In Waves | ✔️

54 | pressure

In the blink of an eye, November has passed and I'm already cooking Thanksgiving dinner. I've just put the green bean casserole in the oven, which frankly, nobody likes except for Derek. But it's his favorite, and everyone gets their favorites today. Green beans for Derek, creamed spinach for Mom, rosemary mashed potatoes for Rob, pumpkin pie for me. And obviously the turkey.

Sometimes Derek's brother and their family from Minnesota join us, which includes a bratty set of eleven-year-old twins who found my piano and smashed the keys so hard it almost broke last year. Thankfully it's only us this time.

After another turkey basting, I go to check on the table to find it half set. Silverware strewn about, napkins lazily folded, a dismal cornucopia sitting in the middle. I march into the living room to where Mom and Derek and are watching the Macy's Parade.

"Where's Rob? He's supposed to be setting the table."

"I think he went upstairs," Derek says, gesturing with his beer.

"How's the food coming along?" Mom asks. "I know you said you didn't need any help but last year-"

"Was chaotic, I know. And I've learned my lesson," I assure her, climbing the staircase.

Leave it to me to insist on cooking every Thanksgiving dish in existence and screwing most of them up because of stress and terrible time management. If I hadn't narrowed it down this year then I'd be losing hair while everyone lost their patience.

Rob's door is open a crack, but I knock as I walk in anyway. Not that I'd have to worry about Lacey being in here. They fizzled out about two weeks ago, just like Matt predicted. Rob is slumped on the edge of his bed and staring at a photo. He's so zoned out he only notices me when I've almost reached him. He stuffs the photo under his pillow and jumps up.

"What's that?" I nod to it.

"Huh? Nothing."

I dart towards the pillow but he catches me, struggling to keep me from wrestling out of his hold. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing!" He huffs. "Porn!"

I snort. "What, are we living in the 90s? You got some gross magazines and a dusty old VCR in here, too?"

I jab him in the ribs and he buckles over, giving me the chance to dive for his pillow. My body stills when I've got the photo.

"Where did you get this?"

Rob releases a breath, sinking on the bed again. "The album. Where else?"

It's us. All of us. I look to be about three, Rob four. Bundled up in knitted scarves and thick coats. Dad is holding Rob, helping him put the carrot nose on a snowman. Mom is crouching next to me, fascinated by the handful of snow I'm showing her.

"I remember this day." I sit next to him. "Vaguely. Really vaguely, but I remember it being a good day."

"Hmph. They were all good in the beginning, weren't they?" he mutters.

I stop myself from asking why he tried to hide this from me, because I would have done the same. It's guilt-racking, giving our father any thought. Giving him energy when we weren't worth his energy. I hand the photo back to Rob. It's faded and creased, the edges bent. He must have taken it from Mom's album years ago.

His attention falls to it again. "You think he has a new family by now? Sitting around the table for Thanksgiving with them?"

I've thought about that countless times, going round in circles. I never land on a certain answer.

"He could. Or he could be alone in a depressing little bachelor apartment eating ramen."

"Or he could be dead. Not like we'd know if he kicked it." Rob grunts, flicking the photo onto his nightstand. He lets the reality of that statement sit between us before he finally says, "I know I'm like him. It feels unavoidable at this point. Even if I fight it, I still do shit that he did, and what if I..."