Page 19 of Yard Sale

“Oh,” he breathed. “I…was it…”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I told him flatly.

“Good.” When I sucked in a breath, he coughed. “I don’t…I’m not saying I don’t care. Marde, Tiago. You always make things so difficult.”

“Do I?”

There was silence, and then he said, “I’m calling about your RSVP. There’s one room left on the ground floor if you want it, and I know it’ll be good for Mom’s heart if you come.”

He always did that, like a good little flying monkey, making me feel responsible for the health of our parents.

The word no danced on the tip of my tongue because usually I had an excuse to go with it. There was training camp and photoshoots, sponsorship bullshit, and then preseason.

But this year, my calendar was empty. It had been wiped clean by a bad check, two surgeries that hadn’t really fixed anything, and two scans telling me my future was changing. I could still say no, of course. But the idea of spending two weeks by the beach didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.

When everyone got shitty, I could just leave. It wasn’t like they’d try and stop me.

“I’ll let you know tonight.”

He was dead silent for a moment, then, “Oh. I…alright.”

“What?” I asked.

“I didn’t think you’d say anything but no.”

“I mean, if you want me to, I still can⁠—”

“God, no. Just…stop being such an asshole all the time, okay?”

I decided it wasn’t worth it to respond to that. “I’m going to send you a list of shit that I need you all to take care of before I get there.”

“You’re making demands?” he asked with an incredulous laugh.

“I’m requesting accommodations,” I corrected him. His chuckle died off. “My knee is still fucked to hell, so if Mom insists on family photos, it can’t be on the beach. I can’t manage in the sand.”

“Mom won’t love that,” he muttered.

“Then she can have all her real kids in the photo, and I can sit them out.”

“Tiago—”

“Second, I don’t want to hear shit about my white cane. I need it. Literally. I’m fucking blind, and yes, sometimes that means people have some usable vision, but that does not mean it’s safe for me to get around without it.”

He was quiet again, and then he cleared his throat. “You weren’t before though. Most of this year. I saw you—I saw videos. You were on the road walking in and out of hotels…”

“Yes, well. The joy and reality of having a degenerative eye condition,” I reminded him, “is that it loves to change when it’s least convenient for you. Anyway, I don’t want to be bitched at if I leave the lights on, and if anyone leaves cabinet doors or the dishwasher open and I end up having to get stitches, I’m out.”

He said nothing because the last time, it’d happened repeatedly, and I went to urgent care twice. I wasn’t doing it again.

“Anyway, send me the address, and I’ll get a car.”

“Uh.” His voice wavered a bit. “I can pick you up.”

“Mm, no. I’d rather take care of my own shit. But thanks. Talk soon.” I hung up before I could change my mind, though regret coursed up and down my spine as I realized what I was committing to. I couldn’t really pinpoint why I kept doing this.

Was it some deep-seated need for their approval? I didn’t want to believe I was still hunting for it after all these years. But hell, maybe I was.

Sometimes I felt more than a little battered and bruised. Sometimes I felt broken.