“I’ve got this, you run inside—fast!” Cody says.
I do what he says, only because the wind is kicking up, and the heavy drops are starting to sting my face. I rush to the front door and hold it open from the force of the wind as he follows me inside. I shut it behind him and follow him to the den down the hall. He drops my blanket filled with my books and wrappers on the floor, and then stops for just a second to look at me before he turns his attention back to his feet, passing by me closely with his head down.
I’m instantly irritated, and I let him know it while I follow him into the kitchen. “What the hell?” I say, catching the swinging door that he doesn’t hold for me as I enter the kitchen behind him.
He’s not talking to me, instead just moving to the fridge and pulling out a packet of sandwich meat before moving on to the pantry to look for bread. He’s making a sandwich—unbelievable! I haven’t seen him in days, and then he shows up, just in time to save me from what I’m sure he’ll say is the storm of the century, and all he can do now is slap some ham on wheat?
I’m livid.
“Uh, hello?” I say, waving my hand in his line of sight. I’m being a child, but I don’t care. He stops what he’s doing and looks me in the eyes because of it, and I feel satisfied.
“You’re welcome,” he says, then turns his attention back to his food.
I stand there next to him, my mouth open, and my fingers digging into the counter to prevent me from shoving him off balance. I don’t know what it is about him that makes me want to shake him. And I hate that he feels vindicated, like I needed his help in any way. I’m about to scream from the pressure building inside me when Shelly slides into the kitchen—just in time to halt what I’m sure was going to be a string of choice words.
“Codes, honey, come here. Give mommy a hug,” she says, her words barely coherent. She’s hammered—and it’s not the kind of drunk I’ve seen at the bars near Western, or the kind of drunk Trevor gets after a night out celebrating. It’s not even the kind of drunk I hear some nights on the phone with Aunt Caroline.
I know I’m staring at her, and I’m sure my face is full of pity. She’s wobbling on her feet as she teeters to the fridge, opening it up and leaning her full body inside, like she’s looking for something in the back of a closet. I look back to Cody, waiting for him to do something, but he’s just eating his sandwich. What is it with people in this house pretending everything’s okay?
No longer able to take it, I decide to try to get Shelly to open up, thinking maybe if Cody hears the state his mother is in, he’ll feel compelled to do something about it. “Hey, Shelly? When’s Jim coming back?” I ask, hoping she understood me.
It takes her four attempts to set the bottle of wine flat along the counter, each time leaning it crooked and watching it slide sideways. I’m about to ask her again, when Cody interrupts.
“You know he’s up there f**king her, don’t you?” he says, and I’m immediately speechless, trying to replay his words again to be sure I heard them right. Cody doesn’t say anything more, just continues to eat his sandwich while his mother purses her lips, her eyes bloodshot, but wide.
“Don’t you dare speak about your father that way!” she yells, this time her words perfectly clear. She slaps Cody as she says it, and the popping sound reverberates throughout the empty house. His cheek is red, and she’s looking at it, almost like she’s proud of her work—a half-smirk on her face, but her eyes still void of emotion.
Cody drops his sandwich from his hands, and pushes the plate forward until it falls into the sink. He doesn’t even acknowledge her standing there, her body shaking, as he leaves. “He’s not my father, and you’re pathetic,” he says, his voice flat.
The door slams to a close behind him, and I’m left alone with Shelly. I don’t know what to say, what to do. I expect her to begin sobbing, but she doesn’t. Instead, she clutches the bottle in her hands and turns her body away from me, muttering incoherently under her breath as she goes back to her room. I’m invisible.
I move to the window and can see Cody climbing the stairs up to the carriage house—the harsh rain pelting him. I don’t even stop to think before I grab the sweater I have hanging near the back door and run after him. I catch him just as he’s closing his door, and I push my way inside behind him.
Cody’s place is small. There’s a tight living room with an old sofa, some TV trays, and a galley kitchen to the side. I notice Cody’s laundry is piled on the floor next to the stacked washer and dryer tucked in a pantry closet. A door on the far side leads to what I presume is his bedroom, and that’s where he goes, once again attempting to shut the door on me as I follow. I catch it in my hand and wait in the doorway while he falls forward on his bed, sliding his body up until his face is planted in his pillow.