinner while you’re at it? Why wait until we are sitting down for a damn meal?” She and her sassy attitude storm out of the room to check on Mom.
I lean against the counter, watching Landon pretend I’m invisible.
“I picked you for Secret Santa, Land,” I say, not quite sure where the words are coming from, or why I’m even saying them. He looks up to me, a sneer of annoyance stuck on his face. I keep talking, not really caring if he chooses to listen. “I didn’t get you anything because, well, I know nothing about you. So I thought as your gift I would tell you about me. When Penny died, a part of me left with her, but I didn’t lose my mind.
“What Jasmine told you I did, no matter how convincing she was, is a lie. There are rules to being a family, and I would never cross that line. I never told you that because I was so fucking pissed at you for not trusting me. Yeah, I screw up. I have sex with girls whose names I never ask for, and I let people down. But you’re my brother. You’re supposed to know me better than anyone. So for the record, I’m telling you that nothing fucking happened.” Tossing my hands up, I let out a short sigh, “There ya go. My secret Santa gift to you.”
Turning to walk away, I pause when I hear him respond to me.
“I broke up with her.” He runs his hands through his hair, picking his words carefully. “I’m sorry. I know it seems a little too late to say it but I am. I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass all this time and you didn’t deserve it. Sally’s right, isn’t she? There’s a girl?”
I twist around to look at him. “There’s a girl.”
He shifts his feet on the ground before crossing his arms and walking toward me. “Don’t fuck it up.”
I laugh, because it’s too late. “Already did.”
“I don’t know.” His head shakes and he starts moving past me into the next room, “If you’re still alive, still breathing, I think it’s never too late to try to make things better.”
And he’s out of my sight before I can reply. Mom walks over to me and places her hands against her hips. “Were you two just in the same room without screaming?”
I nod once, surprised like her. Kissing her forehead, I throw my jacket on to leave. “I have to get to work for the New Year’s party. I’ll be back tomorrow though.”
Mom pulls me into her arms, holding me close. “If I had known you would stop by so much after I fell, I would have taken the tumble years ago.” When we separate from our embrace, Dad’s standing in the doorway, looking my way.
“Kayden,” he hollers, a cigar hanging from his lips.
I don’t have the strength in me to fight with him anymore. I don’t have the power to listen to him tell me what a fuck up I am. There are so many things in my life I’ve wasted my time holding on to, wasted my time engaging. I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to waste this one shot I have at life.
“Listen, Dad. I’m not a lawyer. I’m not. I’ll never be a doctor. There’s a good chance I will screw up again and again while I try to figure out what I want, who I am. But I can’t handle you telling me, reinforcing the fact that I’m a loser. I’m getting another apartment you won’t have to help pay for. I’m looking for a steadier job. I’m working on it, all right?”
His brows lower and he brushes his fingers across them, appearing to be deep in thought. When his head rises to meet my eyes, he sighs. “I was going to say thank you for being there for your mom.”
Mom’s eyes fill with tears, and I nudge her in the shoulder. “Always.”
Dad’s look of emotion doesn’t last long, which is fine. He’s not really that type of person. I get it. Before he turns to leave, he says, “Next Sunday dinner is at six. Bring a Mexican dish to pass.”
I know it doesn’t seem like much, and it hardly counts as an Oscar-winning performance, but Dad’s short speech to me was pretty damn good. The fact that we just spoke without screaming at one another is a huge improvement from what we used to do.
Maybe, just maybe, I don’t fucking hate him anymore.
Maybe I simply hate him.
Now that’s progress.
The bar is packed by eleven, and I haven’t stopped mixing drinks, getting hit on, and cleaning up shattered glass. There’s a line of people wrapped around the building waiting to get inside, but I doubt anyone else is leaving this close to midnight. “What can I get you?” I ask a brunette who, in the past, I would’ve taken home for the night, but today all I want to do is mix her a damn drink before moving on to the next person.