All the windows shake from another boom of thunder. Only my mom startles, her wide eyes on me, like she doesn’t recognize her own son.
Maybe in many ways she shouldn’t. I’m a new person.
“I promise I won’t do that to you again,” I assure her, then add, “if I can help it.”
She seems surprised to discover her hand over her chest, then drops it and attempts to regain her composure. “TJ … I … the past couple of days … really ever since you’ve been home, actually …”
“Yeah, I know … I’ve been weird.” I take another enthusiastic slurp of strawberry soda.It’s hitting so perfectly tonight. “But after tonight, trust me, everything is … so …somuch better now.” I’m pacing in a circle around the kitchen, I just realized, as light on my toes as a goddamned ballerina. I choke back a giggle as I settle in front of the sink, hugging my can of soda. “Somuch better.”
My mom is carefully planning her means of attack. I see her strategizing. “Sweetie … last night, you didn’t come home. I know you said you went to meet a friend, but wouldn’t say who. Or what exactly you were doing in … inFairview. I know you’re an adult—”
“Bowling.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “Bowling …?”
“And a movie. One of the late-night ones. But we missed most of it. And spilled the popcorn. Then figured it was too late to drive all the way home, so we made the veryresponsibledecision to stay over in Fairview. Wasn’t thatresponsibleof us?” I giggle again.
“I know you’re not drunk,” she states, as if convincing herself, “as you wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel, of course, but I’m having a difficult time … understanding the way you’re acting.”
“Me too,” I say with absolute honesty.
She sucks in her bottom lip in thought, then lets out a little sigh. “Alright, fine, I’m just gonna ask. Is it a girl?”
I take a satisfying slurp of soda, swallow it like it’s heaven, and after another crashing boom of thunder, answer: “Nope.”
A long and steely silence passes, as if she’s giving me a chance to confess the existence of a girlfriend. When it’s clear that no confession is coming, she says, “Well,that’ssomething, at least.”
She sounds strangely relieved. “Something …?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she sighs out. “Guess I don’t have to worry that my son is running off having sex with girls in distant towns. I will go back to assuming it’s just … some pal you grew up with … if you still insist onnottelling your mom things anymore.” She drags a finger over the screen of her phone, which sits on the counter. I bet it’s been there all night. She’s been circling it, waiting for me to call back. I feel guilty for causing that. “After all, never know what you’re up to at school half the time. You seem to be calling home so much less often, and I’m—” A boom of thunder interrupts her. She looks up at the window, startled, then seems to forget what she was saying.
And it’s probably true. I have been calling a lot less often. But shouldn’t she understand? I have a life up there at school. Friends. A community. And a sense of autonomy that, if I’m being honest, I don’t really have much of at all down here.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to communicate. She worries about me. She just wants me safe and happy, right?
I take my soda right up to her. She turns to me just in time to receive my hug. She hugs back, though distractedly, too tangled in her own worries to grip tighter. “I’ll try to call you more often,” I promise her. “I really don’t mean to be a stranger. It’s just—”
“You’re busy, you’ve got a life, I know, sweetheart.”
The angle at which I’m hugging her, I have a perfect view of the upstairs landing. All the bedrooms. All the spare rooms we call guestrooms. The game rooms. Studies. Craft rooms. And space and space and more space.
My parents had dreams of filling all this space. So many sons and daughters. All of their kids, and someday, their kids’ kids. The in-laws staying for holidays. The nest never empty. This enormous space full of life and laughter any day of the year.
Now it’s just a big box of half-empty rooms.
Unfulfilled dreams.
And here’s me, their only pride and joy, and I’m gifted the big blessing and burden of all their crushing love.
“I’m just glad you’re home and safe,” she tells me, “and out of that god-awful storm.”
I’m out of the storm outside, that much is true.
But maybe I’ve found myself in a totally different one tonight.
A storm inside my chest that has no rain, at least not the kind you can touch that soaks your clothes. And as for thunder, well, my heart is generating plenty of that every time I think of him.
My secret storm called Chase Holt—one which I don’t think any matter of umbrella can hope to shield me from.