You & Me

When Emmet came home Sunday night, he stood in the kitchen while he ate half of the pepperoni pizza I’d picked up. That was different. Usually, Emmet grabbed food and ate in his room. But there he was, seemingly in no hurry to vanish. I joined him, picking pepperoni off my slice on the other side of the island as I watched him chew.

“Did you and Bowen have a good time?”

Emmet shoved pizza crust into his mouth. “We just throw the ball around.” He took his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher. “Thanks for the pizza.”

“Of course. Thank you for clearing your plate.”

When he disappeared upstairs, I waited, listening for his bedroom door to shut. But it didn’t, and a few minutes later, the low murmur of Emmet’s music floated down the stairs.

I smiled as I wrapped the leftovers and put them in the fridge. It was the tiny things, I thought. The sound of my son in his bedroom. His desk chair moving across the floor. Textbook pages turning. Bass beats thrumming.

His bedroom door didn’t shut until 11:00 p.m. I heard him getting ready for bed, and then the light under his door winked off.

Might as well turn in myself. I shut down my laptop and packed everything into my messenger bag for the morning. Another Monday, another week about to start. Usually, Sunday nights were my second lowest points of the week, followed only by the Friday nights when I never saw my son. But tonight, the weight that usually filled me and tried to drag me to the ground was missing. I was, strangely, weirdly, possibly… happy.

My thoughts drifted as I brushed my teeth. Was it only a week ago that I found the torn-up letter from the boosters in the trash? I’d gone to Emmet’s practice on a snap decision, a reflex born of pain and desperation. Now I’d watched my son win a football game, and we were eating a meal while facing each other in the same room. He was saying Dad and not meaning it quite like a curse anymore. We weren’t baring our souls to each other, and we were a long way from close, but… this was more than I’d imagined possible last week.

And there was Landon. How could someone make such a big impact on my life in so short a time? We hadn’t known each other existed a week ago, and yet, it felt like I’d known him for years, not days. Being around him was easy. Effortless. As natural as breathing.

When I woke up, Emmet’s cereal bowl and the blender were rinsed out and placed in the dishwasher. I had to double-check that I wasn’t seeing things. No, there they were. He’d even wiped up the drips he always spilled from the milk. The peanut butter was back on the pantry shelf. I brought it down and set it and a spoon out for Emmet next to the blender, which I pulled from the dishwasher and hand-washed before putting it together for him, ready for after school.

We were in a dish détente, apparently, because when I got home after work, Emmet had again rinsed the blender, and the spoon I’d set out for him and his peanut butter was in the dishwasher. The counters were all wiped down, too, not just the ones by his protein jugs.

How do fathers and sons speak gently without words? I ran my hand over the clean counter.

Emmet’s bedroom door was open again. He was at his desk, glowering at a textbook as he scribbled notes and bobbed his head to a mumble of words backed by a smooth R&B beat. I knocked on his doorframe and hovered, not willing to push my luck by breaching his sanctuary.

I hadn’t entered his bedroom since we’d moved in last year. I’d dumped the boxes he packed, put together the furniture I bought from IKEA, and let him have his space.

He hadn’t done much with his room. His furniture was exactly where I’d shoved it. Twin bed, desk, bookshelves. His walls were bare, the same basic boring white as the rest of the house, not even a poster or a picture of his friends or his family taped up. In our old house, his room was done in navy and powder-blue stripes that I’d painted for his nursery. Over the years, his walls became covered with football plaques and awards, team pictures, and snapshots of him making plays. Our drawings had stayed up, too.

There was none of that here. There was nothing at all. His room could have been in an institution. It looked, in some ways, like a prison cell. Blue comforter. One pillow. Textbooks stacked on a single shelf. His backpack was at his feet. I thought I saw a pile of notebooks beneath his bed.

“Hey,” I said. “You hungry?”

Emmet shrugged.

Silly question. He was seventeen, and he played football. He was always hungry. “Want me to make dinner?”

He flicked his pencil against his textbook, the eraser tap-tap-tapping. “Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll call you when it’s ready. Do you want your door open or shut?”

“You can leave it open.”

I pulled out chicken breasts I’d picked up on the way home. I was at the grocery store every other day buying milk for Emmet, and this time, I’d also grabbed chicken and pasta, alfredo sauce, a loaf of sourdough bread, and a ready-made salad. I sliced up the breasts and cooked them on the stove, then dumped the jar of alfredo sauce into the pan. While that simmered, I boiled the pasta and sliced and buttered the sourdough, sprinkled both halves with garlic, and put the bread in the oven to broil. The salad went into a bowl, and I fluffed it with a fork to spread around the Cesar dressing.

I wasn’t going to win any greatest dinner awards, but it was a sturdy, solid meal. I piled Emmet’s plate, giving him the lion’s share, and then set out the garlic bread and salad and a large glass of milk. I’d said I was making dinner for us, and I’d meant that, so I made up a second plate for me—smaller portions—and set it across from Emmet’s. The table was small, with only two chairs, and our plates almost touched. Most of the time, my spot was covered in junk mail.

Emmet appeared before I could holler up for him. “Smells good, Dad,” he said. He plopped into his seat. “Didn’t know you could make chicken alfredo.”

I looked up the recipe at lunch. “I thought I’d try something new.”

Watching him eat was like watching a bear devour a kill. I’d never seen someone shovel so fast with a fork. Either he was starving all the time, or he was competing for a place in the world’s-fastest-eater competition.

“What?” he asked. Bread crumbs erupted from his lips as he spoke. He had enough manners to look chagrined, at least. He licked his lips, chugged his milk, and scraped his plate clean two minutes and ten seconds after his butt hit the chair.

“Want more?”

“Is there any?”

I pushed my untouched dinner across the table. Note to self. Increase portions. One pound of chicken clearly wasn’t enough. Nor was one box of pasta.

“That’s yours,” he said.

“If you’re hungry, I’d rather you eat.” He needed no more encouragement, and he dug into my plate. He ate slower this time. Less frenzied. “How’s school?”

“Fine.”

I waited. He chewed. “What are you studying in class?”

“I’ve got a physics test tomorrow.”

“I hated physics. It seemed like a ploy to sneak another math class in.”

“Yeah, totally.” Emmet’s cheek flickered again, an almost smile.

“I liked biology better.”

He looked up. Our eyes met, held. One, two, three seconds. “Yeah, I liked bio, too. Might take anatomy next year.”

“How are the rest of your classes?”

“Fine.” He swiped the last of the garlic bread. “We’re reading Hamlet in English.”

Hamlet. A play about fathers and sons and the bonds they forge, and the sons setting out into a topsy-turvy world far different from what they imagined their realities would be. I loved it when I was young. I loved the agonies of the actors on stage and all their raw, ravaged emotions. Never doubt I love.

Now, memories of Hamlet left me hollow. I wished Hamlet’s father would have left his son alone and used the final moments he’d been given to tell him that he loved him. “I used to love that one.”

“Used to?”

“Now I wish Hamlet had a better father.” I knew I had a lot of work to do, but I was trying. Be better than a ghost king that set his son on the road to ruin.

Emmet’s jaw moved left and right, and his eyes fell to his plate. He didn’t say anything as he stood and gathered our plates. I rose to help him, but he shook his head. “I got it.” I waited at the table while Emmet loaded the dishwasher. “Thanks for dinner.” He melted away, back up to his room, and his bedroom door clicked shut.

Was that a win? Or had I cut my legs out from underneath me, snatched defeat from the jaws of victory? I never knew how to talk to Emmet, what to say or how to even say the few words I did manage. I wanted to barge into his room and declare my eternal love for him, tell him I’d die for him in a heartbeat, that I would do anything for him, that he was the best thing that ever happened to me.

But I was too petrified of his silence. Of an unblinking stare coming back to me. Emmet never, not once, saying I love you, too, Dad again.

I didn’t know how to get closer to my son, but I was pretty sure I knew how to push him away forever.

It’s the little things that add up.

I pulled out my phone and drummed my fingers over the case. Landon had probably made some fantastic dinner for him and Bowen, and they’d probably bonded beautifully over perfectly prepared coq au vin. He had to make sure Bowen’s meals were balanced, too, the right portions of carbs and protein and fat to propel Bowen toward his peak performance. Surely they were still laughing together, even, basking in the joy of their glorious father-son relationship.

I’d snapped a picture of my chicken alfredo before Emmet had devoured it all. The photo looked sad, and my best effort was lacking. I sighed and sent it to Landon anyway. Tried to cook dinner tonight. Em ate it, so that must count for something.

Landon texted back almost immediately. I’d eat it too. I love Italian. Comfort food. Great job!

Even lying through his teeth, Landon made me smile. So what did you make? Something outlandish and eclectic and wonderful? How many pans did you use?

I got a picture in response: an open carton of Chinese food with chopsticks sticking out. More cartons were scattered on a dining room table, though most of the surface was covered in yellow legal pads and open notebooks. I spotted a file box in the background next to a pile of textbooks. A football lay between a closed laptop and a pile of folded T-shirts. It looked like Bowen and Landon had set up camp at the dining room table, and work and homework mixed and mingled like their lives.

I used my Visa tonight. 🙂

I’m shocked.

LOL. It was a long day, and it started early. I’m dragging.

Bowen’s early morning detention?

As predicted, when he’s awake, I’m awake.

Sorry.

How’s Emmet doing?

I blew out a sigh. That was the million-dollar question right there. Hot and cold. I made dinner, and he ate it, but I blew our few minutes of together time with a comment about Hamlet.

Hamlet?

He’s reading it in English. I said I thought Hamlet should have had a better father.

There was a long stretch of silence. Did Landon also think what I’d said was foolish? I dumped my phone on the table and set up the kitchen for Emmet’s morning, laying out a bowl for his cereal and two spoons, along with the peanut butter jar. I cleaned his blender and set it up, then turned out the lights and trudged upstairs.

You’re right. Hamlet’s dad should have told him to pack a bag and move to the south of France. Get a tan, not a poisoned blade. A second text followed right after the first. Sorry, I’m exhausted. I think I drifted off for a moment there.

Go to bed. I won’t keep you up.

I should. Text you tomorrow?

Of course. Like I would say no.

Hang in there. Night, Luke.

Before I disappeared into my own bedroom, I knocked on Emmet’s closed door. “Night, Em.”

There was a pause. “Night, Dad.”

I tossed and turned for half the night.

Tuesday was a wreck. It started on an upswing—Emmet’s cereal bowl was again in the dishwasher and his blender was in the sink—but it was all downhill after that. Work went wild, and I ended up staying late at the office, trying to thread the needle on a rate increase for a client that went ballistic when they saw the increased costs. They were a client we had to hold on to. I couldn’t lose their account.

I texted Emmet and told him I was swamped, that I hoped he was having a good practice, and that I’d pick up whatever he wanted on my way home. He texted okay and then something healthy?

I missed Landon’s lunchtime text and only saw it when I was fumbling for directions to a sandwich shop that had been recommended by my boss, Lakshmaan Joshi. “Shit,” I said, pulling into the last spot in the lot. The place was packed.

At least I had time to text Landon while I waited in the line that went almost to the door. Sorry, I had a crap day. Just saw your message.

No problem. All okay?

Just work. I eyed the menu. There was a worryingly huge number of choices, and my brain was too tired to process the different combinations. You ever eaten at Pierre’s?

The sandwich parlor? Yes. I like the California special. On sourdough, not whole wheat.

The California… looked like sliced chicken breast marinated in a honey mesquite sauce and loaded with vegetables. Done. I’d get two. Thanks. Grabbing dinner for Em and me on the way from the office.

Are you only on the way home now?

It was after nine. Emmet would be home in ten minutes. I hoped I’d beat him there. Yeah.

Long day. I’m sorry. And here I was indulging in my own pity party. He sent me a picture of his couch piled so high with laundry I could only spy the ends of the leather arms and the very top of the chairbacks around the edges of the clothes. I spotted a mix of T-shirts, some Landon’s size, some larger. Does Emmet do his own laundry?

He does! I didn’t know how he learned, but Emmet was capable of washing his own clothes. I still did them when I could, but half the time I asked, he would say, “I already did mine, Dad,” and that would be it for conversation between us for the next forty-eight hours.

I’m jealous. I taught Bowen two years ago, but apparently he thought my lesson was only a suggestion, not a requirement. He would wear the same clothes every day until they stood up and walked away. Or ran away.

I chuckled at my phone as the line shuffled forward. At least he showers. I’m still reminding Em that’s not an optional activity.

Oh, only sometimes. I’ve threatened to turn the hose on him. Last year, I told him to get in the pool after a game before he came into the house. It was as close as I could get to him bathing, since I knew he was going to face plant as soon as he hit his bedroom.

I thought back to Saturday, to when Emmet had come home after ice cream and barricaded himself in his bedroom. Why are these boys so gross?

I have no idea. But here I am, folding Bowen’s laundry so I can breathe in this house.

LOL

Know what he got me for my birthday? A gas mask.

I laughed harder this time. People turned and stared. I pressed my lips together and willed my smile to fade.

“Sir? What can I get for you?”

My head shot up, and I shoved my phone in my pocket as I placed my order. They were fast, and in only a few minutes, I had my sandwiches and a couple of bottles of Gatorade, and I was on my way home.

I beat Emmet by two minutes. He came in through the front door, and I spied headlights and the outline of Bowen’s SUV driving away. He dumped his duffel and kicked off his shoes in the living room.

“In here, Em!” I called. I needn’t have bothered. Food drew him like bait. I smelled him before he turned the corner into the kitchen. He wolfed down the sandwich and his protein shake before saying hello. When he was done, he said, “That was good, Dad.”

I’d eaten half of mine, and it was delicious. I held out the other half. He hesitated for a moment, then took it and ate it in three bites.

“Are you going to make dinner again tomorrow?”

“I can. Any requests?”

“Do you remember the pork you used to make? With the parmesan breading?”

My throat seized. That was the dinner Riley had dumped in the sink. I’d made it a few times before for Emmet and me, but I’d never made it again after that night. I nodded.

“Could you do that?”

“Yeah. I can make it.” I had to turn away, busy myself with the sink and the dishes and wiping the already clean counters.

Emmet tried to squeeze past me to drop his dirty blender in the sink. “Here, I’ll wash that for you,” I said. I still couldn’t look at him. He might see something in my eyes if I did. “How was practice?”

“Decent.”

A step up from fine. “Are you feeling good about the game this weekend?”

“We still have work to do this week.” Every day, Emmet had a class called Principles of Athletics, which was just a fancy name for football practice during the day under the guise of a PE class.

“Have you guys figured out the hole in the offensive line that the other team was using to get to Bowen?”

He stared at me sidelong, and I swore I saw his lips curl upward in the ghost of a barely-there smile. “Bowen and I hashed that out Sunday night. We took it to Coach yesterday.”

Then he was on a roll, describing how the linemen and the tight ends were out of sync and they’d let a one-second gap turn into a lane for the other team’s linebackers to rush through for a sack. He’d watched the tape on Saturday and texted Bowen about it, and they ran through what happened Sunday night at the stadium, reenacting it until they understood the failure.

I nodded along, clinging to the one word out of five that I understood like I was playing frogger through the conversation.

“I’m impressed,” I said when he ran out of steam and dropped into silence like he’d said everything in his quota for the month. He stared at the tiles, seemingly embarrassed by his flood of words. I grasped the countertop in both hands behind me. “I’m proud of you.”

He spooned out his nightly peanut butter. “I have homework.

“Okay. Good night, Em.”

“Night, Dad.”

Cereal bowl out, blender washed and set up, two spoons laid out. I flicked off the lights and left my messenger bag exactly where I’d dropped it. No work tonight.

Upstairs, I changed, brushed my teeth, and flopped into bed. I had two texts from Landon, and I smiled as I opened them.

At least I have fortification. He sent a picture of his glass of red wine perched on his coffee table—a very artful piece of furniture, I noticed, with a glass sculpture on the corner and not a speck of dust on the surface. An hour later, he texted How did you like your sandwich?

Loved it. Great rec with the California. Thank you. And that wine looks good. Is that your carménère?

No, that was a pinot noir. I needed something a little less heavy tonight. You might like it. It’s good for a beginner.

Throw me into the deep end. Give me the heavy stuff.

Wine so thick you can chew it?

I scrunched up my nose. That sounds gross.

It’s an acquired taste.

How do you like red wine and not coffee?

Shrug emoji. I’m only allowed three sins, and I’ve hit my limit: Diet Dr Pepper, red wine, and men.

I laughed out loud, curling forward like I was doing a crunch in bed. My lips clamped shut. Shit, Emmet had probably heard that. I sent three laughing emojis to Landon as I kept my laughs to snorts and deep breaths.

He sent another picture, and this time I frowned, trying to puzzle out what I was looking at. A closed bedroom door, but there was something stuck to it, dead center, about face height. A circle with what looked like gel inside. What’s that?

It’s our fall tradition. Well, more of a race than a tradition. I recommend it for you and Emmet now that he’s leveled up to the varsity stink.

My cheeks were aching. I smiled, waiting for the punchline.

As you are well aware, those boys smell after a game… or practice… or anything at all. So when September starts, I put one of those stick-on air fresheners on Bowen’s door. From then on, it’s the battle of the pungent. What is stronger? Air fresheners? Or Bowen? Here’s how the door looked by the end of the season.

Another pic, this time the same door covered so thoroughly with air fresheners it looked like it had chicken pox.

Does it work? I sent another long line of laughing emojis.

It… blunts.

Maybe you need to set them in a pattern. Like runes or a warding spell.

That’s a great idea! Oh, man, I never thought about that. I have a whole new sin I can embrace: spell casting. I’m at my limit of three, though. I’d have to let one go if I want to give it a try. Worried emoji.

Goodbye Diet Dr Pepper?

Goodbye men!

This time, I turned my face into my pillow before I barked out a laugh. You don’t mean that.

Shrug emoji, then a smiley face.

A yawn sneaked up on me. It was late, late enough that Landon should be asleep already and not chatting with me if Bowen was waking him up early in the morning. I should get to bed. And you should, too, with your early wake ups.

Ugh, don’t remind me. Night, Luke. Have a great day tomorrow.

I was upbeat and light on my feet Wednesday. I whistled a song I couldn’t place as I washed Emmet’s blender and on the drive into my office. When I arrived, one of my account coordinators looked at me like I had two heads, then trailed into my office and asked if I liked hip hop. Finally, the song hit me: it was one Emmet listened to and that I got to hear now that his bedroom door was open in the evenings.

After work, I hit the store for pork, parmesan, bread crumbs, and of course, milk. I debated but decided to try my hand at steaming actual green beans, not dumping a can into a bowl to microwave. If nothing else, and if they turned to mush, I could send a picture of the disaster to Landon.

I cooked, and Emmet wandered downstairs, setting up at the kitchen table with his physics textbook and his notebook.

“How did your test go?”

He made a face. “I have to do test corrections.”

“I wish I could help you.” Google said the green beans needed to go from dull to bright. I poked at them, wondering how bright was bright.

“S’fine.” His pencil scratched over the paper.

I didn’t overcook the green beans, but I may have undercooked them. They were crunchy, which, according to Google, was the West Coast way of steaming veggies. In Texas, vegetables were cooked until they were limp and begged for mercy, so the crunch was unusual to me. Emmet seemed to enjoy them. He cleaned his plate of parmesan-breaded pork, green beans, and the mashed potatoes I’d cheated on and made from a bag. I’d made enough food to feed four grown men. It was just enough.

We muddled our way through a conversation, lurching from physics—which neither of us understood—to his American history class—which both of us leaned heavily on the Hamilton musical to understand—and then to football practice. I asked him about the team dinners and how the junior varsity kids ate first, and how much more mature the varsity players seemed.

“It’s a requirement from Coach.” He dragged his fork around the plate, chasing the last flecks of mashed potatoes. “We have to earn a place on varsity through more than how we play. We have to be leaders on and off the field. Bowen showed me what that really meant last year.”

“He sounds like a great friend.”

That got me a look. Emmet tried to hide how he rolled his eyes, but he didn’t quite cover the head bob that went along with it. I hid my smile at his expense better than he hid his exasperation at mine. “Yeah, Dad. He’s cool.”

“He is very cool.” I grabbed our plates and took them to the sink. “So is his dad.”

Emmet slouched across the kitchen island. His long arms grabbed the opposite side as he stretched. “Mr. Larsen is chill.” His cheek bulged outward as the muscles in his neck flexed. “Bowen’s hella protective of his dad.”

I thought about young Bowen defending Landon on the playground. “The more I learn about Bowen, the more impressed I am with him.” I didn’t have friends like that in high school.

“I mean, there’s a reason Bowen is our captain, you know?”

“Not because he’s the best player in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex?”

Emmet grinned. The sight took my breath away. Water poured over my hands as the forks slid from my fingers and clattered to the sink basin. “He is that, but he also makes sure everyone is acting right. If you’re not, you gotta make it up. Sometimes he won’t let someone suit up for the game or take the field, and it doesn’t matter who you are or what position you play.”

I thought about Bowen’s forgotten English essay and Landon’s early mornings this week. “What if Bowen isn’t acting right?”

“Then he has to make it up, too. He forgot to do an English paper the first week of school, so now he’s coming in early and cleaning up the locker rooms every day for the team before he goes to detention.”

I stared at Emmet. “What time is he getting to school?”

“Five?” Emmet shrugged.

Five a.m.? How early was he waking up? And how early was Landon waking up? We’d texted until midnight yesterday.

“Bowen is at school before I wake up. That’s how he is, though. He’s big on servant leadership.”

“Did he get that from his faith?”

“Bowen doesn’t go to church.”

Did he get that from Landon, then? I thought of the laundry Landon folded and the years of homework he’d done beside Bowen, helping him puzzle through his reading and his essays. All the games he’d gone to, all the team dinners he’d helped at.

Emmet jerked his chin at the sink. “Want me to do those?”

“Uhh, sure.” I backed away from the sink as Emmet moved in. “I’ll dry if you wash.”

We worked without speaking, but it was a companionable quiet. After a few minutes, Emmet pulled out his phone and turned on some music. The song I recognized, and that I’d heard enough to turn into an earworm, played. “I was whistling this at work.”

He eyed me, skeptical. “You like this stuff?”

“I heard it a few times when you left your door open.”

“Am I bothering you—”

“No. I like hearing your music.”

“I could turn it up?”

I gave him a look. “It’s fine at the volume you have it.”

He grinned again and dropped his chin as he scrubbed the pan I’d fried the pork in. God, a smile looked good on him. He seemed seventeen again, and he looked happy, almost carefree. For a moment, a sliver of a second, I glimpsed in his smile the same little boy I’d been friends with.

“Are you going to keep volunteering?” Emmet’s voice broke me out of my reverie.

“I am. Are you cool with that?” I had a brief flash of panic. What if he says no? I didn’t want to stop. I’d had fun on Friday watching him and working with Landon. More fun than I’d had in a long time, and I wasn’t ready to let that go.

Emmet shrugged. “If you enjoy it, that’s cool.”

I was figuring a few things out about Emmet’s shrugs. I smiled at his profile and took the pan to dry.

With the dishes done, there weren’t any excuses to hang around each other anymore. He gathered his textbook and his notebook and disappeared while I set out everything for his morning. His music floated downstairs, and as I passed his door, I leaned in and wished him good night.

My phone was burning a hole in my pocket, and I didn’t wait until after I’d gotten ready for bed to pull it out. I texted Landon as soon as I shut my own bedroom door. How early are you waking up?

I think the clock said 4:15 this morning?

Jesus. You should have told me. I wouldn’t have texted you so late.

It’s fine.

My foot bounced against the carpet. Go to bed early tonight?

I’m already there.

Okay, that was my signal. Stop texting. I was typing out Goodnight when he texted again. I’m so beat, I might be ready to give coffee another try. There must be a reason so many people drink it, right?

It’s because most of us heathens are allowed more than three sins.

Ha!

I’m sure if we were limited, coffee would be jettisoned. What was I doing? Stop texting.

I’ll see you tomorrow?

I’ll be there.

Awesome. 🙂 Night, Luke.