me—being in the house all day—this allows me to see and feel things without ever leaving.”
“Do you want to leave?” I ask. “Because you can, we all can, like we did with Connor and… you went to his game, and that wasn’t so bad.”
She shrugs. “Maybe one day I’ll feel more comfortable. This town isn’t very friendly.”
“Yeah,” I sigh out, my mind lost with thoughts of our future. I just need time, I tell myself. Soon, we’ll be out of here for good.
“Hey,” she whispers, looking toward my room. “Is Connor here?”
“Yeah, he’s sleeping.”
“I have a surprise for him.”
I smile. “What’s your surprise?”
She gets to her feet and undoes the tie of her robe, revealing what she’s wearing underneath. I can’t help but laugh. “He’s going to love it.”
A couple of hours later, my bedroom door opens, and Connor appears, rubbing his eyes. He walks into the kitchen, stopping when he sees Mom standing by the sink, her back turned to him. Eyes wide, his instant grin fills my heart with joy. I say through a laugh, “Look what Mama got Trevor to order for her.”
Wearing a high school All-American jersey with Connor’s name and number on the back, Mom turns around, her smile matching his.
“Hey, it looks good on you!” Connor exclaims, suddenly awake and full of life. He moves to her, kisses her right on the scars like he does most mornings. “Where did you even get this? I don’t even have one yet.”
Mom giggles. “I have my ways,” she says, patting his cheek. “When do you fly out?”
“Just before midday,” he answers.
“Is your dad going with you?”
“Nah, he couldn’t get the time off work.”
“Really?” I ask, cutting into their conversation, my concern evident. “Will you be okay?” I try to ask the question as vaguely as possible because I know about his fear of airports, but Mom doesn’t, and I don’t know if he wants her knowing.
Connor winks at me, his smile still there. “Yeah, I’m good, babe. I’m a big boy now.”
Trevor walks into the kitchen and drops down in his chair, grumbling, “Mama Jo, you never wore my jerseys.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “That’s because football’s for pussies.”
Connor busts out a laugh, and I giggle, squeezing Trevor’s shoulder as he says, “I feel like I’ve been replaced by the golden boy.”
“Never,” Mom tells him, laughing as she walks toward the door.
Connor waits for her to be far enough before baring his teeth, grinning at my brother. “She loves me more.”
Trevor shakes his head. “Get out of my house, you Shawn Mendes looking motherfucker,” he grinds out, but he’s joking… I think.
“Shawn’s hair is darker,” I say, though I do get where Trevor’s coming from.
“Who’s Shawn Mendes?” Connor asks.
“Who’s Shawn Mendes,” Trevor mimics under his breath.
“Boys. That’s enough,” I warn, raising the spatula in my hand. “Now you two get along, or I’ll beat the both of you to within an inch of your lives.”
Trevor shivers. “You’re scary,” he says, at the same time Connor takes the spatula from me, smacks my ass with it.
I exaggerate a moan as I bite my lip, look up at him.
Connor laughs.
Trevor mumbles, “I do not want to know what goes on behind closed doors with you two.”
Ignoring him, I ask Connor, “Are you sure you can give me a ride to school?”
“Yes.” He takes over cooking his and Trevor’s breakfast for me. “I don’t want to miss out on any more time with you.”
Trevor gags.
Connor adds, “I’ll have plenty of time. Enough for me to come home and pack.”
“You haven’t packed yet?”
Trevor speaks up, “He’s a guy, we don’t need much.”
“It’s true,” Connor agrees, plating up Trevor’s food and serving it to him. He ruffles what little hair’s on Trevor’s head. “I’ll wear your jerseys for you, Trevor.”
“Shut up,” Trevor laughs out.
Connor gets his own plate and sits opposite my brother. “Do you miss it? Wearing a jersey?”
“Sometimes,” Trevor replies, shrugging, “but it was never my end goal like it is with you, so it’s not life-defining, you know?”
“What was your end goal… or is…?”
I pretend to be washing the dishes, but I’m listening to every word they’re saying.
Trevor answers, “I always wanted to be a talent scout.”
“Oh, yeah? You’d be good at that.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, or an agent.”
“What makes you think I’d be good at either of those things?”
“Because you care. My agent only really cares about the final numbers. Stats, money. You’d care about the person you’re representing, and you’d make sure they get the best outcome.”
“Maybe,” Trevor replies,