Page 77 of Wherever You Are

Willow ate Thanksgiving dinner alone in her bedroom—but not totally alone. I Skyped her and ate my pumpkin pie at the same time.

In the living room on Christmas Eve, I pound harder on my game controller, crushing my score onStreet Fighter II. My mom already guilted me into leaving my bedroom, but I’m not going to be guilted into any “brotherly” activities this time.

“Garrison.” My mom says my name in a way that completely obliterates each syllable with disappointment.

I know how to fix it. How to make her happy. To vanquish her disappointment, I have to become more like my brothers, but I can’t be them. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I was just like Hunter or Davis or even Mitchell.

And that says a lot because I’ve barely been able to live with myself as is.

My mom appears in the archway, cupping a wine glass with lime seltzer. I try not to make eye contact, but she still lingers. “I know they’d love if you joined them.”

They brought their lacrosse sticks from college, and they’re playing in the yard, tossing the ball between the three of them.

“I’m busy,” I say flatly, my stomach starting to knot. My character Ryu is knocked on his ass by Dee Jay. I lose the first round and try to concentrate on the second, but I’m overly aware of how many times I blink, trying to shake off my mom’s presence and request.

I lose the second round.

In the short break, I grab the remote and turn up the volume, wishing she’d take the hint and leave me alone.

My mom struts over and snatches the remote from my hand. She turns off the TV.

I stare flabbergasted at her. Usually she stands passively off to the side and lets me be a spoiled, ungrateful shithead.

I angrily toss my controller aside and slouch back on the couch. I pull up my hood and wait for her to lecture or yell or whatever she’s decided to suddenly do.

“Your brain is going to rot from these video games,” she says like all moms do, but if life were different—if sports were perceived as “lesser” and video games were seen as something “more”—would I be the beloved son then?

“I have a brain?” I say, sarcasm thick. “No way.”

Sadness softens her eyes, and she sweeps over my dry tone. “Your brothers are home only a few times out of the year. Why can’t you at least visit with them?” It’s the same question. The same fight.

The same request.

Over and over, it never changes. I don’t think it ever will. “I don’t like them,” I tell her seriously.

“They’re yourbrothers.”

I lift my foot on the couch cushion, arm draped on my kneecap. It takes me the longest second to find words. I want to shut down, but if someone can help me, I think it’d be a parent. A mom.

“Mom, it doesn’t…” I shake my head and meet the confusion on her face. “Just because we’re brothers doesn’tabsolvethem of all the shit they’ve done to me.”

“They love you. I know they do. They tell me all the time.” There she goes, defending them again. She fights tears and cups her drink with both palms. Like she’s afraid her hands will shake and she’ll drop the glass.

Love.Is how they treat me calledlove? I’m not making this up, right? They truly suck. It’s not all on me.It’s not my fault.

Is it?

I hate questioning myself. I used to do this as a little kid. Hell, I do it when anyone points out a bruise.It’s just what brothers do.Now that I’m older, I’m starting to see it’s not cool or right or something I want in my life.

It’s why I avoid them.

“Garrison,” she pleads.

I hang my head. “You know Thanksgiving?”I’m going to puke.I have to tell her though. I need to tell someone. I don’t want this weight on my chest. “I only bailed on them because Hunter paid two guys a hundred bucks to fight me.”

I brave a glance, and she only looks befuddled. Like she’s trying to figure out a defense for her three sons. Like she’s their trial lawyer.

“Were they drinking?” she asks quietly.