Page 1 of It’s Only Love

Mike

Twelve Years Earlier

“Mom? Mom? Mrs. Winston left another casserole outside.” I close the front door carefully behind me with the casserole dish tucked under my arm.

I drop my backpack on the floor just inside the door and toe off my shoes.

As I enter the kitchen, I find it quiet, my cereal bowl from this morning looking lonely, still sitting in the dish rack.

My shoulders sag. I know what it means. It means what it did yesterday, the day before, and every day since Dad died a month and a half ago.

Mom’s in bed with the curtains drawn, probably out of it from the drugs Dr. Everett prescribed when she had her breakdown.

Until the day she fell to pieces, I never really thought about the word breakdown. Why would I? I was just a kid. Kids don’t have breakdowns, right? I didn’t have a worry in the world, just living my life with my best friend, Aaron.

Then Dad died.

When they called me to the principal’s office at school that day, just before summer break, I had no idea my life would change forever.

I often wonder if Dad would still be alive if I’d gone to the boys’ bathroom instead of the principal’s office.

That if I’d made a different choice, things would be different now, too.

But Dad had been dead for several hours already, and wishing wouldn’t change a thing.

A delivery van hit his truck head-on while he drove into work at the hardware store downtown, where he’d been the general manager since before I was born. My strong, vibrant, and fun dad died on impact, never knowing what hit him.

Dad and I had so many things planned for the summer.

We were going camping, just the two of us.

He was also helping me practice for middle school football, tossing the football back and forth in the backyard.

He would finally teach me how to drive Grandpa’s old truck on some of the quieter back roads.

I’d been nagging him for a while since the Ford F-150 was technically mine because Grandpa left it to me.

He’d told me not until I could reach the pedals.

All those plans vanished before my eyes the second I walked into the principal’s office and saw Mrs. Holbrook, Aaron’s mom, looking all serious and sad.

She called me ‘ honey ’ like she always does, squeezing me tightly.

I remember thinking it was weird that she was so sad because I’d only ever seen her like that once before, and that was when Aaron’s grandma died.

At that moment, I felt like comforting her, telling her that everything was going to be okay, believing she was the one who had lost someone.

I wanted to believe that so much, but I was frozen, unable to speak or move because I knew she was there for me.

I remember Principal Miller’s lips moving, but I can’t for the life of me recall what she said.

All my thirteen-year-old brain zeroed in on was that I would never get to drive down those back roads with Dad now, Bon Jovi blasting from the stereo, or play ball in the backyard with him again.

He would never again throw that ball, his deep voice bellowing through the neighborhood, ‘Go Mike! You go, kid! You’ve got it!

’ And I did. I would catch it every single time because Dad believed in me and told me I got it.

It was still all I thought about when I left school with Mrs. Holbrook to drive me home.

All the things I would never get to do with Dad again played on repeat in my head.

And it was still all I could think about when I got home and Mrs. Winston, our next-door neighbor, told me, ‘Sorry, Mike. Your mom isn’t doing too well right now,’ which I already knew with the way Mom was screaming from her bedroom.

‘I’m so sorry, honey,’ Mrs. Holbrook whispered against my hair, over and over, as she hugged me tightly against her chest for the longest time.

Mom had stopped screaming by the time Mrs. Winston blinked at me, teary-eyed, and handed me a chocolate-glazed banana muffin. While it was my favorite, I didn’t think I could ever eat it again because it would always remind me of Dad’s death and Mom’s now-quiet whimpering.

The words ‘I’m so sorry’ continued every single day from friends, people at school, and from those I don’t even know.

Everyone is always so fucking sorry. That’s why I go over to Aaron’s house most days after school, and on the weekends, too, because it’s the one place where I can breathe and where I don’t have to listen to those damn words.

At home, I walk on eggshells, afraid that Mom will have another breakdown if I’m too loud, or too demanding, or just there, existing.

That’s why I plan to see Aaron right after I set the casserole in the fridge and replace the half-empty glass of water on Mom’s bedside table with a fresh one.

“I’ll be at Aaron’s,” I tell her like I tell her every day. “I love you, Mom.” I always tell her that, too, because I do. I love her, but I can’t stand being around her when she won’t talk to me, touch me, or even look at me.

‘You look just like your dad,’ she used to laugh at me, ruffling my hair.

They used to be my six favorite words in the world, because Dad was my hero, and even though he’s gone now, I don’t think anyone will ever take his place.

I used to savor those words like one would a cherry popsicle on the first day of summer.

Now, they’ve become a curse when people around town tell me.

They think it’ll soften the blow of losing him somehow.

That I can find comfort in the fact I look like him and can see him every time I look in the mirror.

But knowing that I look like my dad is not a comfort, especially when Mom won’t look at me because she only sees him .

Before leaving, I press a soft kiss against Mom’s forehead, my hands itching with the need to just shake her and yell at her to come back to me because I need her. Of course, I don’t, because even if she wanted to, I don’t think she could. I don’t think she’s ready yet. So I leave.

“Oh, hi, honey,” Mrs. Holbrook greets me from the front yard, elbow deep in a new flower bed. She squints against the afternoon sun hanging low in the sky. “Aaron’s upstairs.” She smiles the way she does every day when I visit. “And I’ve got a fresh batch of snickerdoodles in the kitchen.”

I nod, lingering for a bit. She stops digging, taking me in.

I know she’s sorry, like everyone else. It’s written on her kind face covered with summer freckles, just like they cover Aaron’s and his younger brother Dennis’.

It’s right there in her gentle brown eyes, but she knows I don’t need to hear it.

I don’t want to hear it because it doesn’t change anything.

I stay silent, the way I do every afternoon when we have this moment, just looking at each other in quiet understanding.

As usual, the words burn on the tip of my tongue.

‘Can I come live with you guys? Just for a while. Just until…’ Sometimes I think she hears them even though I never say them out loud.

I won’t ever say them. “They’re pretty,” I say instead, gesturing at the sky-blue flowers still sitting in their pots.

“Oh, thank you, honey.” She brushes the back of her hand against her forehead, moving a dark lock of hair out of her eyes. “They’re forget-me-nots.” She smiles before regret flashes in her eyes.

Forget-me-nots. I’ll never forget you, Dad.

I shake myself, putting on a half-hearted smile.

I don’t need to fake it for her, not like I do at school or around other grown-ups.

I know they don’t like my half-hearted smiles.

They want my ‘I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.

I’ll be fine,’ smiles that will allow them to go about their business as usual.

“Well, they’re really pretty.” I swallow. “You need any help?” I ask her that every day, too, whether she’s in the garden, in the kitchen, or moving something around in the basement. I ask her, since I can’t ask Mom. Because I’m just a kid and I can’t give Mom the kind of help she needs.

“Nah, you go on up now. Dennis has been asking about you, driving Aaron crazy.”

“Yeah?” I like Dennis. I don’t have any siblings, so he and Aaron are as close to any that I’ll ever get.

She sighs. “Yes, probably because he’s dying to eat those snickerdoodles.

I told him he can’t have any before you show up, or else he’ll eat them all.

” She chuckles, and I can’t help chuckling, too, because she’s right.

Dennis has a sweet tooth, and he can scarf down an entire plate of treats within seconds, then come down to the kitchen for more.

I gesture toward the front door. “Well, I’d better go put him out of his misery then.”

“Thank you, Mike. You’re a star.” She always says that. Sometimes, I wish I were, because the stars belong up in heaven where Dad is, and I’m stuck down here, in this life that no longer feels like mine; it belongs to someone else.

I rush up the steps to the porch and throw open the front door.

As soon as I enter, I can hear Aaron and Dennis bickering from upstairs like they always do, Dennis’s high-pitched voice and Aaron’s deeper one intermingling.

They’re probably arguing about Mario Kart again.

Aaron gets fed up with having his ass handed to him by a ten-year-old.

I am, too, if I’m being honest, but Dennis takes no prisoners.

When he plays Mario Kart , it’s not for funsies.

It’s a matter of life or death. Come to think of it, Dennis is like that when it comes to most things.

He’s full steam ahead, taking life as it comes in one big bite as if it’s a giant snickerdoodle.

Aaron is kind of like that, too, but more so with Dennis.