Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
Drake
The back door springs stretch, pinging like metal does when it’s old and begging to break. I can’t remember a time when they didn’t sound like this. I’ve offered to replace the door many times, but every time, the offer is quickly refused.
“Mom,” I call out. I step across the threshold and breathe in the scent of freshly baked blueberry muffins. “It’s me.”
I listen for her to shout back or for her footsteps against the hardwood, but the only thing I hear is a sports show Dad has on in the living room. Despite the pang in my chest, I smile.
Mom and I have always been close. My sisters were Daddy’s girls, which meant that my mom and I formed a special bond.
Still, up until just a few years ago, Dad would be the one meeting me at the door.
He wanted to hear all about my life, fascinated by a world he had always dreamed of living in, but married too young and had kids too soon to see if he could make it as a pro athlete.
My sisters were his pride and joy, but I was the one who carried his dreams across the goal line.
I know he’s proud of me, even on the days he doesn’t remember who I am.
“Hey, you,” Mom says, taking me by surprise. Her blue eyes, the same color as mine, brighten as they settle on me. “I didn’t think you were coming today.”
I pull her into a hug, letting her hold on to me for a few extra seconds.
“I was going to stay home and get some work done, but your daughters called me last night.” I pause to roll my eyes for effect.
“They told me they were coming here this evening, and I couldn’t let those two heathens win any favoritism points. ”
Her laughter is as breezy as it gets these days. “My daughters? You mean your sisters?”
“I prefer to think of them as your daughters, but yes. Elodie and Evie. Your spawn.” I widen my eyes before I laugh, too. “What time are they supposed to be here?”
“With those girls? Who knows. They’ll get here when they get here.
” She shrugs as if she’s as helpless when it comes to my sisters as the rest of the world.
“They’re going to entertain your father so that I can have a few minutes with my friends.
I’m gonna see if I still know how to drink a martini. ”
I flash her a reassuring smile. She doesn’t leave Dad much anymore—out of love, sure, but there’s some misplaced guilt in there, too. This is all still so new, and we’re walking a tightrope about how to handle this reality. Especially Mom.
“Well, if you need help remembering how to do that, let me know,” I joke. “My skills are razor sharp.”
She laughs, leading me into the kitchen. “I bet they are. Hungry?”
“Is that a serious question?”
Her smile spreads from ear to ear. I’m not about to tell her that I hit a drive-thru in Nashville before I left the city and downed two breakfast sandwiches and a hashbrown. At Mom’s house, I’m always hungry even when I’m not.
I don’t make the rules. I just live by them.
“Let me fix you a sandwich.” Mom turns toward the refrigerator, gesturing to a basket on the table. “I made some muffins this morning if you want one while you wait.”
“Do you know one of the things I love most about you … besides the fact that I’m your favorite child?” I ask, reaching for a blueberry-dotted piece of heaven. “It’s that you have an appetizer on hand for every occasion.”
“Bacon or sausage for your sandwich?” she asks, poking around the inside of the fridge.
I hum as I consider my choices. “Bacon.”
“Good. I bought a package of applewood smoked bacon at the grocery and I’ve been wanting a reason to fry it. Your dad has been on a sausage kick and I can’t fry bacon just for me. It’s too much work.”
I lean against the counter, peeling the wrapper from my muffin like I’ve done a million times over the past thirty-two years.
Despite not having lived here since I left for college at eighteen, it still feels like home.
The door is always open for my sisters and me.
We could swing by and grocery shop from Mom’s pantry and it would somehow delight her.
She gets a thrill when we bring dirty laundry with us.
There’s a sense of peace inside these walls.
Growing up, my friends would often comment on it—how our home felt different from everyone else’s.
Everyone was welcomed with open arms. Everyone left with a full stomach.
As life has gone on, I realize how special it really is to have a home like this to fall back on.
My biggest dream, more than any Hall of Fame jackets or podcast numbers, is replicating this.
So far, it’s the only failure to my name.
“Evie got a new boyfriend,” Mom says over the sizzle of the bacon. “Did she tell you?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think about him?”
I shrug, popping a chunk of muffin into my mouth. Damn, that’s delicious. “I haven’t met him yet, so I don’t know.” If he’s secured Elodie’s approval, he’s probably all right.
“Just based on what she’s told you, what do you think?”
“What do you think about him based on what she’s told you?” I ask, chuckling.
She looks at me over her shoulder. “I know I get an edited version. I might be getting old, but I’m not naive.”
“I’m not either, which means that I know I also get an edited version.”
Her brows pull together. “Why?”
I take another bite of my muffin. “Because Evie knows that if she tells me he steps a toe out of line, that I’m going to show up. Remember Tony Rosedale?”
Mom nods with her back to me. I know she remembers Tony Fucking Rosedale.
I also know that Tony Fucking Rosedale remembers me and won’t ever come within ten miles of either of my sisters again.
I won’t get within five hundred feet of him either just in case the restraining order is still in effect, but that’s beside the point.
“If you want the truth, you need to ask your daughters. I’d start with Elodie,” I say. “She’s the oldest. Aren’t the oldest children supposed to be the most responsible and honest?”
“Oh, like she’s going to tell me the truth.” Mom snorts. “Those two girls are as thick as thieves.”
“Well, you raised them this way.”
“You’re damn right I did.” She fiddles with the flame on the stove, turning it down as the bacon starts to pop. “I told Evie to bring him for dinner next Sunday. Maybe we can figure him out together.”
I swallow and toss the wrapper in the trash. “Sounds good.” I pause, licking the remnants of the snack off my lips. Then I clear my throat and try to keep my voice as nonchalant as possible. “So how’s Dad?”
Mom exhales a long, deep breath. Her shoulders fall with the weight my question just lumped on them—and I hate it.
My fists curl into balls at my side as I watch her wrestle with the topic that has always brought us so much happiness and safety but now is associated with pain.
And dread. Fire licks at the back of my throat as I, too, fight the emotions creeping inside me.
There’s nothing fair, or fixable, about this situation.
And as the man my father raised, the man he raised to take care of my mother and sisters in times like this, it’s clear that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
I can offer suggestions and step in to help, but my help isn’t always wanted.
How do you balance taking the lead and staying in the role of your parents’ child?
“He had a really rough night,” Mom says, her tone packed with the exhaustion she tries to hide from me. “He kept trying to find his keys so he could go to work, and then he went into the garage and got angry because he thinks someone stole his truck.”
I frown. “How did you handle that?”
She sighs, gripping the countertop while the bacon crackles in the pan beside her.
“I told him that I’d be upset if someone stole my car and that we’d check on it this morning.
Then he was angry that I wouldn’t let him go to work.
But what do I do? Confuse him more by telling him that he retired years ago? It’s a nightmare.”
“You’re handling it the best you can,” I say, squeezing her shoulder as my heart splinters in my chest. The focus is always on Dad now, and what he needs and what’s best for him.
Mom’s suffering, too. And it’s moments like that where I wonder how much she suffers in silence.
“It can’t be easy to navigate this.” Especially since Dad never raised his voice once to you until he got sick.
“It’s not, Drake. It’s not.” She sags under my palm briefly before standing tall and sniffling. “But we can do hard things, and this is a hard thing we must do. Right?”
“This is a hard thing, and we will do it together. Preferably leaving Evie out of all important decisions because her answer to everything is a beach house.”
Mom laughs, picking up her fork. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Again, you raised her,” I say, giving her shoulder another gentle squeeze.
“No. That’s on your father. He’s the one who spoiled her rotten.”
“Sure. I wouldn’t take the blame for that either,” I tease. “Is Dad awake now? I heard the TV on and figured he was in there. I mean, the whole neighborhood probably can hear that TV …”
“Tell me about it. I’m ready to buy earplugs or accidentally lose the remote.” She grins as she removes two strips of bacon and places them on a bed of paper towels. “We had a slow morning and just eased into the day. He seems pretty good. Tired, but his mind is pretty clear.”
“I’m gonna go say hi.”
She reaches for a plate. “I’ll bring your sandwich to you.”
Each step I take toward the living room feels like the beat of a drum.
Pictures of my sisters and me hang on the walls, reminiscent of a time when the old man sitting in a brown recliner with his back to me was a six-foot-three, barrel-chested behemoth who could bench-press a small car.
Flames burn a hole in my chest as I approach my dad, a shell of the man he once was.
“Hey, Pops,” I say, keeping my voice light and easy.