Page 9 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

No

Fuck off

Fuck you

Fuck yes

Get out of my fucking way

Or in this case, I’m terrified and have no clue what to say to Sadie.

Mom’s hair is in its usual ponytail, pulled back to reveal every earned stress line and the darker circles under her eyes. Her coffee mug is empty, the napkin beside it shredded to bits. She’s obviously been here for a while, waiting for me, unsure if I’d turn up. Her son, forever making her life harder. I ready myself for a reprimand, annoyance that I’ve been avoiding her and my brothers so long.

She studies me for an unnerving moment, then she does the last thing I expect. She smiles. “Why do you think Eleanor relied so heavily on her routines?”

I startle at the question, then feel my facial muscles shift, the tension from my frown easing slightly. I guess we’re doing book club. “I think it was a way to manage her stress. Her crosswords. Eating the same foods. Doing the same job in the same way. They were things in her life she could control.” I’m talking about Eleanor in Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine, but an itch forms under the crew neck of my black T-shirt. I’m also kind of talking about me. “What I don’t get is how Raymond could be so patient with her.”

“I think Raymond could see beyond Eleanor’s practiced facade. I think he knew, deep down, she was uniquely special.”

The way her expression softens, I think she’s talking about me too.

Regardless, we go on like this. Asking and answering book questions, like I haven’t just received terrifying, life-altering news. Because this is what we do.

Or more specifically it’s what I do.

Before we learned the cartel got wiped out, I kept tabs on my four brothers from afar, walking by their apartments, making sure all looked well, even when they thought I was incommunicado. When it came to Mom, I’d covertly check up on her by staking out Rituals.

Every morning, she’d visit the coffee shop and sit by herself, glancing wistfully at tables of laughing friends. Like us, she never formed relationships during WITSEC. Lying about who you are doesn’t foster closeness or true happiness, and her husband’s deception made her feel naive and small, destroyed her trust in people. She even abandoned her career as a science teacher—the job she put on hold to raise us—opting for tutoring in smaller controlled environments instead.

On her particularly wistful days, when the sadness on her face was too much, I’d walk into Rituals, sit with her, and say things like, “I thought us boys were as bad as siblings got. Lakshmi and Radha had us beat” (The Henna Artist) or “If I was Afi, I’d never have married Eli” (His Only Wife).

A lengthy book discussion would ensue. We wouldn’t mention WITSEC or poke and prod each other’s emotional bruises. We’d just sit and talk and pretend like I wasn’t a mess and like she wasn’t a mess and like our family wasn’t a mess. Until the day she took one look at me and burst into tears. I’ve never told my brothers about our book club of two. Pretty sure she hasn’t either. There’s no question I’d get the ribbing of the century.

“I think moving forward is what’s hardest for her,” Mom says, explaining why she feels Eleanor has spent so much of her life stuck. “I think she’s scared to depend on others. That if she looks too deeply at why she acts the way she does and keeps people at a distance, she’ll lose what little control she has and fall apart.”

Yeah, we’re definitely talking about me. Me, stuck. Me, shunning my family. Me, afraid to fall apart. Which is really fucking close to happening.

Leaning my elbows on the small table, I rub my forehead. “I don’t know how to process all of this.”

“Of course you don’t. But that’s what you have family for. We want to be here for you, Des. Help you any way we can. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

An uncomfortable twinge twists my gut. “Are you sure about that?”

She sits straighter. “Of course we do.”

“Seeing me just adds stress to your lives,” I say through my clenched jaw. “Everything about me pisses off my brothers. When I’m around, I know they feel furious. Want to murder our father for all the shit he pulled. I’m a constant reminder of how much we lost, how much he messed up our lives. And I don’t want that for you all.”

“Desmond.” She clutches her chest. “Is that why you’ve pushed us away so much? Because you think being around you hurts us too much?”

“I don’t know.” I rub my face, wanting to scrape off a layer of skin. “I made you cry.”

“And I told you afterward that it wasn’t your fault. I was having a bad day, and you happened to be there at the wrong time. Truth is”—she gives my forearm a squeeze, stilling my fidgeting—“the less we see you, the more we hurt. We need you in our lives, no matter what shape you’re in, so we can feel whole.”

For a decade, I’ve assumed they were better off without the reminders I bring them. The day Mom broke down and apologized, I assumed she was lying about the why of it, trying to ease my guilt. I look most like Dad. I lost the most when I raged at the world and gave up on life.

With how hard E searched for me this time, and Mom’s vehement words now, I’m no longer sure that’s the case.

I pass my hand over my mouth, too goddamn overwhelmed. Sadie. Having a kid. Facing my family for the first time in too long. I also want to drop napalm on my father’s house for taking everything from me: Sadie, law, happiness, a son I didn’t get the chance to raise. But prison isn’t high on my bucket list.