I lean into the family room to tell them I’m home. If Mom’s paying attention, she’ll read my expression and wish me a good night. If she isn’t, if she gives me crap about my attitude to Paul earlier, then the gloves are coming off. I’ll make it clear that no matter how much she forces Paul and me to watch sports together or discuss current events, we aren’t going to bond. We are never going to be the magical blended family she reads about in her parenting magazines.
And Paul, I’ll tell him all the things I’ve kept in, starting with: I don’t care what you read on the Modern Father blog, real men don’t wear pink polo shirts to match their daughter’s onesie or carry diaper bags with butterflies. Once, I heard him pull into the garage with some baby bopper music playing—and Sophia wasn’t even in the car. I mean, hooray, he loves his daughter, but get a grip. And I am not your son.
The family room is empty. It looks exactly like when I left, except one of Mom’s postdivorce self-help books is on the floor. Or, at second glance, it’s one of her teen-help books. The type she highlights the hell out of and then quotes like she’s reading fortune cookies. “Jonah, I understand that you’re experiencing a time of intense feelings and urges, but I want you to remember: Quick decisions have lasting consequences.” Or, “Change is a choice, bud, and I feel like you’re choosing not to change.” I’m still fuming about the sticky notes she’s started leaving on my bathroom mirror: “Your goal each day should be to make the world better by being in it,” and “Adapting to change is an important life skill,” or “80% of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.”
The book on the floor plus the photo on the counter aren’t good signs—she and Paul must be planning some new Jonah intervention.
Dammit, that’s the last thing I need right now.
I lean against the wall, suddenly too exhausted to have this confrontation. I want my bedroom, door shut, music on. Video games under my thumb till I’ve blown up everything that can be destroyed.
I start up the stairs. Since they’re not anywhere down here, that means they’re in their bedroom and I’m not going to knock and let them know I’m home. Once they shut that door, I like to pretend they don’t exist. I’ll do just about anything to avoid thinking about what goes on behind it or how my sister came to be.
My door’s open.
Is it too much to ask that she give me that much privacy? It’s a room that barely feels like mine to begin with—designed by her interior decorator without my input so that my belongings have to fit into the cracks and closets.
The lights are off, and Mom’s back is to the door. She’s standing in front of the dresser. It makes me sad for a time when if she wanted to know something about me she’d just ask—and trust my answer, not go snooping through my stuff.
“I’m not on drugs.” This seems like the most logical explanation: she read something in one of those books about the signs of addiction and is up here looking for evidence.
She jumps and drops whatever she’s holding—I step through the door and turn on the light.
14
Brighton
8:07 P.M.
16 HOURS, 53 MINUTES LEFT
I scramble to pick up the picture frame, horrified by the splintering sound it made when it hit the floor.
“What the hell!” Jonah yells. “Are you stalking me?”
His anger makes me drop it again. This time there’s no question: it’s broken. Triangular splinters of glass rain down from the mangled wood when I pick it up a second time.
I swallow. My whole body has gone hot, and my shirt is sticking to my back. “I’m so sorry.”
“For stalking me or destroying that frame?”
“I …” One corner is split, and I push at the two pieces of wood. They resist and I press even harder—I’m not sure why, since it’s useless without the glass and the wood is cracked. It just seems important, like if I can fix this …
“You know what, I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. Just get the hell out of my room.” Jonah grabs the frame from my hand. He starts to retrieve the prom photo, then swears under his breath and drops the whole thing in a trash can under his desk.
“I’ll clean it up. And replace it.” I want to run for the door, but my feet won’t move and my mind won’t come up with any explanation that will make this situation better.
“Do I need to call the cops?” he demands. “Get out of my house!”
“What?” He thinks I broke in? I grab the baby monitor off his dresser and hold it up as proof. “No, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m watching Sophia.”
He gestures around his room. “In here? Really?”
I duck my head. “Can we go downstairs and talk about this?”
“No. No, let’s stay. Let’s go through the rest of my drawers.” He reaches around me and starts yanking them open, dumping a handful of T-shirts on the floor. “Would you like to know if I’m boxers or briefs?”
“I didn’t—That drawer was already open.”
“Sure. And I bet you didn’t put my baseball picture on the kitchen counter.”
“No, I did that.” I clench my hands into fists.