Day in. Day out. It just fucking hurt.
To an extent, I’d gotten used to living with the pain. However, on days like that one, it was impossible to ignore.
I picked up the phone and hit the blinking light. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey,” she breathed. “How ya doing, sweetie?”
I rocked back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m good.”
“That bad, huh?”
“I said I was good.”
“Yeah, but you lie, so I assume the opposite of whatever you say.”
“Fine. I’m terrible then.”
“I knew it! Dammit. I told your dad I should go with you today.”
I chuckled, and because it was my mom, it was almost real. “No. You shouldn’t. I don’t want this to be a big production.” It was a huge fucking production, but downplaying the severity of my broken heart was something of a full-time job for me. “I’m going to sneak in, sit in the back, and sign whatever my lawyer needs me to sign. Then I’ll go home to chug a bottle of Jack and throw the ball for Clyde and Sugar until my arm falls off or one of us passes out. Whichever comes first.”
“Hmm, perhaps you could do it sans the Jack?”
“Mom, the Jack is the best part. That would be like me asking you not to cuss at Dad while you’re cleaning the ink from the dryer after another busted pen.” An oddly regular occurrence in my parents’ house since my dad was the old-fashioned kind of guy who wore a pen in his shirt pocket at all times.
“That son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath. “One more time and he’s out. I swear this time.”
I barked a laugh. That time, it was completely genuine.
My parents were funny. The quirky type who loved each other hopelessly but also loved to give each other absolute hell. I guessed that was what you got after thirty-nine years of marriage.
They had what I’d always wanted: someone who could give me endless amounts of shit and laugh hysterically when I gave it right back. And for a while there, it was what I’d found.
Then it was what I’d lost.
I spoke around the ever-present lump in my throat. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Sure. Sure. Right. Right.” Translation: You’re a lying sack of shit. But since today is going to be rough, I’m not going to call you on it.
Pity aside, I was grateful for the out.
I flicked my gaze to the mile-high stack of folders on the corner of my desk. As soon as the weight of my grief had lifted enough for me to leave the house again, I’d thrown myself into my job and started my own accounting firm. Taking on too many clients. Working long into the night. Anything to avoid the memories lurking in the darkness at home.
“I should probably get back to work.”
“Oh hush, you own the place. Emily can take over punching ‘two plus two equals four’ on the calculator while you talk to your poor, neglected mother.”
Oh, yes. Two plus two equals four is exactly what my mother thought I did for a living. Until tax season. Then I quickly became her favorite child.
I rolled my eyes. “Neglected? What happened? Did Tyson finally learn to do his own laundry?”
“Come on now. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mom, he’s twenty-nine. I think he can manage separating the darks from the lights.”
“What, and ruin his manicure? Puh-lease.”
Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my legs out in front of me. “You know one of these days, he’s going to get married and his husband will hate you for babying him all these years.”
“Blasphemy. His wedding will be something of a passing-of-the-torch ceremony. Besides, we all know Jared adores me.”
“Yes, but… Wait. Jared? Did they get back together?”
There was a quiet squeak and then the line went silent for several beats.
“Mom?”
“I, uh…don’t think I was supposed to mention that.”
Of course she wasn’t. My whole family had been walking on eggshells with me since the accident, and as much as I appreciated it most of the time, I really fucking resented how, with something as big as my brother getting back together with his fiancé, I wasn’t the first damn person he called. Hell, I’d set the two of them up. Surely that had to give me some kind of priority status on the family phone chain.
“When did this happen?”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about this. You have a lot going on today.”
“Too late. You can’t drop a bomb like that then expect to—”
Further conversation died when the door to my office swung open and my sister came strutting in, her designer purse swaying on her arm.
“What the fuck?” I mumbled as she made her way around the desk. Her overpowering perfume filled the room as though a path of flowers had formed in her wake.
As an outsider looking in, an x-ray of the Michaels family would look something like this:
