2. Weston
2
Weston
T he stack of Thai takeout containers wobbles precariously in my arms as I step through the front door of my house on Fruit Street, Brooklyn Heights. Sneakers litter the entranceway, and the unexpected minefield causes me to stumble.
I set the takeout on the hall table and sweep the sneakers to one side with my foot before toeing off my loafers. Three years ago, coming home to a mess like this would have made me furious. Now, I can’t help but smile as I survey the pile of shoes by the door.
It means my son is home.
“Jesse?” I call, closing the heavy oak door behind me.
Usually, I hit the pool after work and swim laps—anything to delay coming home to an empty house—but this evening I came straight back, hoping Jesse would’ve finished moving his stuff in and, if I’m lucky, be ready to eat.
“Jess?” I call again. “I got dinner.” My voice echoes through the silent house, and disappointment washes over me. He probably dumped his stuff and went out with friends.
I sigh, taking the food through to the kitchen and dropping it onto the marble countertop. It’s been less than twenty-four hours and he’s already avoiding me. Great.
But the sound of footsteps on the stairs makes my heart lift hopefully. Jesse ambles into the kitchen with his headphones clamped to his ears, and I give a small chuckle.
Of course. What did I think, that he was just sitting up there in silence? That’s a skill his generation doesn’t seem to have.
He notices me and tugs his headphones off. He’s wearing my old New York Yankees hoodie, probably because he hasn’t done a load of laundry in months. His gaze lands on the food and a frown pinches his brow, but he doesn’t say a word.
“I thought we could have some dinner and see what’s on,” I say, motioning vaguely to the living room. I know if I appear too eager, he’ll bolt. My son is as disinterested in hanging out with his old man as any other twenty-three-year-old.
But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is that he can’t stand me.
I loosen the tie around my neck before reaching into the drawer to grab two forks. When I set them on the counter, Jess is still surveying the food, and it occurs to me that there’s a chance he might actually join me. If he’s desperate enough.
“You hungry?” I ask, casually taking the food from the bag and popping off the lid. The smell of Pad Thai wafts from the tray—my son’s favorite meal. At least, it was when he was last speaking to me.
Jesse swallows, and I can practically see the saliva pooling in his mouth. I know I’m playing dirty, but I’ll do anything to get my son to stay in the room with me for longer than two seconds. You’d think giving him a place to live would help, but I sense he’s planning to hole up in his old room and pretend I don’t exist.
Still, a man’s gotta eat.
I nudge the Pad Thai container closer to Jesse, then pull two bottles of Miller High Life from the fridge before popping the tops and handing him one. I grab my own food and head into the living room, plopping nonchalantly onto the huge leather sectional as if I couldn’t care whether he follows, but I’d be hurt if he took his food and left. I’m desperate to heal this rift between us, even if I did nothing wrong in the first place. Even if he blames me for something that was never my fault.
Jesse’s sigh reaches me from the kitchen, then he reluctantly enters the living room and settles at the other end of the sofa, taking a long swig from his beer. Reaching for the remote, I fight the urge to grin as I flick through the channels, stumbling across a rerun of Seinfeld , which we used to watch together back in the day. I grew up on this show, so it’s nostalgic for me, but Jesse watches it to laugh at the anachronisms, such as adults calling each other on landlines because they don’t have cell phones, which he finds hilarious. I’m forty-three, and this kid makes me feel old as fuck.
I glance at Jess, wondering if I’m being too heavy-handed by choosing a show we once enjoyed together, then decide to leave it on. He’s tucking into his Pad Thai with gusto, and I doubt he’d leave because of Seinfeld . In fact, he’s probably forgotten we even watched it.
I take a sip from my beer, pretending to watch the show, but it’s hard to relax when this is the first time my son has sat down to eat with me in three years. His eyes stay glued to the screen, and I steal a glance his way.
“Get all your stuff moved in okay?” I ask when there’s a lull in the show.
He nods, shoveling food into his mouth. At the rate he’s going, he’ll be done soon and this whole evening will be over. I have to move quickly.
“I could have sent a moving company,” I add, and he shrugs. All I want is one sentence from him. Just one. “Must be weird being back in your old room,” I try again.
He freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth.
Fuck. Why the hell did I say that? He doesn’t need to be reminded of what his life was like when he was last here. He doesn’t need to remember what we all went through.
He swallows, slowly lowering his fork. I wait for him to storm out of the room, maybe tell me again how much he hates me, but instead, he finally meets my gaze.
“Yeah,” he mutters, poking at his food. “It’s weird.” Then he stuffs another forkful of noodles into his mouth. It’s barely a full sentence, yet it feels as if he’s reached across the sofa and wrapped me in a hug.
My throat thickens as I reach for my own food.
Three years. Three years with barely a word from him, except to say how much he can’t stand me, until two days ago. A desperate phone call while I was at work, at four in the afternoon. He’d lost his job and was way behind in his rent, and his roommate—who I assume had been carrying him for the past few months—gave him an ultimatum to pay up or leave. Jesse might have blamed me for his mother’s death, but that didn’t stop him from turning to me when he needed help, and nothing would have prevented me from being there for my kid when he needed me. I haven’t touched his room since he took off the day after Lydia’s funeral, and I told him he was welcome to stay for as long as he needed. That this would always be his home. I know he only came to me because he had no other choice, but I’m grateful to be given another chance with him. A chance to mend the rift that never should have formed. A chance to start over.
I push the thoughts away as I pop the top off my takeout. The zingy, fragrant smell of ginger rises from the container, and I almost moan as I take a mouthful of tender duck and vegetables.
Fuck, Daisy was right. This is delicious.
The image of the brunette barista from Joe’s Coffee fills my head as I eat. I don’t know what it is about her, but ever since my old coffee place down the street closed and I started going to Joe’s, my world feels a little less gray. Maybe it’s the way she’s always so bubbly, greeting me with a smile and making conversation about any and everything as if somehow she knows it’s not the words that matter, it’s the connection with another human being I need when I feel so alone in the world. Maybe it’s the way she puts so much effort into her coffee, creating the most original and artistic images in the foam. Or maybe it’s her delicate beauty; the soft smattering of freckles on her alabaster skin, the warm walnut brown of her eyes, and the way her long, dark-chocolate hair falls in loose tendrils around her pretty face when she pins it back.
Maybe it’s the fact that she’s the first woman I’ve found myself thinking about since my wife died.
I reach for another long pull of my beer with a deep sigh. Because part of me wishes I hadn’t developed a thing for the woman who makes my coffee—especially since she can’t be much older than my son.
Still. No harm in looking, right? Things in my life were fucking bleak for a while, when I lost not only my wife but my son in the process. Sure, I could haul myself out of bed and still make it to work, even if shaving and eating were beyond the scope of what I could manage. Lydia’s best friend, Pauline, did everything in her power to help me. She made sure I kept showing up at the office—it’s my ad agency, after all—and brought me food as often as she could. I spent two years in a haze of grief, numb and barely existing.
Then one day, I met a barista who went out of her way to get me to smile. Somehow, she cut through the fog, and in the simplest of ways, cleared a path for me. Suddenly, I woke with a smile, knowing she was the first person I’d see that morning, knowing she’d always be there, waiting to greet me, making the world a little better with her warm energy and her beautiful coffee. I’m sure to her I’m nothing more than one random guy in a long line of customers she serves, but she became the highlight of my day. She pulled me out of my misery and back into the world, back into myself, and I’ll be forever grateful for that. For her.
Jesse polishes off his food and deposits the container on the coffee table, reaching again for his beer. I’m so buoyed by our meal together that I can’t help but push for more.
“Want to find a movie or something?” I ask, finishing up as well.
Damn, Daisy, that was so good . I can’t believe that restaurant has been two blocks from my house for months and I haven’t ordered from there. It might be my new go-to place.
Jesse takes a long swallow from his beer. “Nah,” he says at last. “I’m gonna see what Rex is up to.” He pulls out his phone, fingers flying across the screen.
I frown into a sip of beer. Fuck, Rex is the worst and I don’t know why Jess insists on hanging out with him. He’s nothing but trouble. Arrested at least twice that I know of, and ever since Jesse started spending more time with him after Lydia died, he’s been on a dangerous path. He and Rex spend their time smoking weed and playing Call of Duty . I’m all for blowing off a little steam, but this isn’t the life I imagined for my son. I was married with a kid at his age, working my way up to a corner office. Why doesn’t he care about making more of himself?
I can’t say anything though because he’s barely started talking to me, and complaining about his best friend is hardly going to help me mend the gap between us.
“Okay,” I mutter, trying not to let the disapproval into my voice, but Jess picks up on it all the same.
He rolls his eyes. “Gotta problem with that?”
I lift my hands in defense. “I didn’t say a word.”
“I don’t know why you hate him so much. He was actually there for me after everything happened.”
I open my mouth to protest because I’d wanted nothing more than to be there for my son after his mother died. He’s the one who pushed me away. But we’ve had this argument more than once, and I know better than to go down that road right now.
“You don’t have to stay friends with him just because of that,” I murmur.
Wrong move.
“What do you know about having friends?” Jess laughs bitterly. “You spend all your time alone in this big house. Thanks, but I don’t think I need to take advice from you .”
My jaw tenses, and I set my beer down. Part of me is pissed that he’s so damn ungrateful, that he thinks it’s okay to speak to me like that, but a bigger part of me is glad he’s speaking to me at all, because if he’s speaking to me, then he might listen .
“I don’t hate Rex,” I say evenly, though it’s far from the truth. I can’t stand the little shit. “I just don’t want him getting you into trouble.”
Jesse snorts. “I’m twenty-three, Dad, not thirteen. I think I can handle myself.”
I twist to face him. “Exactly. You’re twenty-three. What are you doing with your life?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jesse mutters under his breath. “I’ve only just lost my job, and you’re giving me a hard time already?” He shakes his head, shoving to his feet. “I don’t need this shit.” With that, he stalks from the room, and a second later the front door slams shut. I stare after him for a moment, exhaling slowly.
Well, I fucked that up, didn’t I? I know I didn’t help my case by jumping all over him about his life choices, but like every parent, I worry about my kid. Ever since Lydia died, he’s become a different person, and the more he pushes me away, the more I worry.
My chest aches as I think about Lydia, wishing I wasn’t doing this alone. She’d never let him talk to me like that. Hell, if she was here, we wouldn’t be in this situation at all. Her naturally calm, positive energy always created harmony between people. This house was so much warmer when she was here.
And that’s why I can’t give up. I need to fix things with Jess, not just for us, but for Lydia. For the sake of what’s left of our family.