“Look at you.” Mom pats me on the chest. “You’re so handsome. But this beard…” She tries to touch my face, but I lean out of reach. She recovers and wipes her hand on her hip. She gives Cora a brief hug. “Come in. Your dad’s not here yet.”
We follow her into the apartment. She kept some of the furniture from our old house. It looks out of place here. The context is all wrong. There are some new pieces mixed in that confuse me.
“Have a seat.” She motions to the couch that used to be in our old living room.
I put my hands up Cassandra’s shirt for the first time while sitting on it. The memory throws me off, and I’m stuck in place by it, staring at the exact spot where we sat. I couldn’t work the clasp of her bra. She laughed and unhooked it for me. I can practically feel her in my hands and hear the hitch in her breath. Cora prods me, bringing me back to the here and now. When I sit it almost feels like sitting on a grave, and a chill shoots through me.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Mom looks hopeful, like maybe Cora isn’t the only one who put expectations on this visit.
“Water,” I say, and Cora echoes me.
“I have soda and iced tea,” Mom offers. Water won’t cut it.
“A soda,” Cora says. “Beau?”
“A soda for me too.”
“I’ll be right back.” Mom hesitates, her gaze bouncing between her two children as though she can’t believe we’re real. And then she goes into the kitchen. “Ice?”
“Yes, please,” Cora and I say together.
Cora turns away and puts a hand over her mouth to hold back her laugh.
I nudge her with my elbow. “Dork.”
She bumps me in return. “You’re a dork.”
“Shut up, dork.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, dork.”
Laughing, we shove each other like we did when we were kids and the insults fly.
“Knock it off,” Mom shouts from the kitchen.
We glance at each other in surprise, then dissolve into silent hysterics, gripping our stomachs. It’s so normal, this moment. It’s the most normal moment I’ve had in more than six years. By the time Mom returns we’ve got control of ourselves again and I’m feeling a lot less tense. She hands us our drinks and takes a seat in a new chair opposite us.
“Cora tells me you’re working at the agency with her,” Mom says.
I can tell from the tone of her voice that she doesn’t approve of either one of us working there.
“They’ve been very good to me. To both of us,” I add.
“I’m glad.” She turns to Cora. “When are you going to do something with your hair? You’re never going to get a boyfriend looking like that. I’m surprised people at your job take you seriously.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
Mom gets a disbelieving look on her face. “You do? Does he have a job?”
Cora’s been going out with Leo for months now. I shouldn’t be surprised she didn’t tell Mom about him, but I am.
“He’s in law school at UCLA.”
Mom turns to me. “Is this true?”
“Very.”
“You’ve met him?”
I nod. “He’s a good guy.”
Mom seems momentarily stunned by this. We sit in uncomfortable silence, sipping our drinks and avoiding looking at one another. I want to text Vera something stupid and random to take myself out of this moment. She’s the first person I think of in the morning and the last person I think of at night before I fall asleep. That’s not something I look too hard at. It’s nice to have something to occupy my mind other than the fucked-up state of my life.
A panda. I’d text her a panda.
There’s a knock at the door. Mom gets up and smooths down her skirt. She glances at her reflection in the mirror next to the door before she opens it. Dad leans with a hand on the door frame. I stand and Cora does the same. When she moves in front of me again like she did at the front door, it hits me. She’s trying to shield me from our parents. It would be funny, except for the fact that she feels it’s necessary. As the big brother, I should be protecting her, not the other way around.
The changes in Mom were surprising, but the changes in Dad are shocking. He’s a lot grayer than he was six years ago. Smaller too. The chiseled lines of his face are crags now, carved by stress and drinking. His eyes—the same light blue as mine—are red rimmed and tired looking. He doesn’t see Cora or me. He doesn’t take his eyes off Mom. The look in them strikes a blow deep in my gut. I recognize the combination of grief and longing.
Mom looks him over, her lip curling. “You’ve been drinking.”
He holds up his fingers in a pinching motion. “Just a little. I’m not drunk.” His slurred words make a liar out of him.
Cora stiffens and reaches back for my hand.
“You’re going to see your son for the first time in how many years drunk?” Mom chastises him like it hasn’t been years since she’s seen me.
“I’m not drunk.”
“I can smell it on you. I told you I didn’t want to see you if you were drinking.” He tries to make a move around her, but she steps in front of him. “Do I need to call the police?”
I don’t recognize these people and the dance they’re doing. I don’t know how to respond. Cora squeezes my hand in reassurance.