A Toast to the Good Times - By Liz Reinhardt Page 0,26
also feel the old-man jab of melancholy when I realize that he’s got scruff, isn’t the size of a toothpick, and looks more like someone I’d hang around and drink a beer with instead of the goofy baby brother I was always leaving behind.
It’s only been a year.
One year.
And with the realization that so little time has actually passed, and so damn much has already changed, I swear I start to wonder if Toni was the ghost of Christmas future or some shit.
“Landry?” Henry’s voice is low with shock.
Before I can respond, he runs at me, doing this weird shuffle-skip thing, nearly tripping over the frayed edge of the rug in his excitement, and then tackles me like we’re kids again.
“Holy shit! What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to teach you how to do laundry. Again,” I mumble. I try not to smile, because that’d be giving away how fucking glad I am to see this kid right now.
I haul myself off of the futon and stumble toward the washing machine.
“What time is it, anyway?” I ask.
Henry reaches into the pocket of his running shorts and pulls out his iPhone.
“Quarter to ten.”
I open the washing machine, rearrange the pile of sopping wet, oversized towels, and groan. I may have slept for a few hours, which is more than I get some nights after closing up the bar, but it feels like I’ve been up for days.
The fuck-up with Mila, the train ride, the run in with Dad, the pseudo date/rejection with Toni...there’s a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach that aches for sustenance.
I let the lid of the washer slam harder than I need to. This is a routine Henry and I have done a thousand times. Not just with the washer — with everything. Changing the oil in his beater of a car, shoveling snow, cleaning gutters; anything that required a little work, Henry feigned ignorance or illness so he could hopefully get someone else to take over the majority of the job for him.
I’d normally be irritated by his old routine. But right now, I’m just glad to see him.
“You didn’t answer me, what are you doing home?” he repeats.
I collapse onto the black fabric of the futon and fight the urge to let the sound of the swishing water in the washing machine lull me back to sleep till New Year’s.
The answer to Henry’s question was simple a few hours ago but is getting more complicated by the second. I opt to dodge his question and move onto the simple family drama we’ll all be dealing with soon.
“Paisley says she has some major announcement. You got any idea what’s up?”
“Nope. But I hope she’s not knocked-up. That’s all I need right now, to live in this house after she drops that bomb.”
“She swore to me she’s not, but who knows? How you been, Henry?” I rub my hand across the rough stubble on my cheek that’s growing past busy-man five-o’clock-shadow, and drifting into pseudo-hippie who can’t afford shaving cream.
“I’m good. ‘Bout to start my last semester of school in the Spring, you know? Everyone else is good, too.” Henry throws in the last part a little more quietly.
I decide to let it go for right now.
“What’s the plan after school?”
Henry shrugs. “Dad wants me to use my degree to pick up contract work in Kuwait or some shit. Apparently, I can make like, two-hundred-fifty-grand working over there. Or, you know, get blown up. Mom wants me to stay close and teach.” He rubs his palms together and stares up at the popcorn ceiling. “Me? I’ve got no fucking clue.”
I nod, because I know exactly how he feels. The insecurity about your own future, and trying to reconcile what you want with what everyone else wants from you, the feeling that nothing is going to be quite right, and that you have an equal chance of fucking anything and everything up.
“Hey, Landry?”
I cringe, waiting for the tone of the conversation to turn way too serious for ten in the morning.
“If you hurry, you might catch the tail-end of breakfast. Mom made crepes and omelets.” Henry grins like an ass.
The son of a bitch knows I can’t pass up the official Murphy family Christmas Eve breakfast. It’s the same damn breakfast we’ve had every single Christmas Eve since the birth of the Christ child. My stomach grumbles, and my taste buds perk up at the mention of Mom’s crepes. I know they’ll be filled with