Page 31 of Well Aware

I didn’t go home like I’d originally been intending.

I went to my mom’s.

On the way, I made sure to give Lysander a call and ask him to meet me there after work.

“I’m already here,” Lysander explained. “What do you want?”

Unlike my father, my brother had gotten cochlear implants that allowed him to learn how to speak.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that he’d always had his hearing.

When, in fact, he hadn’t. He’d gotten the hearing aids around the age of five, and Lysander had started to speak shortly after that. When he felt like it.

Hell, there were times that he still signed because he just didn’t feel like talking.

Or wearing the hearing aids.

Sadly, Lysander had gotten so much shit for his afflictions in high school that he’d never really gotten out of his awkward stage. Never really truly felt comfortable with his autism, either.

He’d put in a lot of hard work and attended tons of therapy to get him to where he was today.

He worked, had a kid, and lived a life that you never would’ve expected out of the traumatized boy that he’d once been.

“I’ll talk to you about it when I get to Mom’s,” I said. “You have Frankie with you?”

“Frankie,” I could hear the humor in Lysander’s voice. “Yes, he’s here. He has a class project that he has to do on the family tree, and he’s asking Mom questions.”

“Okay, be there in five.”

I was there in less than five, pulling up behind Lysander’s pickup with a grin.

It was dirty.

He hated when it got dirty.

But the snow that we’d had last night, paired with the rain that we’d had this morning, meant that there was no way in hell he could keep it clean driving down Mom’s driveway.

I headed inside to find the three of them at the kitchen table.

Mom had cooked dinner, and I helped myself to a healthy portion of it before I sat down at the table.

“You spelled Beaufort wrong.” I pointed to Franklin.

He grumbled. “It should be spelled ‘f-e-r-t’ if that’s how it’s pronounced.”

“Just because you want it to be, doesn’t make it so,” I pointed out.

Franklin shot me a glare. “Your parents wronged you.”

“They did,” I agreed.

My mother snorted. “What are you doing here, baby boy?”

“I’m your baby boy,” Lysander pointed out the obvious.

I sighed. “It was a saying, brother.”

“Saying, maybe. But incorrect, nonetheless.”