Page 141 of Almost Ours

I take my time getting out the car and heading towards the house, there is a huge wreath fixed to the door, along with all the other decorations some random company has been paid to do. It always looks beautiful when they’re finished. Symmetrical, coordinated, completely fucking soulless.

No one comes to the door as I make my way up the steps, there used to be a time when coming home meant me and James laughing as we stumbled into the warm, while Mum yelled at us to shut the door because he was letting all the heat out.

Today I’m met with silence.

“Hello?” I call into the large foyer, all the lights are on and a picture of James is staring back at me. “Mum? Dad?”

There is no response.

I drag my coat off and leave my bag by the bottom of the stairs. “Is anyone in?” I head towards the kitchen, surprised to find dad standing at the island with a glass of whiskey in one hand and his phone in the other.

He barely looks up when I walk in. “You’re back.”

“Yeah.”

Dad exhales through his nose, already irritated by my mere presence, and takes a sip of his drink. “Your mother’s out.”

“Oh?” My eyebrows raise. “Anywhere nice?”

“She’s just with friends,” his tone is cold. “Making an effort to get out more.”

“Good.” I nod, leaning against the counter. “That’s good.”

His grey eyes snap to me. We look a lot alike, he’s what I imagine James would look like as he ages. “Don’t take the piss.”

“Huh?” I frown, confused as to what about that sounded mocking. “I’m not?”

“Hm.” He grunts, putting his phone down on the side, eyes trailing over me. “You look a mess. Have you had your haircut recently?”

I reach up and pat my hair. “Yeah. A few weeks ago.”

Dad snorts. “Might need to get another barber.”

“Right.” I cough. “Yeah.”

He reaches for his glass and rolls the whiskey around before taking another sip. “How’s university?”

“Alright, yeah.” I shove my hands into my pockets; I hate this phony small talk. I wish he would just tell me to get lost like he wants to. “I’m on the Firsts, and I’m doing well with my coursework.”

“Right.”

“How’s things at home?”

Dad puts his drink back down with a thud. “How do you think?”

My stomach pulls tight. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

“Well, your mother is trying to keep herself busy. I’m working. We’re getting through it.”

“Yeah. Sure. I bet.”

He gives me a long look, one that already makes me regret asking. “Christmas is difficult.”

“Yeah,” I nod in agreement. “It is. It’s really hard.”

“No, Joshua.” His tone sharpens. “It’s hard for us. For your mother and I.”

But not me? “Yeah.”