Page 22 of Every November

Heading into the bathroom, I hop in the hot shower, fingers grazing over the marks he sucked into my inner thighs and I smile. Discreet, he’d said. Like that makes them any easier to forget.

Last year’s mark on my collarbone lasted almost two weeks. I caught myself checking it in the mirror every morning, weirdly disappointed when it finally faded. These feel like another secret I get to take home.

I’m not sure what it says about me that I kind of love that.

It’s not like I'm falling for him or anything. I’ve seen the guy twice. It’s just that most people I hook up with blur by the next morning, and Marcus somehow seems to be my entire focus.

I shut off the water before I can think about that any harder and get dressed. I run my fingers through my hair in the mirror, and comb my mustache before putting product in it.

I take a breath, and catch myself smiling once more about last night, then head for the stairs, where I find Claire sitting on the bottom one, still in her pajamas, her hair in a messy braid.

“Morning, Claire Bear.”

“Morning.” She goes back to fiddling with something in her hands—a small plastic horse.

“Whatcha doing here?” I ask, sitting next to her.

She shrugs. “Waiting for pancakes. Grandpa said five more minutes like ten minutes ago.”

I smile. “Yeah, Grandpa’s five minutes is never actually five minutes, is it?”

“Nope.” She sighs dramatically.

“Why don’t you go check in with him again, huh?”

She nods and smiles, scurrying off to the kitchen.

I sit on the stairs for a moment until I hear a crash from the living room followed by Tommy’s little voice saying, “Oops.”

I stand and walk toward the sound. Tommy is in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a sprawling setup of toy trucks and a wooden block tower that’s now half collapsed.

“Hey, buddy.”

“Look, I made a construction site.”

“That’s awesome.” I crouch next to him. “Can I help?”

He considers this, then hands me a dump truck. “You can move the dirt. This one’s the dirt truck.”

I take it and start pushing it along the imaginary road he’s created. He narrates what’s happening, and I try to follow along, letting him lead. He’s so focused, so content in his own world.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Tommy complains, taking the dump truck back. “It has to go this way.”

“My bad,” I say, laughing. Dan and Melissa sure raised some confident kids.

He shows me the correct route, then goes back to his project, already forgetting that I messed up.

From the kitchen, I finally hear my dad call out, “Breakfast is ready!”

Tommy’s head snaps up. “Pancakes!” He scrambles to his feet and runs toward the kitchen, leaving the trucks scattered across the floor.

I stand slowly, looking at the mess of toys, which is evidence of a kid who’s growing and changing, whether I’m here or not. Tommy’s speech has improved so much in a year. I can see so many changes in him. Claire, too.

I also feel different from the person I was last year.

It’s weird that every year I spend away from my family, the distance gets easier. It feels wrong to think that. I’m supposed to miss them more the longer I’m gone, not less. I don’t know what that says about me. Maybe it just means I’m truly happy in the Pacific Northwest, or maybe it means I’m the kind of person who lets people go too easily.

Either way, it’s easier this year, and I hate that some part of me is relieved by that.