I drag my hands down my face slowly, letting them drop on the table with a thwump. “What do I do?”

  He shrugs, chewing on his English muffin. “What do you think you’re going to do?”

  “Call her.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “She doesn’t want me to?”

  He shrugs again. Takes another bite.

  “Is she going to call me?” I ask.

  Another bite. No shrug.

  Okay, so, yes. She’s going to call me. Eventually. But I’m not supposed to call her. I think.

  “Does she hate me?”

  Weiss grimaces. He wipes his mouth with a paper towel.

  I shake my head in frustration. “I have no idea how to read that. What is that? Does she hate me or not?”

  “Wait for her to call you.”

  “I’m going crazy waiting.”

  “I noticed. You’ve been picking at food like a tween with an eating disorder. It’s sad.”

  “Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

  “Nope.” He pops the last of his muffin in his mouth. “I’m not a messenger. Tell her yourself.”

  “When she calls, because I’m not allowed to call?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “I love her, Aaron,” I tell Weiss bluntly. “I’ve never been in love before, but I’m in love with her. A lot.”

  He smirks. “You love her ‘a lot’?”

  “I don’t know how to talk about this. I’ve never done it before, but I know I’m crazy in love with Brooklyn and I miss the shit out of her and if you can tell her that, that’d be great. Or tell her to call me so I can tell her, whatever. Just, please, man. Help me out.”

  Weiss scratches his eyebrow, his eyes on the floor. He doesn’t answer for the longest damn time.

  “Weiss.”

  “I’ll say something the next time we talk,” he relents.

  “How often do you talk?”

  He gives me a look that feels like a warning.

  I sit back in my seat, retreating. “Fine. Cool. Thanks.”

  “But you’re going to start eating like a grown man again.”

  “Okay.”

  “And stop obsessing over your phone.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And you’ll wipe the counters down every night.”

  I frown. “What does that have to do with Brooklyn?”

  “Nothing, you all just live like fucking savages. It wouldn’t kill you to tighten up.”

  “Fine, Mama Aaron,” I relent. “I’ll wipe down the counters.”

  “I’m proud of you, Pupper.”

  That night, I don’t stare at my phone during dinner. I eat steak like everyone else, clearing my plate. I do the dishes with Eustis. I ask about Jackson and listen to his problems, losing myself in Eustis’ world to escape mine for a few minutes and it feels okay. Definitely better than being sad and obsessed over my mistake.

  I’m surprised to find out that Brooklyn was right, at least partially – Jake and Kaitlyn are back together. Sort of.

  “We’re giving it a shot,” Eustis explains, sounding unsure. “I don’t even know if we’re really together. I think we’re trying to try to be together.”

  “That’s confusing as hell.”

  And it sounds very, very familiar.

  “Yeah,” he agrees grimly. “I know.”

  “You’re good with that? Whatever it is?”

  “I think so. I love her. I’ve always loved her. I didn’t want to break up before but it made sense. We weren’t working. But the season’s half over and then there’s the Draft. I don’t want to do that without her. Wherever I end up, I want her and Jackson right there with me. I’m scared of him not knowing me. I don’t want to be this guy he remembers being around sometimes. I want to be his dad.”

  “That’s good, man. I’m happy for you.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t be yet. We’re trying to try. Nothing is for sure.”

  “But for now, things are good.”

  “Yeah. They’re pretty good.”

  I wish I could go back in time to when Brooklyn and I were good. I didn’t know what we were or where we were going, but it was good just having her with me. It’s misery without her.

  My phone rings on the counter. I can’t help it – my heart skips a beat with hope that it’s her, but it’s not. It’s Mama.

  My hands are covered in soap. I have to use my little finger to press the Answer button, immediately turning on the speaker. “Hey, Mama. I’m doin’ dishes with Jake. Can I call you right back?”

  Silence. Three long seconds. So long I worry she’s not actually on the line.

  “Mama?”

  “Butler,” she croaks, her voice rough as sandpaper.

  I shake my hands dry before grabbing my phone. I take it off speaker. “Mama, what’s wrong?”

  She gulps, like she’s swallowing a sob. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “Are you hurt? Did something happen to John?”

  “No. We’re fine. It’s—I got a call—I don’t even know how they got my number…”

  “What happened?” I ask calmly, but inside I’m screaming.

  My mama is crying. The world is ending.

  “Butler, your daddy died.”

  It takes me a minute to figure out what she just said.

  John is fine.

  Your daddy died.

  The floor drops out from under me.

  “Butler?”

  “I wanna come home,” I whimper. “Mama, can I come home?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Big John picks me up at the airport. Not Mama.

  I hate that.

  “This is a hard time,” he tells me on the drive home. His face is somber. “Your Mama wanted to be here to get you. She got dressed and got in the car, but then she…Well, she couldn’t. She went back to bed. She’s been there since she called you yesterday.”

  I nod, taking the information in, but I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why Mama is so upset. I don’t know why I’m so upset. I don’t know why Big John isn’t more upset.

  I don’t know what any of this means for any of us. I just know it sucks.

  “How are you holdin’ up, son?” he asks carefully.

  I shrug. My eyes are out the window on nothing. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s okay to not be fine.”

  It’s okay to not like your dad, Brooklyn’s voice rings in my head, her words whispered in my ear like she’s there with me.

  I’m trying to live my life without thinking about her every two seconds, but she’s always there. I let her in and now, even though she’s gone, she’s everywhere.

  It hurts like hell.

  When we get home, Big John grabs my bag for me. I wander into the house through the back, kicking my shoes off in the mud room. It’s well after breakfast but the kitchen is clean and empty.

  “She really hasn’t been out of bed since she called?” I ask.

  Big John sets my bag on the floor by the stairs. His eyes are full of worry. “No. She tried to come down this morning to go to the airport for you but she fell apart.”

  “Fell apart?”

  “She can’t stop crying.”

  I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen my mama cry. I’ve never known her to be so destroyed she couldn’t stop. I’ve never known her to be so sick she wasn’t in the kitchen at every meal cooking her heart out. That’s her therapy. Cooking and gardening. It’s where she goes when things are at their worst. She does not fall apart in bed for hours.

  I swallow hard, running my hand over my face. “Did you call Cousin Jules?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Call her.”

  “I think if you went up and talked to her—”

  “I know. I’m going. But I won’t be enough. I didn’t even know the guy.” I grab my bag before going upstairs. “Call Jules.”

  I toss my bag in my room on my way to see Mama. It looks exactly the same as it did this summer and the summer before that. Mama doesn’t change it. It’s a shrine to me and all of my accomplishments. I’ve never minded that before but for some reason today I hate it. I wish it was a sewing room. I wish it was a craft studio or a guest room with neutral tones and bland art on the walls. Anything but what it is today.

  I knock softly on the door to Mama’s bedroom. “It’s Butler,” I tell her through the crack.

  “Come in.”

  I expect to find her in a puddle on the floor surrounded by old photos, Patsy Cline on repeat coming from her phone. I expect the lights off. Candles burning. I expect her to be a wreck.

  But the lights are on. Mama is sitting at her vanity, her hair done and mascara in her hand. The room is silent and warm. Peaceful as any other morning. The only sign that something is wrong is Quincy. He’s laying at her feet between her and door like a sentinel. He usually shadows Big John. Never Mama.

  Mama tries to smile when she sees me. It’s shaky. So is her voice. “Hey, baby. How was your flight?”

  “It was good.”

  “Good.”

  “How are you?”

  She tries to smile again. It doesn’t happen. “I’m, um… I’m a little messy, to be honest.”

  “Maybe forget the mascara today.”

  “It’s waterproof.”

  “John is calling Jules.”

  Mama opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but she thinks better of it. Her hand holding the makeup drops to the table. In the mirror, I see her lower lip start to tremble. “That’s a good idea. Thank you, baby.”

  A silence stretches between us for over five seconds. It’s awkward. Weird.

  “Have you cried?” Mama asks quietly.

  “Not really. Almost.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why? I didn’t know him.”

  “Because now you never will. That has to hurt.”

  It does actually. It hurts like a punch to the face. It pisses me off.

  “Whose fault is that?” I ask sharply.

  Because I’m angry.

  Because I’m hurt.

  Because I’m the only asshole left in her life, now that my daddy is dead.

  Mama closes her eyes. A tear slips down her cheek. And another. She takes a shaky breath that I feel trembling in my own chest.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  She shakes her head. “It’s alright. I understand.” She opens her eyes, wiping away her tears. “Do you want breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Would you eat it anyway?”

  “If you want me to.”

  Mama comes across the room with Quincy closely in tow. She stares into my eyes. Whatever she finds, it strips her raw. Her eyes flood, her lips shaking.

  You don’t even look like him.

  How many times did she tell me that growing up?

  How many times did either of us believe it?

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she lies.

  She gives me a hug that feels like knives entering my body everywhere she touches me. I think she feels it too. She’s quick to let me go.

  Mama sniffs, wiping her fingers under her eyes. “Waffles okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  ***

  Cousin Jules is at the house by the time I choke down my first waffle. I’ve never seen her show up anywhere on time, so the urgency she arrives with is staggering. She hugs me quickly before turning all of her attention to Mama. They embrace in the kitchen behind the waffle maker that starts to steam and smoke as the hug goes on and on. Jules is whispering in her ear. Mama is nodding. Sobbing.

  I unplug the waffle maker before the fire alarm goes off. I take it outside to open it in the fresh air, dumping the ruined remains in the garbage by the garage. When I get back inside, Mama and Jules are going up the stairs together. Jules’ face is calm. Comforting. Mama’s is red and broken.

  I don’t know where Big John is. His truck is missing. I haven’t seen him since he brought me home. I think he must have left right after calling Jules.

  She comes downstairs an hour later to find me on the couch by myself, my phone dark in my hand.

  “Where’s John?” Jules asks, opening the refrigerator.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

  “He didn’t even tell me he was leaving. I went upstairs to talk to Mama and when we came back down, he was gone.”

  Jules slams the door shut. “Big fucking baby,” she mutters angrily. She carries two waters to the couch, tossing one to me without asking. I catch it on instinct even though I don’t want it. “Don’t tell your mama I said that.”

  “Why’s he a baby?”

  “Because he’s intimidated by a dead man. He’s jealous of how sad Beth is, as if sorrow is something to be coveted.”

  “Why is she so sad?” I whisper, in case she can hear me. “I thought she hated him.”

  “Why would you think she hated him?”

  “She would never talk about him. You either, except you told me he was a piece of shit once. I figured everyone hated him.”

  Jules sighs. She sinks into the couch, her face tired all of the sudden. “No, Butler. No one hated your daddy. And he wasn’t a piece of shit. I probably said that because you were askin’ and askin’ about him and I had to give you a reason to get you to stop.

  “What the fuck?”

  She gives me a stern look. “Excuse me?”

  “Excuse all of you. If no one hated him, why did no one talk about him? Why wasn’t I allowed to meet him? Where the hell has he been all these years?”

  “Those are all questions you’re gonna have to ask your mama, and when you do, you better use a different tone than the one you’re using with me, do you understand me, Butler Shay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I grind out angrily.

  “Did you ever ask to meet him?”

  “No.”

  “Well…”

  “So it’s my fault I didn’t have a daddy?”

  “You had one. A good one.”

  “I hate John,” I spit out.

  Jules’ eyes go wide. “I knew you never warmed up to him, but I had no idea you hated him.”

  I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know if I hate him. I hate a lot of things about him.”

  “About him or around him? ‘Cause I can understand hating the fact that he’s not your real daddy and hating the fact that you had to share your mama with him. But despite the fact that he’s acting like a child right now, he’s a good man who has done nothing but good things for you and Beth, so I can’t imagine genuinely hating him.”

  “I don’t like him,” I admit. “I don’t want him.”

  “No. But Beth does. And after everything else…” Her eyes wander to the stairs. “Let your mama have this one, Butler. She needs him.”

  “What about what I need?”

  “You have money, good looks, talent, intelligence, and a three-million-megawatt future ahead of you,” she reminds me. “You’ve got everything you need.”

  Except I don’t.

  I don’t have the woman I love. I don’t have a father.

  And I don’t have any idea who the fuck I am.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Big John comes home at four with dinner. He brought all of Mama’s favorites, along with a vase of white lilies. They’re a funeral flower. Mama taught me that. She must have taught Big John too. He gives her a quick hug and a small brown bag before setting the table. She gives him the first real smile I’ve seen all day.

  Jules stays for dinner to make sure Mama eats something, but she goes home right after. Big John excuses himself to go out to the garage, muttering something about an engine block that’s seized up. He’s lying but that’s his choice.

  Mama picks up the brown bag. “Come outside with me, Butler.”

  We go out on the front porch. Outside, the driveway weaves through the grass into the dark like a snake into the forest. Crickets chirp near the pond where a big bullfrog is croaking relentlessly. Mama’s garden looks wet and bare as all the flowers fall asleep for the winter.

  She nods to the white wood swing hanging from the ceiling. We sit together, a blanket draped over both our laps.

  I watch closely as she unravels the top of the bag. She pulls out a red plastic lighter first, then a carton of cigarettes.

  I chuckle, shaking my head.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I thought for a second it was gonna be a joint.”

  Mama snorts. “You’ve been livin’ with the hippies too long.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t. Not usually. But this is a special occasion.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “I wasn’t gonna give you one.”

  “Then why’d you tell me to come out here with you?”

  She puts a filtered end between her lips, flicking the lighter. “Because I like your company, baby.”

  I watch as she expertly puffs the cigarette to life. It burns black and orange at the tip, smoke rising like a sigh into the night. She inhales, her eyes half closed. She takes her time before exhaling, like she’s savoring it.

  Mama watches the smoke drift away from her before blissfully admitting, “I missed that.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “I know. I’ve given it up twice. Hopefully I can do it a third time.”

  “Who was he?” I ask bluntly. “My daddy. Who the hell was he?”

  Her eyes go tight, the bliss fading quickly. “Oh, baby.”

  “I wanna know.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Was he an alcoholic?”

  “No.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  She frowns. “No.”

  “Was he—”

  “He was just a man, Butler,” she answers tiredly. Like she’s already sick of the conversation that we haven’t even had yet. “He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t perfect either.”

  “Why’d he leave?”

  “Because he was a mistake and he knew it. I was a mistake too. Everything, all of it, we were just one big messy mistake.” She looks at me sideways, her eyes apologetic. “I don’t mean you. You’re something else, you know that.”