Chapter 44 – Kat
FORTY-FOUR
KAT
The drive from Kent to Columbus has never felt as long as it does right now. However, I’d much rather drive home and meet the brother I’ve never met than exist in that house.
No one has said anything or gone out of their way to make me feel bad, but it just feels like people are angry with me for Elijah having to move out. Jenna has reassured me on more than one occasion that I’m seeing a response that isn’t actually there—that most of them are relieved to have him gone—but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve managed to fuck everything up.
Including Jenna’s relationship with Marcus.
Paper-thin walls haven’t helped ease my guilty conscience when I can hear my best friend and her boyfriend arguing well into the night. I appreciate Jenna’s steadfast loyalty, but I’m not going to pretend that I don’t understand Marcus’s perspective. Elijah and Marcus have been friends since they were kids, and while they didn’t get close until college, Elijah has been a fixture in Marcus’s life since the third grade. It would be insane to ask him to cut Elijah off, but that’s what Jenna has been doing. I know I need to talk to her about it, tell her that I genuinely don’t care if Marcus is friends with Elijah—just that I can’t be around him right now—but I have so much on my mind that simply leaving for the weekend is the only means of maintaining my sanity.
The tires of my car screech against the curb as I attempt to parallel park in front of the quaint diner in Columbus. My heart thunders in my chest with a mix of nervousness and disbelief at the thought of finally meeting my brother in my early twenties. Taking shaky breaths, I slowly open the car door and step toward the unknown.
A neon glow cascades over the worn brick, the diner’s sign flickering and buzzing, casting an eerie glow over the sidewalk as I make my way toward the entrance. Every step feels like a mile, and I can feel my palms sweating as I reach for the door handle. As it swings open, a rush of warm air hits me, along with the smells of greasy burgers and freshly brewed coffee. I take in the checkered floors, vinyl booths, and an old-fashioned jukebox playing in the corner.
When Patrick selected this diner, I expected it to be a significantly more pretentious place. Though I’ve never met my dad, I’ve pieced together a picture of him through limited information. According to what little Google has revealed, he was once a successful and powerful lawyer. The thought only fuels my anger further—knowing that while my mom worked tirelessly at the restaurant, often doing double shifts just to make ends meet, he had the means to help but deliberately chose not to. It’s like a slap in the face, knowing that he could have made our lives easier but instead turned his back on us without a second thought .
After seeing the “self-seating” sign by the front door, I seek out a booth toward the back of the restaurant. Patrick texted me about ten minutes ago to let me know that he was running a few minutes behind, so I shoot him a message.
Kat
Seated toward the back
Patrick
Sounds good. Be there in 5, bus was late
Sounds good
I never would have pegged Patrick as the public transit type, but maybe he’s just immersing himself in the college student lifestyle.
My nerves are a jumbled mess, my freshly painted nails tapping relentlessly against the smooth, polished surface of the lacquered wooden table. The steady ticking of the clock on the far wall seems to mock me, each second tauntingly counting down to the moment I’ve spent weeks agonizing over.
My anxiety continues to build as I sit there, surrounded by the chatter and clatter of other patrons. The smell of coffee and greasy breakfast food swirls around me, making my stomach churn even more as I wait for what feels like an eternity.
The bell above the door dings. My foot anxiously taps against worn tile as a young man in an old Ohio State hat walks toward me, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Hey,” he says timidly as his eyes meet mine—they’re the same shade of blue I’ve seen in the mirror for the last twenty-two years .
“Hi.” I smile up at him cordially.
Still tense, Patrick pushes a wayward strand of dark brown hair away from his face as he inhales deeply. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Not at all, sit.” I gesture awkwardly.
Patrick nods before sliding into the booth. The light above us flickers, casting his face in a harsh shadow.
We sit in uncomfortable silence for a while, neither of us making eye contact. I nervously peel at the skin around my nails while Patrick studies the faded menu, its edges frayed and corners curled from years of use. The tension in the air is palpable as we wait for the waitress to come take our order.
“Have you been here before?” Patrick asks.
“Huh?” I clear my throat as the question registers. “Oh, I mean, no. I’ve never been here.”
Patrick nods, still inspecting the menu. “It’s good. I used to come here as a kid with my m—” He stops mid-thought.
Awkward and unnerving as it is, I try to clear the air. “You don’t have to censor yourself about her.”
“I know, I just figured it would be weird for me to talk about.”
It’s true—discussing his mom seems almost as uncomfortable as talking about our shared lineage. Except that’s the entire reason we’re here.
My eyes wander to the menu and I idly pick at the corner, feeling the rough edges of the lamination under my fingertips. “So, how’s school?” I finally ask, trying to steer the conversation away from uncomfortable territory.
We talk like this for a while, discussing the easy stuff—the comfortable stuff. The kind of topics you’d be more than happy to broach with your Great Aunt Sylvia at a family function because you haven’t seen her in seven years and she wants to be informed of everything. It’s formal, it’s safe, but it all feels painfully surface-level.
My heart clenches with a sharp pain at the reminder that I have this brother—the one person in this world who should have insight into the person I am because we are so similar—and yet I’m left staring at a man I don’t know.
The server approaches our table with a warm smile and a notepad in hand. She asks if we’re ready to order, but we both glance down at the menus once more, indecisive despite how long we’ve been staring at the choices. I request a cup of hot coffee and Patrick follows suit.
Once she returns with our coffees, I fill mine haphazardly with far more cream and sugar than one person should consume in a single sitting. I’ve always been more of a latte girl, seldom drinking straight coffee without my favorite hazelnut creamer in it, but I don’t want to be difficult, so I choke down the burnt joe with heaps of sugar and stale half-and-half.
“So…” Patrick breaks the silence, awkwardly leaning toward the table with his hands sandwiched between his legs. “Um.” He clears his throat. “Dad is sick.”
As his words sink in, a strange mixture of emotions floods my body like a tidal wave. I can’t bring myself to feel any sadness over the news of him being ill, nor can I muster up any happiness at the prospect of him finally being gone. Instead, I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of numbness and guilt, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest.
The memories of his absence and neglect come crashing back, causing a swell of bitterness within me. Yet, there is also a slight twinge of relief knowing that soon he may no longer be able to hurt me or anyone else. It’s a complex and conflicting mix of emotions that leaves me feeling lost and unsure how to process it all.
The only words I can manage sound cold and uncaring, but they’re all I have. “How?”
Patrick clears his throat. “Prostate cancer,” he replies quietly.
Suddenly, any residual resentment tainting my response evaporates at the realization that while I am sitting here trying to dissect my lack of emotional response to learning my father is sick, Patrick is having to watch yet another parent wither and fade away as cancer takes them.
I may resent the man who gave us both life, but no child deserves to have to watch that happen twice.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of my mouth. It’s a shitty way to comfort someone, but they’re the only words I can figure out how to string together.
“Thank you,” Patrick responds politely. “I don’t want you to think this is the only reason I reached out over the summer. I actually didn’t even find out until after I sent the letter.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have contacted me out of a sense of obligation to share the news about our father rather than a genuine desire to connect with me.
I nod, my mind a flurry of thoughts.
Patrick appears to be deep in thought, his gaze fixated on the steaming mug of black coffee cradled in his hands. He seems restless, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his head. I’ve spent most of my life trying to understand the motivations of others, and Patrick is no exception.
Then he says, “I think you should meet him.”