I wake suddenly to the sound of Mom banging her fist against my door, calling my name and threatening that this is my last chance to get out of bed before she drags me out on her own. I’m confused at first as I try to peel open my eyelids, but I’ve slept with my makeup on and my mascara has clumped together, sealing my eyes shut. I force them open and sit up, squinting at the sunlight that’s streaming in through a gap in my blinds. I feel more tired than usual, and when I rake my hand under my comforter in search for my phone to check the time, I’m shocked to see that it’s almost noon.
Groaning, I tilt my head back and run my hands through my hair, but I immediately feel a painful strain in the back of my neck. I carefully massage the area, wondering what the hell I’ve done to myself, until I remember . . . I twist my body around and grab my pillow, lifting it up to reveal the bottle of red wine that I hid there last night. Ugh. The bright side is that Mom hasn’t discovered it, but the downside is that I slept on it.
Sliding out of bed, I stretch my legs, and then my neck in an attempt to relieve the strain. I can already smell Mom’s cooking wafting upstairs and I know I should be downstairs helping before the family arrives so I quickly grab the bottle of wine and carry it over to my window. I lean out and dispose of it by pouring the liquid out onto the roof. It dribbles down the roof tiles, into the gutter, down the drainpipe and is gone forever. It’s not something I do often, but I do it whenever I get the chance. Mom would be furious if she knew, not only for wasting her wine, but for throwing away money. But so far she hasn’t ever caught me.
I pull my window shut again and hide the empty bottle at the back of my closet, then make a quick dash next door to the bathroom. I’m trying to be as quick as I can before Mom truly gets fed up, so I throw my hair up into a messy bun and jump into the shower.
I end up being in there for way longer than I plan on, because I spend the entire time thinking about last night, thinking about Jaden. We spent the evening together, just the two of us, for the first time in a year, and it was amazing. The awkwardness was gone. It was exactly like it used to be, and I am full of hope now that we can do it again. I miss him already. I feel giddy when I do finally get out of the shower, making my way downstairs, following the smell of ham into the kitchen, where Mom is frantically flitting between dishes. There is also a whiff of wine in the air, but I pretend not to notice it.
“Can I help with anything?” I offer, feeling a little sheepish that I’m only now arriving to help. Usually I give her a hand with the vegetables, but by the look of the mess in here, it seems she’s already done it all on her own.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it,” she fires back over her shoulder without missing a beat. As always, she’s a little stressed out, and she exhales loudly and rubs at her temple while stealing a peek inside the Crock-Pot. “Just set the table, please.”
I do as she asks, heading for the cupboard to search for the placemats that were last used a month ago when we had the family over. For as long as I can remember, it’s been a tradition in my family that we all get together one Sunday each month. Mom always goes all out and cooks a big meal, so it’s a nice change from our usual burgers or takeout.
With our backs to each other, I set the table for eight while Mom continues to prepare the meal behind me, and just as I’m arranging all the knives, she clears her throat and asks, “How was your night with Jaden?”
I don’t answer her immediately, and I definitely don’t turn around to look at her. Truthfully, last night was a lot better than I ever expected it to be. “It was good,” I answer casually. I don’t want to tell Mom everything, and luckily she doesn’t ask anything more on the matter, so I finish up setting the table in silence.
Once I’m happy with my neat arrangement of the utensils, I shift over to Mom’s side and open the top cupboard to fetch eight glasses, but as I’m setting them down along the countertop in front of me, I spot the wine glasses and champagne flutes up on the top shelf. Frowning, I glance sideways at Mom, but she’s too busy staring into the oven to notice. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Which is?” she says without looking over. She tilts her head to one side as she studies the tray of sweet potatoes she’s trying so hard not to burn like last time, but her balance sways a little.
“Please don’t drink today,” I say, though I think it’s too late.
The moment the words leave my mouth, Mom heaves a sigh and slams the oven door shut, straightening up and spinning around to face me. Her features tighten in disapproval. “I can have a glass of wine with my food, Kenzie,” she tells me in a stern, matter-of-fact voice. “The same way your dad will have a beer with his.”
“But it’s never just one, is it?”
Mom stares at me with widened eyes as though I’m verbally attacking her, but the truth is, I’m just telling it like it is. It’s a simple request for her own good. I’m getting real sick of her sneaking into the kitchen to pour herself another glass late at night, sending me to the store to buy another bottle, and for sincerely believing that there’s nothing wrong with drinking as much as she does. It’s even worse when the rest of the family is here, because I see the pitiful looks they give her across the table whenever she reaches for the bottle to top up her glass.
“I don’t have time for this right now,” she says, waving me away as she turns back to the oven, bending down to peer inside it again. “You know it’s just a comfort thing.”
Frustrated by how oblivious she is, I grab all eight glasses and carefully carry them over to the table, but not without muttering, “I think it’s getting a little too comfortable,” under my breath.
Of course, Mom hears me. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Giving up, I set the glasses in place and then leave the kitchen. I love Mom to death, but trying to get through to her is nearly impossible. Dad tried at first, but he gave up a long time ago, and I can’t bring myself to blatantly ignore it the same way he does.
As I make my way down the hall, I smile at Grace’s frame, and then keep walking to the front door. I can hear the sound of the lawnmower growling and vibrating outside, so I pull open the door and step out onto the porch, barefoot. Dad’s tracing a pattern around the lawn with our rusty old mower as he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. It’s warm enough outside today, so I stand and watch Dad for a few minutes until he finally notices me, but only once he’s done and once he’s switched the machine off.
“So you’re finally awake!” he calls across the lawn.
Shrugging innocently, I smile and then joke, “Last-minute maintenance before Grandma gets here?”
“Exactly,” Dad says, laughing as he begins to drag the mower around to the back yard. Just before he disappears around the side of the house, he adds, “We don’t want her to call us trashy for having an overgrown lawn again!”
I roll my eyes and am just about to head back inside when I hear the sound of a car turning into our cul-de-sac. Stepping out further onto the porch, I spot my uncle Matt’s old Corvette approaching. It makes a hell of a sound, and even though it’s at least three decades old, he loves the damn thing. He pulls up and parks behind Mom’s Prius, then pushes open his door and steps out, waving over to me.
“Hey, Uncle Matt,” I say as he crosses the freshly cut lawn, locking his car behind him. It’s not often that we see him in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt I always find it strange whenever I see Matt wearing anything other than his uniform. He’s much less intimidating when there isn’t a gun and handcuffs strapped around his waist.
“What’s up? I thought I’d come by early and catch the end of the Panthers game,” he says once he reaches me. He’s Dad’s youngest brother, and unlike Dad, he still has his hair. He runs a hand through it and smiles as he dramatically inhales. “Mmm. Smells good.”
I follow him back inside the house, closing the front door behind us, and we make our way toward the kitchen. We walk in at the same time as Dad walks in through the back door, so I’m mostly ignored for a few minutes as the adults talk between themselves. I linger at the door until Dad excuses himself to go shower before everyone else arrives and Mom returns to organizing the food.
“C’mon then, Kenzie, let’s get this game on,” Matt says, walking over and throwing his arm around me. We head into the living room, and I sit down on the couch, pulling my legs up to get comfy, as he stands in front of the TV and gets up the second half of the Panthers game. They’re winning against the 49ers, and Matt fist pumps the air. “Hell yeah!”
He walks backward, his eyes locked on the TV screen, and sits down on the couch next to me. I really like Matt, mostly because he’s only nine years older than me and easy to joke around with. We get along well, and even though I couldn’t care less about the Panthers game, I don’t mind chilling out and watching it with him while he offers a running commentary. I listen to him for about five minutes before I tune out and my mind drifts to Jaden.
I had a great time last night with him, but now I find myself wondering just exactly how many good times we may have missed out on over the past year. If I had just been stronger, if I had just been braver, then I wouldn’t have distanced myself for so long. I wouldn’t have thrown away so many opportunities, but I did. All I know right now is that I do like being around him, and now that I’m aware of this, I want to be around him. Nothing may ever come of it. We might just be friends, but right now, I have nothing to lose. I’m curious about the possibilities.
I look over at Matt for a few minutes as I wait for a commercial break, and as soon as one begins, I swallow and say, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Matt says, quickly glancing sideways at me with a flash of worry and then back to the TV. “What is it?”
“Do you remember the Hunters?” I ask quietly. “That accident last summer?”
Matt glances back at me, but this time his gaze remains locked on mine. He’s quiet for a moment as he attempts to read my expression, confused by my question, before he finally answers, “Sure I do. Trust me, there ain’t no forgetting that. The car didn’t even look like a car anymore. Why?”
“Just wondering,” I mumble, then glance down at my hands in my lap as I add, “I’m hanging around with their kids again.”
“Really?” Matt sounds surprised. “How are they doing? God, what were their names again?”
“Jaden and Danielle,” I tell him, looking back up. I don’t know why I feel awkward discussing them, but all I can picture in my head right now is the car that didn’t even look like a car anymore and it makes me feel a little nauseous. “Jaden’s doing great, actually. But Danielle . . . I mean, she’s getting there.”
“Man, poor kids.” Matt shakes his head and exhales loudly, looking past me at nothing in particular as though he’s reflecting back on that fateful night last August. “That accident totally had me fucked up for a couple days afterward,” he admits. “Like, if they’d just left their office a minute later, or if they’d just taken a different route home, then they would have missed whatever the hell ran out in front of them. Sad, really, the way that the right timing can make things so wrong, ain’t it?”
As the game resumes and Matt turns his attention back to the TV, I think about his words over and over again in my head. It’s a terrifying thought that so many tiny things had to perfectly align in order for that accident to even happen in the first place, and if one of those things had been different, then the outcome may have been different too. But I quickly realize that it works both ways.
Bumping into Jaden at 7-Eleven while posing as my mom was most definitely the wrong timing, yet we both ended up at that register at the exact same moment, and talking to him that night seemed to kick-start something between us again. The right timing can make things go wrong, but the wrong timing can also make things go so right.
I focus back on the game, listening to Matt’s commentary again as he groans and cheers, though it’s a struggle to actually concentrate. In between his “aw c’mon!”s and “hell yeah!”s, all I can think about is Jaden. Jaden Hunter. Even just saying his name in my head is enough to give me goosebumps.
“Kenzie,” Dad says, peering around the living room door after ten minutes. He has just gotten out of the shower and changed into a nice dress shirt, and the rest of the family should be turning up any second now, which explains why he looks anxious. “Can you help me out with the food?”
Matt is so engrossed in the game on TV that he doesn’t even pay attention to me as I get up and walk over to join Dad in the hall. He looks as though he is about to break out into a sweat any second. “Where’s Mom?” I ask. Dad never cooks. He sucks at it, so I’m concerned that he is asking me to help him out.
Dad gives me a tight, apologetic smile and squeezes my shoulder, guiding me to the kitchen. Mom isn’t here anymore. “She’s just . . . just getting some fresh air,” he says.
I knew it. I knew Mom was already tipsy, I knew she’d already been drinking today. She does this all the time, and it’s getting embarrassing now. I shake my head at the ground in anger, and then I glance out of the window above the sink. Mom is sitting outside in the yard on her own, huddled over our old wooden table with both her hands pressed to her forehead. In front of her, there is a glass of water. It pains me to admit it, but she looks pathetic out there. I wish I could just shake her. I wish she could just look at herself and see what the rest of us see.
“Your mom might need to go and lie down for a few hours, so looks like it’s you and me doing the dinner!” Dad says to me with false cheer, snapping some kitchen tongs in my direction. I turn away from the window and join him by the oven, and I grind my teeth together while I pretend that I haven’t noticed the empty bottle of wine that’s peeking out from the trash can.