Page 21 of The Write Choice

“Oh, you know…” he trails off, not willing to give me any more detail than he has to.

The truth is, I do know, just like I know he’s calling to ask for money. He probably missed work one too many times because he was high. It’s always the same story with him. Our parents cut him off a while ago, after his third or fourth stint in rehab didn’t take, and every once in a while he reaches out to me because I have a soft spot for him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I respond.

“Right. Yeah. Well, I was kind of wondering if I could borrow some money. Just a couple hundred to hold me over until I can get another job. I could swing by and pick it up tomorrow—”

“Shane, we moved,” I cut him off. “We aren’t in the city anymore. I told you this was happening the last time we talked.”

“Shit, really?” He pauses as if he’s doing some calculations. “Well, I could take the train—”

“To Illinois?”

“You moved to fucking Illinois?” It’s an explosion, and I startle at it.

“Yes. I’m working to take over the firm from Mom and Dad,” I remind him as patiently as I can. “And we are tapped out from the move.”

“Of course you fucking are,” he says, the hurt clear in his voice, though I’m not sure which statement he’s referencing. Suddenly, the line goes dead.

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. I don’t know why I’m surprised he hung up on me, knowing what I know about him, but somehow I am.

But Christine, with some impeccable timing, chooses that moment to fling her pizza crust at Mason, who whines that his sister is being mean to him, and I tuck the entire phone call away to unpack later in order to intercept more flying pizza before there’s a full-on meltdown.

As predicted, the kids are eager to get to bed. Christine scrambles into her huge canopy bed and climbs right in the middle of all her stuffed animals. Daniel and Mac’s friend, Jenny, counted them all as she cooed over how cute they were when we were setting up the house. This room has Jenny’s signature all over it—from the feminine, gauzy canopy to the sparkly gem stickers all over the walls. There’s even a dress-up corner in her walk-in closet with princess dresses hung at three-year-old eye-level. Part of me regrets giving Jenny access to my credit card to pick out all this stuff, but hearing Christine’s giggle of pure joy makes the future bill worth it.

She sinks down into the fluffy pillows, practically burying herself into the bed. I sit on the edge of it, smiling at how tiny she looks.

“Daddy! Dad! I’m a princess!” she exclaims.

I chuckle and tap her nose, which is about all I can see of her. “Can you feel the pea I slipped under the mattress?”

“Dad,” she moans. “There’s no pea.”

I shrug. “I guess you’re not a princess if you can’t feel it,” I tease.

Her little head pops up from the nest of blankets and stuffed animals she’s made herself. She pouts. “You’re kidding.”

I lean in and kiss her forehead. “I am.” I stand, then bow with a flourish. “Good night, Princess Christine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She giggles again at the bow, then snuggles back down into her comforter. I flip the light switch off on my way out of the room, but as I am closing the door, I hear her little voice again.

“Daddy? You were kidding about the pea, right?”

“Yes, baby. Good night.” I pull the door closed before she can ask any more questions and head down the hall to Mason’s room.

“Hey, dude,” I say as I enter.

“Don’t call me ‘dude.’” His voice sounds pouty, even though I can’t see him because he’s high up in his loft bed. I grab the step stool I left to the side of the room and drag it over so I can stand on it and see him. Sure enough, he’s curled up in his bed with his back to me, facing the wall.

“What’s going on?” I ask, folding my arms and leaning them against the guard rail.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. Talk to me, buddy,” I urge him.

He doesn’t speak for a long while, and I almost give up waiting, but when he does finally speak, his voice is small and unsure. “I like it here,” he says.

That’s not what I was expecting.