Page 59 of With the Assist

He gives me a small, tired smile, but I know he feels like a failure. I’ve seen it in his eyes every time a new bill arrives or a doctor shakes his head. My dad’s worked hard his whole life, and now, when he needs stability the most, his body is betraying him. After a lifetime of physical jobs, he can’t do them anymore. That’s why they had to let him go.

I lean my head on his shoulder, like I have since I was a kid.

“You’ve always been so reliable for us, Wesley.” He wraps his arm around me, kissing my forehead.

It’s meant as a compliment, but the words fall like lead inside me. He’s right, I’ve been reliable. I need to be reliable, despite the parts of me that might want to throw caution to the wind.

I organize the envelopes into two piles: bills that accept online payment and those that require a phone call. It’s after seven, so I can tackle the online payments tonight. I go through, checking them off one by one. My debit card is getting a hell of a workout, but by the end, there are only a few bills that have to wait until business hours on Monday.

“Is everything okay?” Emma asks, breezing into the room.

“Totally fine,” I lie, plastering a smile on my face. Maybe I do deserve an Oscar.

Dad stands a little taller. “I’m looking into contract work. Consulting. It’d be easier on my body.”

“You can’t,” Emma argues. “You need to rest.”

“I need to contribute.”

“You already did,” I say, softer. “You raised us alone.”

The room goes quiet.

We don’t talk about Mom. We don’t ever talk about the hole she left behind when she died. Instead, we let her ghost hover over all of us like a shadow we can’t shake.

It’s just another reason why coming home is suffocating.

I love my dad and my sister, but I hate it here.

Being in this house is horrible, but avoiding it just makes me feel worse. It’s a vicious cycle that I’ve concluded can only be broken by getting them out of this house.

My dad won’t consider it, though. At least, not yet.

Later, in my childhood bedroom, I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars Emma stuck up there when she was twelve are still faintly visible.

It’s past midnight, and I should be asleep, but I haven’t been able to get my mind to slow down.

My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark.

I almost pick it up to message him. For what? I don’t know. Comfort. Explanation. I manage to resist the urge.

Days pass, and I force all my focus into the house. I stock up on groceries, refilling the pantry to an indulgent standard. An electrician is scheduled to fix the light switch on Wednesday. The rest of the bills have been taken care of over the phone. Doctor appointments are scheduled. Virtual meetings with Coach Bennett to discuss next season take place in my childhood bedroom. It’s been busy to say the least.

It all should take up the full capacity of my mind. Somehow, though, when Tuesday rolls around, my mind makes space to remember what I should be doing: training with Nathan.

I wake up early out of habit, body already anticipating a workout it’s not going to get. My muscles feel restless, like they’re waiting for direction. My brain follows, reaching automatically for the familiar. We’ve only been working out together for two weeks, and it feels like a staple in my routine.

The absence is uncomfortable.

I make coffee, pacing the kitchen while Dad reads the paper and Emma sleeps in.

My eyes focus on my phone for a full thirty seconds before I pick it up.

Me: Hey.

He responds immediately, and my body warms. He never hesitates to get back to me, as if the thought of playing it cool doesn’t even occur to him. I secretly love knowing he drops whatever he’s doing to text me back.

Nathan: Morning.