Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Reece
“Ma,” I called out as I stepped through the front door of my childhood home. “I’m here.”
Remi was on me within seconds, weaving through my legs and rubbing his naked face on me. He was my mom’s cat, a rescue sphynx that reminded me of a shaved nut sack. A freaky little thing with big ears and wide alien eyes.
My dad didn’t like animals, so we didn’t have any pets when I was growing up, but as soon as he passed, Mom adopted Remi.
With Tegan and me living our own lives, I assumed the house was just too empty for her.
I was happy she had Remi to dote on. She had all sorts of sweaters and clothes for him.
Today he was dressed in a fuzzy orange turtleneck that looked absolutely ridiculous.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, patting his butt. He stretched, sticking his naked tail straight up in the air.
I was more of a dog person, but he was pretty fucking cute.
“How ya been?” I gave him a few scratches under his chin, feeling contented purrs rumble out of him.
For a little guy, he really got that motor running.
“Hey!” I looked up to see Tegan popping her head out from the kitchen at the end of the hall, a smile spreading across her face.
I grinned back at her, feeling my heart warm at how excited she seemed to see me. “Hey, Tegs.”
I made my way down the hall, passing the gallery wall of photos of me and Tegan from our childhood. In so many of the pictures, she was smiling while I had a permanent scowl etched on my face.
How was it that two kids from the same family had such different childhoods?
I took a deep breath, forcing a smile when I walked into the kitchen.
“Where’s Atlas?” I asked. From what I’d gathered, the two of them did everything together.
“Oh, um, he had some stuff he needed to catch up on at the gym,” Tegan said. “He said to tell you hello, though.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom said, wrapping me in a tight hug. A set of oven mitts covered her hands, and she softly patted my back. “I just got dinner in the oven. I figured we could eat when you’re finished in the garage.”
“What are you making?” I was asking the important questions.
Mom took off her oven mitts and set them on the counter. “Lasagna.”
“Your favorite,” Tegan said with a smirk. She might have been our father’s favorite, but our mom had always had a soft spot for me.
I took a minute to look between the two of them. My sister really was the mirror image of our mom—just without the glasses. By some miracle, I was a pretty even mix of both of my parents. If I had looked exactly like my dad, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror.
“Well,” I said to Tegan, “you ready to get this shit show started?”
She sighed. “I suppose.”
“Try not to move too much around in there,” Mom said. “I have everything arranged just how I like it.”
Somehow, I knew that was a lie.
“Sure thing, Mom,” Tegan said. She looked at me and rolled her eyes, making me laugh.
We walked out the back door and made our way around the side of the house to the detached garage.
Mom used it for storage now, but when Dad was alive, he kept an old project car in here.
He never worked on the thing, and it sat there for years collecting rust and dust. After he passed, it was one of the first things we got rid of.
I swore I heard my mom murmur “Good riddance” under her breath when the tow truck finally pulled away.
The garage had an old manual door, so I grabbed the handle and pulled it up, cringing at the sound of the metal clinking against the tracks. A shimmering wave of heat poured out of the garage and onto the asphalt. Of course we were doing this on one of the hottest days of the summer.
“Oh my gods,” Tegan said as the two of us stared in disbelief at the sight in front of us.
The garage was jam-packed. Boxes were stacked three to four high, arranged in rows that made the garage a cardboard corn maze.
A barely used treadmill was tucked against the wall, and an old deep freezer was jammed in a back corner—completely unreachable.
What was the point of keeping it if she didn’t use it?
“Does she get rid of anything?” Tegan asked.
“Apparently not. What are we looking for again?”
“The box of stuff from Mom and Dad’s wedding.”
“Did she check the attic first?” That seemed like the sort of thing that would be better suited for a closet, someplace climate controlled, rather than a hot garage.
I guess it made sense, though. Mom was never really happy in their marriage.
Tegan was probably the only reason she hung on to those mementos.
Tegan nodded. “Yep. She said it wasn’t up there.”
“Fuck.” Not that climbing around in the attic would have been much better. I’d hit my head on the rafters up there more times than I could count.
She put her hands on her hips, stared at the garage full of junk like it personally offended her, and puffed out a breath. “Fuck indeed.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was moments like this that reminded me we were siblings.
“I guess I’ll start with this side and you start with that side?” I suggested.
“Sounds good.”
I started to make my way through the piles of boxes and plastic storage bins. As chaotic as things looked, everything was labeled and sorted into groups that sort of made sense. At least in a way that would be logical to Pam Rollins.
Sweat dripped down my back as I sorted through the stacks of boxes.
Coffee mugs. Dad’s old tools. Craft supplies. Ancient sports equipment. Easter decorations.
When was the last time Mom even decorated for Easter?
Just when I was about to give up hope for my side of the garage, an old Staples box caught my attention. Wedding Shit was scrawled on the side in my dad’s chicken scratch handwriting. I snorted because, even in death, I was reminded of what a prick he was.
“I found it, Tegs,” I called out to my sister.
“Oh, yay. I found something, too.”
I picked up the box and brought it out to the driveway. Tegan tugged a bin over, the sound of the plastic scraping across the pavement making my jaw clench. She could have just asked me to carry it for her.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She tapped the bin. A piece of painter’s tape with my name on it was stuck to the lid. “Your memory box,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Memory box?”
“Yeah, Mom made us both one. I already took mine to the cottage, but I’m assuming she told you to come get yours and you never did.”
I snapped the top off the bin. Inside were my pictures from Little League, Ninja Turtle action figures, and the baby blanket my nana made. The fabric was thin and pilled with age—and from being carried around everywhere when I was a kid. Until my father started making fun of me, that is.
“What am I supposed to do with all this?” I wasn’t exactly a sentimental person, and there were some memories I desperately wanted to forget.
“You hold on to it, and then when you’re old, you”—she paused—“show it to your kids.”
Kids.
A relationship had never been on my radar, let alone kids.
Not that there was anything wrong with kids.
When Atlas and Tegan had them, I’d happily step into the role of fun uncle.
But as far as parenting children of my own went?
It scared the shit out of me. No matter how much I convinced myself I wasn’t my father, the thought was still there, lingering in the back of my mind, that I’d be like him. Parent like him.
It was enough to put me off the idea altogether.
And, as a gay man, the path to parenthood wasn’t exactly an easy one. It wasn’t like it could just happen.
I continued rummaging through the box, pulling out a chipped Pokémon picture frame.
Inside it was a faded picture of me and Tegan standing on a muddy embankment by the lake.
An old rope swing hung off a tree in the background.
Back in the ’90s, that thing was the highlight of our summer.
By the time I started working at the Parks Department, it was long gone.
Deemed a safety hazard, and for good reason.
I had to have been about ten when the photo was taken, my face still chubby and boyish. That would make Tegan around five.
“What’s that?” Tegan asked, peeking at the photo.
“Us at the lake when we were kids.” I tapped the glass, pointing at the rope swing in the background of the photo. “I think Mom took this when I finally got you to do the rope swing. Do you remember that?” I asked, a smile tugging at my lips at the memory.
How the fuck was that twenty-five years ago? I remembered how loud Dad cheered for her. Despite my jealousy over his reaction, I was pretty damn proud of my sister for conquering her fear.
She shook her head. “I only know about it from Dad telling the story over and over again.”
“You were so proud of yourself when you finally did it on your own.”
“I wouldn’t have had the courage to do it without you standing on the bank encouraging me.”
I laughed, nudging her shoulder. “I thought you said you didn’t remember.”
“That’s the only part I remember,” she said, nudging me back.
“Did you find it?” Mom shouted from the side of the house. She joined us in the driveway, eyeing the boxes we’d pulled out.
“Yep,” Tegan said, tapping the box labeled Wedding Shit with her foot. “And Reece’s memory box.”
Mom tsked at me. “I told you to come get that last summer when I started the house remodel.”
“I forgot, okay?” I glanced at the picture one more time before laying it in the bin on top of my baby blanket. “I’m a busy guy.”
“Mm-hmm. Busy my butt,” Mom huffed. She stepped inside the garage and poked around the boxes. “I don’t even know what’s in here.”
Tegan and I looked at each other, biting back our smiles, because of course Mom had no idea what was in here. We watched her mill around the stacks, mumbling to herself as she took stock of all the junk she’d accumulated over the years.
“Reece,” Mom called out from the back of the garage. “Come help me with this box.”