Page 5 of The Last Road Trip

Coris nods, reaching for the glasses. I’m about to thank her when her phone dings. Putting one glass down to grab her phone from her pocket, she starts tapping on her phone. Then, with the now single glass in hand, she awkwardly backs out while still tapping on her phone. Never mind.

Five minutes later, Maren arrives, earbuds dangling around her neck. “Dad wants to know if there’s more beer.”

“Refrigerator in the garage,” Christine replies.

Maren nods and disappears. I watch the doorway after she’s gone, the wooden spoon slowing in my hand. My grown daughters are too busy playing on their phones and fetching things for their father when he has two perfectly good feet. Sigh.

The noodles are done. I lift the pot, pouring it into the colander Christine set in the sink. Steam rises in a cloud, warm and starchy. Behind me, the door opens again, but it’s not one of the twins this time.

Buck’s brother steps into the kitchen. He’s taller than Buck, slimmer, with the same square jaw but warmer eyes. He walks straight to Christine, puts a hand on her waist, and leans down to kiss the side of her head.

“Need anything?” he asks, his voice low.

She smiles, leaning into him for just a second. “We’re almost done. Maybe call the girls to set the table?”

He nods, gives her waist a gentle squeeze, and slips back out. The whole exchange takes maybe ten seconds, but that ten seconds is more intimacy than I’ve seen in an awfully long time. Christine stays home too. She raised their kids, runs the household, makes the meals. Her husband still walked in and put a hand on her waist. Still looked at her like she was the reason he came into the room at all.

But that’s not fair, I tell myself. Buck works long hours at the store. Forty hours a week on his feet, managing employees, dealing with customers, keeping the place running. When he comes home, he deserves to relax. He deserves time with his brother. He shouldn’t have to come into the kitchen just because I’m here. Maybe Maren and Coris are right. It’s not his job to wake me and keep track of allergies. Maybe he legitimately forgot. My last ER stay was over a decade ago at this point. All I want to do is reconnect with my family; I have to keep trying.

Dinner is almost ready, and I’ve helped enough, so I head to the living room where my husband is. Back when we were first dating, I’d sit with him all the time. Sometimes in his lap, or my legs draped across his. Wanting to bond this way with him again, I sit on his knee with one hand on his shoulder and lean in to kiss him.

Buck pulls his chin back, his body going still under mine. “You’re too heavy,” he says. “Can you get up?”

His voice is flat. Not cruel, not even annoyed—just matter-of-fact, like he’s commenting on the weather or the score of the game. Which makes it worse. The casualness of it. The way he says it without thinking, without considering what the words might mean to me.

I stand immediately. My face burns, my throat tight. “Sorry,” I say, the word automatic.

From the kitchen doorway, Christine has just appeared, dish towel in hand. Her eyes meet mine across the room. She saw. She heard. She caught yet another humiliation when my husband told me I was too heavy to sit on his lap.

Her face tightens into a wince as she steps back into the kitchen without a word.

Buck’s brother either didn’t hear or pretends he didn’t. His eyes stay fixed on the screen, one hand raising his beer to his lips in a smooth motion.

Buck himself turns back to the TV, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume. “We’ll be in for dinner soon,” he says, not looking at me.

Walking back to the kitchen, my face feels stiff, my eyes dry. Every time I’ve been near Buck tonight, I’ve been dismissed. It’s like he only wants me in the kitchen. I suppose I could retreat to the bedroom where we’ll be sleeping, but somehow I find that more embarrassing. It would feel like I’m hiding, rather than trying to prove my worth by actively doing something. Once in the kitchen, I gather more dishes to set the dining room table.

Chapter 4

Harriet

The table in Christine and Gary’s dining room may be smaller than the one at home, but it’s still a cozy rectangle. I slide into the seat across from the twins, my back to the kitchen door. Buck takes his place next to me. Christine and Gary are at opposing ends.

The food sits in the center of the table. The salmon fillets on their white platter, glistening with butter and herbs. The ceramic bowl of mac and cheese I made. There’s also a salad in a wooden bowl, bright with cherry tomatoes and cucumber.

I pull my chair closer to the table and reach for the serving spoon in the mac and cheese. Three hours unconscious in the car while my family chose the one food I can’t eat as their main dish. One moment of sitting on my husband’s knee and being told I’m too heavy. I need something warm and solid in my stomach.

“Harriet?” Buck asks. “Grab me a beer? Mine’s empty.” He shakes his bottle.

The spoon stops halfway to the bowl. I look at his face, noting how relaxed he looks. Rather than appear vindictive, I take his question as a bridge between us. In our marriage, I’ve always handled little tasks like dinner, so him asking me to get him a beer is actually a good thing. Besides, I left my suitcase in the car, anyway. I can grab my suitcase, and while up, go to the garage to get his third beer for the night.

“Sure,” I say, setting the spoon down on the tablecloth. “Be right back.”

I push back from the table. The twins are passing the salad between them, Coris picking out the tomatoes before passing the bowl to Maren. Gary is helping himself to the salmon, lifting two fillets onto his plate with the serving fork. Christine sits at the far end of the table, eyes on her napkin, fingers smoothing its edges.

As quickly as I can, I go to the car, grab my suitcase and drop it off in the spare bedroom. Then, I walk to the garage and get him a beer.

Buck looks up when I approach, hand already reaching. “Thanks,” he says, taking the bottle. “Knew I could count on you.”