me.
“The photo album Mom had. I can’t find it.”
“It’s not in that box.” I turn for a shorter box in the corner and dig through it until I find the sky-blue photo album. I run my fingers across it, staring at the picture on top of me, Mills, my mother, and my father. That’s when we were a family. When we were whole. Shit got fucked up after he died. After he died, it seemed as if life was going nowhere but downhill. “Why are you looking for it?” I ask, turning to face Mills while aiming to distract myself from the negative thoughts.
“I just wanted to look through it one more time before we put it in storage.” He takes it from me then turns for the kitchen. I follow after him but lean against the wall as he takes a seat at one of the chairs around the table. Flipping to the first page, a wide smile immediately forms on his lips. “I remember this,” he says, laughing. “Dad took us to the park and I pushed you down the slide a little too hard. You scraped your cheek and your hands and started crying. Then Dad told you to toughen up and take it like a man.”
“I was only four,” I chuckle, stepping to his side to look over his shoulder. I stare down at the picture of four-year-old me wiping tears from my eyes and my dad bending down in front me, telling me to toughen up. He wasn’t being rude about it. He just didn’t want me to grow up to be a wuss. I guess his mild scolding’s paid off.
Mills flips through the pages a few times and the kitchen grows silent to allow the memories to flow. Most would expect an awkward silence but it’s far from that. It’s humbling. A few pictures of my Mom holding me in her arms when I was baby show up and even some pictures of her holding Mills’s hand at the shore of a beach, at the park, and even here, at this very house. Mills was more attached to my mother and I to my father.
“Remember when Dad always called you Milton instead of by your nickname?” I laugh.
He chuckles, continuing his stare down. “Hell yeah. I hated it so much. It didn’t match my personality but he was the only person who could get away with it.”
Sighing, I drop down in the chair across from him. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he were still around.”
“Me too. Things would be better, I know that. We never would have moved away from Mom and she never would have met her douche of a boyfriend Derrick. I can’t believe he really had the nerve to show up at the funeral. Fucking bastard.” Mills’s grip tightens around the edge of the photo album and I shake my head.
“Calm down. It’s over with. She’s with Dad again.”
His grip lacks as he presses his lips together. “I guess.” He begins to flip through but pauses as he reaches the picture of me in a tux.
“Let me see that,” I say before taking it away from him. I stare down at the picture of me in a black tux, pink vest, and a matching pink bowtie. Some of the pictures are single pictures but others are with Sharon. She wore a silky pink gown, her blonde hair was pinned up, and her makeup was overly done. I guess I can admit that she’s changed because at the wake, her makeup wasn’t as caked as it is in this picture.
I look down at the picture of her in my arms, smiling up at me, and then another with her still in my arms but we’re kissing. At the sight of it I cringe and right after, the painful memories return.
“Check this out,” Mills said, tossing a football in my direction. Luckily I caught it before it could knock over the mannequins. Mills had a strong arm.
“Mills, chill out.”
“Fuck outta here,” he said, tossing another football. I grimaced as I caught it and then he chuckled. “Fine. Wussy.”
“Whatever,” I muttered as I placed the footballs in the bin beside me. “Let’s head to the food court. I need something to eat . . . plus I want to buy Sharon this Build-A-Bear thing she’s been talking about. Her birthday is tomorrow.”
Mills nodded in agreement and after we ate, we split up. I headed for the Build-A-Bear workshop while he