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Prodigal Son
PRODIGAL SON
I pick through the clothes in my suitcase and find a country club kind of dress that works for the wedding date with this Ma Maison client but would also fit in with Dylan’s poker game.
I put on makeup in front of a mirror hanging over a hewn wooden desk in the living room and watch him out of the corner of my eye as he gets dressed, pulling on his pants, shrugging on a light cotton shirt. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how handsome he is. My phone pings with an incoming text. Amelia messaged me right at the time we agreed on.
Amelia: I’m fake texting you at the time you told me. Good luck.
I read her text, sigh theatrically, and frown. “Dang.”
“Something wrong?” Dylan asks.
“My mom needs me.” My nose is growing.
“She okay?”
“I think so.” I walk up to him and button his shirt, making my way up his hard abdomen and sculpted chest. Deceit is not something I’m comfortable with. It’s a shitty feeling and I promise to avoid it from here on out. “I’ve got a situation. I can meet you at the game later, but first I need to spend some quality time with Mom.” God, I sound like a phony asshole.
“I thought your mom was in Wisconsin.”
“She is. But she’s wound up and I need to calm her down. Have a heart-to-heart. Facetime for a few hours. I’m going to go to a mall, grab something to eat. Go somewhere I can have private time.”
“Malls aren’t all that private.”
“Malls are malls are malls. Generic. Mom doesn’t know I’m on the road. She might have more anxiety if she knew I wasn’t in Chicago.”
“Okay, Lucky Charm,” he says, and kisses me on the lips. “Do you want me to drop you somewhere?”
“Nah, I’ll order a ride.”
“I’ll text you the address for the game. We can meet up later.”
“Fair warning,” I say. “Mom can talk for hours.”
“No rush.” He opens the door of the cottage and walks out, but pauses. “Baby?”
“Yes?”
“You’re amazing. You heal me. Thank you.”
I watch him leave and I blink back tears.
And so, at the end of the day, it’s not a mission of endurance as much as one of cutting the cord. The cord of guilt. Dylan doesn’t belong in Texas anymore. Maybe at some point when he was a child, being molded by his parents, he belonged here. To a life of service. Duty to an institution. But Dylan’s life veered left while his family’s lives marched forward. Their separate paths didn’t make them less of a family. It just made them diverse.
Dylan McAlister needs to play the game and he needs to do that well. He needs to travel from state to state. City to city. Stay up all night. Sleep all day when he needs or wants. Just because he’s different from his family doesn’t mean he’s worth less. Dylan’s worthy of love just like everyone else.
My driver messages that he’ll be arriving in five minutes. As I head to the front door I see Dylan sitting in the kitchen with his mom. She’s wearing a cotton shift with “Winter is coming and I can’t wait!” on it. A globe lamp is glowing overhead, a moth beating against the kitchen screen.
“You always were my favorite, you know,” his mom says, and shuffles a deck of cards on the table.
“No, I wasn’t,” he says. “Patrick was.”
“Patrick likes to say he was. But you’ve always been my favorite, Dylan.”
“Mom.”
“I’m so glad you came home, honey.” She pats the back of his hand. “But if you stay, I’ll kick your ass.”
