Page 35 of Emmett
Maybe he sees what everyone else around me sees when they look at me lately: just some broken little boy, eager and ready to please because he’s shit scared of being left behind again.
And maybe they’re all right.
I slip into a clean pair of joggers and quietly move down the hall to the stairs, around the banister and through to the kitchen. The clock over the stove tells me that it’s past three in the morning; I should just go to bed, but I grab a filter and throw it into the coffee maker before filling it with grounds and firing it up.
As soon as the little red light on the machine goes green, I grab the carafe and pour a generous cup into a mug that says ‘if it requires pants or a bra, it’s not happening today,’ then I head to the dining room table, where I left my laptop earlier in the day.
I flip the screen open and scan over what I’ve already gotten written, making sure that I know where I left off before I start back in on my paper. This is the last thing I have to do to confer my degree and I really don’t want to screw it up.
I spend the next three hours chugging caffeine and typing like my fingers are on fire, cranking out a handful of pages and only stopping when Dad comes into the dining room with his own mug of coffee in one hand and my baby sister in the other. Sarah looks wide awake and Dad looks like if he blinks, he’ll fall asleep where he stands.
“Hey, Jellybean,” I coo to her as I stand and pluck her from his arms, giving her a big kiss on the cheek and following with a raspberry that makes her giggle.
Dad inclines his head toward my laptop as he sits, asking, “Paper?” I nod. “How many pages?”
“Up to ninety-seven,” I answer. “Almost done.”
“I’m really proud of you, bud,” he tells me as he sips from his mug. “We’re going to embarrass the hell out of you when you walk that stage.”
I laugh as if he’s joking, but a quiet part of my heart warms at the thought, and I really kind of hope that they do just that. I want all of them to be there; Dad, Ro, Uncle Davis, the girls. Everyone.
I want to hear them shout and scream and cheer for me, because if I make it across the stage with my hood, I will have properly accomplished something entirely on my own, all because I wanted more for myself than just being the rich kidwho uses his money and his dad’s name to accomplish his goals.
As the rest of the family files into the dining room, Rowan passes out plates and we all dive into breakfast and conversation. For a while, I forget how much I’ve been wanting to go back to my own place; I forget that I even have my own place.
Shit, I should probably check on that.
•
I’m hit with a stench as soon as I open the door, mildew and rot finding their way to my nose, and I grimace as I walk toward the kitchen to open the windows.
My eyes fall on the island counter, where several grocery bags have been sitting untouched, some of them off-kilter as if they’d been tossed rather than set down and all of them filled with now-rotten food that only serves to contribute to the odor. I hadn’t even realized that Dad had brought more stuff over that day.
I slide my gaze forward, the island lining up to give a perfect view down the hallway, and I sigh, pressing my palms to the counter as a pang of guilt stabs through me.
The bathroom itself is the worst of it. The mats never got any air, so the bottoms of them stayed soaked for god knows how long, and it shows in the mold growing on the bottoms of them. I pick them up and toss them into the trash, but I’m going to have to get professionals in here.
Grabbing a bag, I stuff more clothes inside along with my earbuds, the rest of my pot stash, and anything else I’d rather not leave behind for however long it is that I’ll be away.
My eyes land on the coffee table as I head for the front door, the camcorder sitting abandoned on top of it, and barbedwire squeezes itself around my insides. I pick up the device as if it’s radioactive and I stuff it into the bag as I head out to my car.
When I get back home – well, to Dad’s - I take the bag up to my room and drop it near the bed, reaching in to grab his camcorder, and I trek back downstairs with it.
I find Dad snuggled up on the couch with Rowan, the two of them watching some cheesy movie together that I am almost certain was Ro’s choice. I quietly set the device down on the table in front of them and move to head for my room again.
“Did you watch it?” Dad asks, stopping me with a hand at my wrist.
“Uh,” I stammer, “yeah, part of it.”
“How far did you get?”
“Far enough.”
My dad pulls the camcorder toward himself and flips the screen open to pick up where I left off, listening to himself prattle on about the six-month-old on his lap, and his face falls.
“You stopped here,” he sighs, not finishing his thought, but he doesn’t need to. I know what he’s thinking.You stopped here, and then you wound up in the water. “Emmett, this is why I— you missed the good parts.”
I let out a doubtful huff. There are good parts? From where I was sitting, it seemed more like a testament to how I singlehandedly destroyed their lives and stole their joy, my dad’s especially.