Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I LIKE the city on holidays even though I don’t care about Thanksgiving. Fewer people around and everyone’s less rude, like they remember we’re all someone’s family. A few older ladies at the bus stop actually nod to me when I walk by on my way to Pop’s.
The Eagles are playing this afternoon, but I’m going over in time for the early game, which is Detroit and Chicago. I grab more beer on my way, but when I get to Pop’s, it’s clear I didn’t need to bother. The whole refrigerator is a tetris of cases, cans, and bottles.
After he invited me for dinner, Rafe explained that his family doesn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving. For them, it’s just mandatory family time, and they cook a huge traditional Mexican meal at Gabriela’s, since her place is the biggest. When I told him it sounded nice, he said I could still come.
But we both knew I wouldn’t.
After sitting on Pop’s couch for a few hours drinking beer, I’m starting to have second thoughts. I’m starving and there’s no food. The Bears are playing like shit. And Brian keeps throwing drained beer cans at the TV in anger, so the entire living room reeks.
When I crack open my fifth beer, I realize I’m pretty drunk. My decreased tolerance is a reminder that I haven’t been drinking much lately because I’ve been spending so much time with Rafe.
It’s like sliding into a warm and comfortable hole, though. My arms and legs feel heavy, like doing anything but sitting on this couch would be impossible, and my head’s fuzzy.
And apparently my fuzzy head only wants to think about Rafe. Like, why, exactly, did I come here, to this sad place, when I could be with Rafe, eating delicious food and seeing him interact with his family? But then Brian grins at me and holds out a couple stale crackers he found in the kitchen, and I know I have to be here.
Halfway through the Eagles game, Daniel calls. While Sam chats with him, I find myself wondering where he is for Thanksgiving. Maybe I do wish I were with Rafe instead of being here, but at least I have somewhere to be. I don’t like to think of Daniel alone in Whereverthefuck, Michigan. Sam holds the phone out to me, but I shake my head.
I drunk text Rafe, I wish I were with u.
He texts back almost immediately: You can still come if you want. Lots of food.
My stomach growls. U wdnt like me now, I write. Rafe’s made it really clear he doesn’t want to be around me when I drink.
I always like you, Rafe texts, and I can’t help but smile. Then a minute later, he writes, Be safe. I can drive you home, if you need.
I walked, I send. Then, Thanks.
Liza shows up an hour later with half a turkey—really, you never know with Liza; she said she had it because of something to do with work, but she’s a florist, so I have no idea. I barely taste it, though. I keep looking around at all of them—Pop, Brian, Sam, Liza—and asking myself what the worst-case scenario is. Like, what exactly might I lose that’s worth not being able to make Rafe happy by agreeing to go to dinner with his family. Or take him out to dinner. Fuck, the guy was practically begging me to go on a date with him and I said no. I’m the worst… whatever on the planet.
Brian and Pop are drunk too; Sam and Liza are tipsy. When I’m coming out of the bathroom, Pop and I nearly collide in the kitchen. He pats me on the back, practically knocking himself off balance in the process.
“You’re a good kid, Colin,” he says. “Good son. I’m goin’ta bed.” He squeezes my arm as he shambles past me.
“Yeah, me too,” I say.
I play the moment over and over as I stagger home, and all I can think as I fall into bed alone is that’s why. That’s why I can’t be with Rafe outside these walls. And even if I did, there’s no guarantee that things would work out. Knowing me, shit probably won’t work out. So, what if I gambled it all on Rafe—my family, my job—and then I fucked it up like usual. Maybe Pop’s an asshole sometimes, but he raised me, Daniel, Brian, and Sam after Mom died, kept food on the table, gave us jobs. I know he loves me. I think he does, anyway. But if he found out… he’d never say anything like that to me again. He’d never look at me like that, with warmth, appreciation. Love me? I don’t know. But respect me? Be proud of me? No.
And, god help me, I don’t think I can live with that.
THE NEXT week, everything seems off. Work is normal, I guess, but nothing feels satisfying the way it used to. Every time I hear Pop or Sam tell someone we don’t do specialty repairs, every time I’m stuck changing a flat tire or explaining to some know-it-all who looked up engine trouble on the Internet what’s actually wrong with his car, I’m wishing for… more.