3. Elliot
ELLIOT
C onnor coming home yesterday makes Scout’s parents’ house that little less comfortable. It pushes me to finally go home and check on my dad.
Scout pulls up outside the house and turns the music down.
“Want me to come in with you?”
I take hold of the panic that seizes me and calmly tell her, “No, thanks.”
She chews her lip, like she’s thinking about coming in anyway—it wouldn’t be the first time. “Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll just pick you up when you’re ready?”
I nod. “Sure.”
She gives me a comforting wink before kicking me out. “Later, loser,” she calls through the open window.
After she speeds off, I’m left in the silence of the quiet street.
Our house isn’t as nice or big as Scout and Connor’s house.
There’s no pool in the back or three-car garage.
It’s just a simple, single-story Craftsman that used to be neat and well-maintained, but now has weeds poking up through the flagstones in the yard and windows that haven’t been cleaned for years.
Letters spill out of the mailbox when I open it. I skim through them as I let myself into the house, taking my shoes off at the door and putting the important-looking letters in a pile for Dad to go through before I toss the junk into the trash.
There are no final reminders or anything ominous looking, so I guess Dad is paying the bills at least.
I call him as I make my way through the house, but I get no answer.
A finger of dread curls around the edges of my thoughts and tells me something bad has happened to him. But I push it down. I know where I’ll find him. I’m just too stubborn—or stupid—to accept it.
The living room looks unlived in and the only sign of habitation in the kitchen is the single coffee mug sitting unwashed beside the sink.
I open the fridge to check if he ate the food I brought over last time, and my heart sinks at the sight of most of it still sitting there, going bad in the packets.
Taking a deep breath, I ball my fist up outside his office door and knock.
“Come in.”
I let myself in, unsurprised by the dust motes floating in the air and the slightly musty smell, despite the open window.
“Dad?”
He takes a moment to look away from his computer. The second his gaze lands on my face, his eyes get sad. I note the furrow in his brow and the drooping of his mouth. It’s like looking at me physically pains him. Like he’s resisting the urge to wince.
“Dad?”
“Eli,” he says. His voice is croaky, like he hasn’t used it all day.
When was the last time he actually spoke to another human being?
He takes his glasses off and wipes them on his hole-ridden cardigan.
I take in the greying stubble on his jaw and his uncombed hair, my heart sinking.
My dad has never been a vain man, always erring on the side of comfort over style.
He used to tease me over how long I’d linger in the mirror, fixing my hair, or shopping for clothes with Scout.
But he used to take enough pride in his appearance to be neat and tidy.
Mom would have never allowed him to go unshaven this long, or wear clothes with holes in them.
“When did you get home?” Dad asks.
“Just now.”
He nods, his attention already half taken by something else.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
Annoyance flickers in his eyes and I feel like I’m hassling him. But I know this is the right thing to do. He’s my dad and he needs taking care of. I can’t do it while I’m away at school, but when I’m home, I should at the very least make sure he’s eaten. It’s what Mom would expect me to do.
“I’m not hungry,” he says.
“I could cook something. What do you feel like?”
“No, thank you, Eli. I’m fine.”
I could cook you that curry ramen you used to like.
The one Mom warned you not to eat too much of because it was fattening.
I’ll make it just how she used to make it, is what I want to say.
But I know better. Anything that reminds him of Mom sends him into a tailspin.
There are no photographs of her up in the house anymore because he can’t bear to look at them.
And he refuses to eat anything she would have made, because the taste reminds him of her.
I leave him alone in his study and order Mexican take-out instead, leaving a burrito bowl on the counter for him, just in case he gets hungry, before setting myself up at the kitchen table with my books and highlighter pens.
I put my book down and rub my tired eyes. My contacts are making my eyes dry. I should just wear my glasses, but ever since some guy gave me a compliment about my face without them, I’ve been stupid enough to let vanity take over.
I remove my contacts in the bathroom and find the spare glasses in the drawer beside my bed.
Not much has changed in here since I left for college.
The photographs framed on the desk were gifts from Scout.
One shows us after a Bat for Lashes gig wearing glitter on our faces and laughing with our arms around each other outside the venue.
Another one is a really old photo of us in our swimsuits sitting by Scout’s parents’ pool eating ice cream.
Scout’s eating like someone’s going to snatch her food away, giving the camera an ice cream-smothered smile.
I’ve got my hair in that awful bowl-cut Mom used to give me that made me look like a LEGO man.
There are no pictures of Connor on my desk, or displayed anywhere in this room, and for good reason.
My fingers itch to open the desk drawer and pull out the only thing I’ve ever stolen—a photograph of Connor in his swim trunks.
Every day for years, I’d come home from school and jerk off to that picture.
But I don’t do it, don’t dare even open the drawer.
I am way too old to be lusting after Connor.
It would kill Scout if she knew the way I think about him.
She isn’t only my best friend—she’s like a sister. When my dad checked out, she was there for me. She helped me get dressed for my mom’s funeral when I wasn’t sure I could face it. She laid my clothes out on my bed, fastened my tie and styled my hair. “So you look good, for your mom.”
She held my hand through the service. She spooned me for weeks when I couldn’t sleep alone. She told me jokes, even though I didn’t laugh at first. She persevered until I did.
I can’t stay in here any longer. Getting the glasses I came in for, I head out, closing the door behind myself.
When I finally look up from my books, a barrage of texts is waiting for me from Scout. She’s been sending me messages every half hour.
Hey, how’s it going?
What time shall I pick you up?
Yoohoo big summer blow out.
YOU THERE?
I’m on my way.
That last one is about ten minutes old. I jump up and clean away my take-out container, leaving Dad’s on the counter.
Maybe he’ll eat it later? It’ll still be good cold.
He likes cold food. Sashimi used to be his favorite thing ever.
He’d drag Mom to that same sushi restaurant every weekend and ignore the disapproving looks he’d get from the Japanese chefs over how greedy he was being and how terrible he was at using chopsticks.
Mom found it hilarious and always gazed at him lovingly while he stuffed his face.
My heart sinks when I hear a knock on the door. I had hoped Scout would just honk. I hesitate before answering. Another knock. I know better than to think Scout will just go away if I ignore her.
She comes barreling inside as soon as I open the door, heading straight for the kitchen.
“I’m ready to go,” I say, watching as she eyes the uneaten burrito bowl on the counter.
“Is that for your dad?”
I nod.
Before I can stop her, she’s marching down the hallway toward the study.
By the time I catch up, the door is open and she’s strutting inside.
“Hi, Mr. B.”
My dad sounds understandably caught off guard. I hang back, chewing my lip. I could never be as authoritative with my dad as Scout is.
“I’ll make you a cup of coffee. Come on,” Scout says. “You’ve got to eat—everyone knows burritos are brain food.”
“Scout, I—” Dad starts to protest.
“Come on .” I know that tone, how impossible it is to resist.
She leaves the study door open before marching back to the kitchen. A moment later, Dad is following, lowering his gaze as he passes me in the hallway. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. How does she do that?
Dad takes a seat at the kitchen table while Scout warms his food up and makes a fresh pot of coffee.
All the while, she chats away, mostly with herself, talking about school.
When she got into M.I.T., he was over the moon for her.
They had countless talks over this very kitchen table about all the professors she was about to meet and how much she was going to learn.
It helped her get over the pain of getting rejected from Harvard.
She sits opposite him now and watches him take tentative bites of food. He pushes the bowl away after eating about a quarter of it.
“I’m full, Scout, seriously,” Dad says.
She takes a deep breath, watching him, assessing whether he’s telling the truth or not.
“Why don’t you two go and have fun?” Dad asks. “It’s your summer break.”
“No, Dad. We can stay here,” I cut in. Now Scout got him to eat something, maybe we can keep him out of his study? Get him into the shower and find some clothes in his closet that aren’t moth-eaten.
But he’s already pushing away from the table, retreating to his safe place.
“I have a lot of work to do, Eli,” he says without looking at me.
He thanks Scout for the coffee, no longer looking at her, either.
I watch him wander back down the hallway toward the study. When I glance back at Scout, she gives me a sad smile.
“It’s something,” she says, her voice soft.
I nod, ignoring how tight my throat feels and willing myself not to cry.
Scout’s up in another second, washing the dishes before I can get myself together enough to help .
It isn’t until I’m in the car and Scout is pulling away from the house that the guilt really settles in.
“What’s with the face? Did you forget something?”
I shake my head.
“Eli?”
“I shouldn’t leave my dad alone,” I mumble.
Scout’s quiet for a moment. When I look at her, she’s tensing her jaw, like she’s holding back from saying something I won’t like. “You shouldn’t feel bad about leaving him.”
“He’s my dad. It’s my responsibility to take care of him.”
“Exactly, he’s your dad. He’s the one who should be taking care of you, no matter how old you get.”
I swallow. “It’s what my mom would have wanted.”
“Your mom wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone in the house while your dad ignores you.” She gets a wistful look in her eyes and I kick myself for forgetting how much Scout probably misses her, too.
I feel her watching me in the reflection of the mirror, but I keep my face turned away and start picking at the vinyl sealant around the window.
“Your mom would kick his ass for moping like this and not paying attention to you. You know what she was like. She didn’t let him get away with hiding himself in his study.”
“But she was his wife. It’s different. I’m supposed to respect and take care of my dad. My mom took two years out of her degree to go back to Japan and nurse her father when he was dying, and they didn’t even get along. It’s what our culture expects. You don’t understand.”
Scout sighs. “Eli, your dad isn’t dying.”
“He’s depressed.”
“Yes, and you’ve done everything for him. If he won’t help himself, there’s nothing more you can do. He wouldn’t want to you take time out of your education to take care of him, and neither would your mom.”
I pick at the vinyl too much and a bit flakes off under my fingernail. “But while I’m home …”
“When you stayed with him before, did it make a difference? Did he come out of his study? Did he eat? No. You stayed there by yourself and he ignored you and you studied until you went to bed. Did he ever?—”
While she talks, I feel the lump in my throat getting bigger until I’m scared it’ll choke me. I can’t stand her reminding me of how powerless I am to help him.
“Stop,” I choke out. The threat of tears evident in my voice.
She bites her lip. “Sorry, Eli. I just?—”
“I know.” I swallow the lump in my throat and wipe my eyes, turning my face away to look out of the window.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I just can’t stand seeing you beat yourself up when you’ve done nothing wrong.”
I suck in a deep breath and force my face into a smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry.”
I turn up the stereo, watching the trees on the coast road pass by in a blur while Scout drives us to her house in silence.