Nash Brothers Box Set - Carrie Aarons Page 0,197

in a conversation I can’t make out. And then they’re out the door, leaving Mom and I to ourselves.

“Thanks for making the time to come tonight,” Mom says as we clear the table together.

She sets the candlesticks, the ones I know that her mother gifted her, on the hutch in her dining room. This might not be my childhood home, as she sold that and moved into her condo about two years ago, but it sure as hell looks like it. Every piece is one that has meaning from my youth. The table in the kitchen that Bowen accidentally shot a BB gun at … and you can still see the indents from the pellets. The bookcases that Fletcher and I tried to climb, and one eventually fell over almost crushing my twin, that sit in her living room.

“Of course, Ma. You don’t have to thank me for that. I’m that big an asshole.”

Somewhere along the way, my family labeled me as the selfish one, and when you’re told something for so long, you start to believe it yourself.

“Language, please,” she admonishes me. “I just mean, I know you’re on a big case.”

“Did Keaton tell you that?” I hate when my brothers tried to guess at my work.

Mom shakes her head. “I’m your mother, Forrest. Your eyes are rimmed with dark circles, your beard is grown out, and you seemed distracted all night. You might not think so, but I know when you’re on a big case just by looking at you.”

I concede, nodding. “It’s a tough one. But nothing I can’t solve.”

“I have no doubt in that. Your brain always did amaze me. Your father, too.” We clear the last of the serving dishes to the kitchen, and I take my place at the drying rack.

This has always been our one place. She washes, I dry. It’s tradition, one she tries to reserve for her and me.

She name-dropped Dad a couple times tonight, and I know she misses him more this week than anything. We all do, in our own ways. I may not be the most outward about my grief but losing my dad has been the single worst event in my life. He was my dad, for Christ’s sake … I’m not completely heartless.

“He did get me my first computer.” I smile, nostalgically. “I tinkered with that motherboard for months, taking it apart and trying to improve it.”

Mom chuckles. “He bought you that thinking you’d surf the Internet for a few hours. We had no idea you’d take the thing apart and make it better. I think that’s when we realized that we had no idea just how intelligent you actually are.”

“Well, I wasn’t a sports star or a medical student, but I had my quirks.” I don’t mean for it to come out so bitterly.

She sloshes the soapy sponge into a bowl with random specks of corn left in it. Without looking at me, she speaks.

“Your father might not have known how to relate to you, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t extremely proud of you. Forrest, you’ve painted yourself as some kind of family black sheep, and I’m not sure why. We love you just as much as your brothers … it was just difficult for your father, and for me, to understand your logic. Your brain works in such magical, mysterious ways. The first time your father got a cell phone, you figured the thing out in minutes. It took him months!”

This makes her crack up laughing. “I remember him lying in bed at night, musing about what we would do when you built a robot to do your chores. You’re so smart, I think it shook him up. But he was such a fan of yours. Did you know that he tried helplessly to master that video game you designed when you were sixteen?”

“The urban fantasy one?” My eyes pop out, a laugh bursting from my lips as I try to imagine Dad playing one of the early video games I’d designed.

“Oh gosh, he was so hopeless.” She hands me a couple serving utensils, which I dry with the dish towel I hold.

“I can’t even imagine it.” I chuckle. “It’s good to talk about him.”

Mom’s eyes are sad when I glance over at her. “Yes, it is. I miss him every day. But I know he’d be the most proud of you, of the work you’re doing. You like to play this anti-hero, but you are saving people’s lives, finances, and careers every