That’s where I am now. My feet are resting on the walnut coffee table in the family room, boots still on, and my bags are dumped on the sofa next to me. I’m waiting for the asshole to walk in and kick off at what I’m doing, even though I know he isn’t here. My headache is back, but I think this one is because I can’t stop my brain from trying to figure out the missing pieces to my memory of the accident. I’ve reasoned that my dad came to the police station and bailed Blair and me out. I’m pretty sure that’s a memory and not just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me. What I can’t figure out is how the crash happened, or at least what happened between the time we left the cop shop and waking up in the ICU.
Dad stands mocking me from the family portrait that hangs above the fire; it was taken when I was about twelve years old. I’m sitting in the middle of the frame; Mom is standing behind me to my left, Dad to the right, and they both have one of their hands resting on my shoulders. Anyone looking at the picture would see nothing untoward about it, but if you look closely you can tell my smile’s pained. I remember right before it was taken my parents were arguing because Dad had arrived home late. Mom had cooked his dinner and it was ready for him to eat, after which he was going to change and we’d make our way downtown to the portrait studio. Dad had just changed out of his uniform and into his tailored navy blue suit. He was walking through the kitchen to the island with his plate in hand, and I’d run downstairs with my head down playing on my PSP. I didn’t see him—it was just an accident. The plate fell and covered his suit pants in food before smashing on the tiled floor.
I can still recall the second just before his fist connected with my stomach…it was slowed down, like god wanted to let me get a good look at the hate on his face as his first travelled towards me. I remember having enough time to think that it was better to try and not tense. I knew from experience it hurt less that way, but I was a twelve-year-old kid with a man’s first sailing towards him. Of course, I tensed. I practically shit my pants. He hit me so hard that I flew across the room and threw up where I landed. Then he walked past me like nothing had happened and went and got changed. Mom cleaned me up, not saying anything worth remembering. An hour later we were all smiling for the camera. I fucking hate that picture.
Blair arrives before the others. She smiles, following me into the family room before noticing the glass shattered all over the mantle and in front of the fire. The portrait frame is smashed and resting in the corner.
“What happened?” she asks quietly.
“Not sure. I guess it must have fallen from the wall while we were away.” The lie falls from my lips effortlessly, like they always do. I’m practiced at it. How did you get that bruise? Playing basketball. What happened to your shoulder? Walked into the doorframe drunk. They’re second nature now.
She looks around the room before turning to face me.
“What happened?” she asks again in a sterner voice, knowing I’m lying. I figure I should just tell her the truth.
“I hate that picture. I decided to do something about it.” I shrug and glance over at the fire poker I smashed into the portrait minutes before she arrived. Her gaze follows mine and a frown pulls at her lips.
“Go grab a trash bag and the vacuum cleaner; let’s get rid of the glass.”
“You don’t have—”
“Ethan,” she sighs and I nod.
“Okay, gimme a second.”
I return with a garden bag and the vacuum. I place the large shards inside the bag along with the broken frame and the picture, as Blair hoovers up all the smaller pieces.
“I never liked this photograph of you anyway,” she says, looking at a corner of it sticking out from the sack. “Your smile’s fake.”
I shoot her a real smile. Everyone always commented on what a beautiful family picture it was.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she says like it’s no big deal, wrapping the power cord up and securing it back in place. She has no idea how comforting it is to hear her say it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The sound of laughter filters into the room seconds before the doorbell chimes.
“You get that. It’s most likely Brie and Jackson. I’ll get rid of this,” she says picking up the bag and disappearing out of sight.
“Well, if it ain’t Evel Knievel,” Jackson says, his 6-foot, solid frame pushing through the door and giving me a bro hug. It hurts but I don’t complain.
“Who?” Brie asks stumbling behind as TJ tries to push through. Her long blonde hair falls over her face in a veil and she tosses it back like she’s starring in some shampoo commercial.
“Dude, your girlfriend, doesn’t know who Evel Knievel is!” TJ laughs, giving me the same bro hug Jackson just did and nearly collapses my lungs when he slaps my back. I wince and groan as he sucks air in through his teeth and offers me an apologetic smile that’s more of a grimace.
“Girlfriend?” I look to Jackson who’s wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Yep,” Brie giggles, twisting a piece of her hair around her finger. “Good to see you, Ethan,” she says kissing my cheek.
“Woah…back away from my boy toy!” Blair shouts, and then Casey appears from nowhere, pushing past me at the same time Brie does to tackle Blair to the wall and hug her. She smiles awkwardly and I find it completely fucking adorable.