The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (free e reader txt) 📗

outdoor tables are still piled against the side wall of the restaurant, stacked on top of each other like toy furniture. I’m vaguely disappointed; it would have been nice to eat outside tonight. Perhaps with a bit of fresh air and open space my unsettled thoughts about my brother would simply float away.

Jason lets go of my hand while we wait in the dim vestibule of the restaurant to be seated and I run my fingers over the scarred piece of oak left over from the original front counter of Wilson’s Hardware. As always, I request a table at the back, by the large windows looking out onto the Still River. We follow the hostess obediently through the dining room, threading our way through the low murmur of voices around us, and I try to push the conversation with Ricky from my mind.

Once Jason and I are seated, I watch him study the menu as if he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s going to order. Neither one of us needs a menu — we both have the same thing every time we come here. Steak sandwich for Jason, chicken parm for me.

Jason seems a bit jittery and I notice, for the first time, that he’s wearing what must be a new shirt, or at least not one I’ve seen before. He looks oddly formal given that it’s a polo shirt — navy with thin white stripes — especially compared to the T-shirts I’m used to seeing him in. It looks good on him, though. I wonder, suddenly, if my brother dresses up to see the amazing Dee Dee, or is it the opposite for him? Does he consider it slumming when he’s out cheating on his wife? Brenda must know. Or at least, she must know it’s always been a possibility; Ricky doesn’t exactly have a glowing track record when it comes to being faithful.

“Zoe?” Jason is looking at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you ready to order?”

A waitress is standing at our table, pad and pen in hand, and she gives me a tight smile as I order the chicken parm.

“I might try something different tonight,” Jason says. “Just to liven things up.” His voice is too loud, too enthusiastic, and I can’t figure out why he’s acting so strange.

He vacillates between ribs and fish, before settling on the haddock. When he hands the waitress his menu, his hand is shaking. And suddenly, I know. Or I think I know. He’s going to propose. Oh god. That would explain the shirt.

My hands are sweating. I should be excited; obviously I like him, but just the idea of someone slipping a ring on my finger makes me nauseous.

When the waitress returns with our wine, we toast and I try to think of something to say. He wouldn’t do it here, in the restaurant, would he? Jason sets his glass down and reaches for my hand across the table. “Zoe —” he says, but I interrupt him before he can go any further.

“What made you decide to get the fish?” I ask. I tug my hand back and straighten my cutlery.

Jason holds my eyes with his. “I wanted tonight to be different.”

“Not me,” I say quickly, feigning a little laugh. “I like things to stay the same.”

“Zoe —”

“Like, you know how we’ve talked about moving in together?” This is mean. Moving in together has been a mild source of contention between us recently. It’s like I’m trying to pick a fight. “I was thinking about it again the other day, and I know it makes sense financially, but I don’t think I’m ready.”

I watch as he sits back, absorbing the implication of what I’m saying. I’ve ruined the moment. When our food arrives, I try to make up for being such a jerk on what should’ve been a nice night out.

“I’m not saying I won’t ever be convinced,” I say. “You were pretty convincing last night, actually.”

He doesn’t even smile. “Zoe, I don’t want to argue. Let’s talk about something else.”

I nod, and I know, as I take another bite of chicken, that my nervousness is a direct reaction to my phone call with Ricky.

Most of my life has been a reaction to Ricky. Which is only part of the reason I hate him.

I SOMETIMES WONDER WHAT IT was like for Ricky after I was born. He had been an only child for such a long time — eight years — that he must have resented the attention that unexpectedly shifted from him to me. Was he gentle with me when I was a baby? Did Mom have to remind him constantly to be careful, to be quiet, to be a good big brother?

Knowing how he was while I was growing up, it seems likely that he was already a jerk as an eight-year-old. I imagine him crashing around the house, jolting me awake while I lay uneasily behind the bars of my crib. I can picture him playing with me too roughly, scaring or even hurting me, then watching from wherever he’d been sent to sit quietly while Mom consoled me, all of her attention and kisses raining down on my little head.

According to Mom, I was an overly sensitive baby. Particularly to noise. She used to make my dad open his beer cans in the bathroom with the door closed because the slight pop and hiss when the tab lifted was enough to wake me from a dead sleep. Ricky said he ripped a piece of paper in front of me once, and the sound caused me to burst into tears. I can hardly blame him then, if he found my presence an unwelcome intrusion. A baby sister who cries at the sound of paper tearing. At this age, thinking about it, even I find the idea a bit pathetic.

Although, I also think Ricky liked how easy it was to scare me. I have a vivid memory of him pulling me down the sidewalk in our red Radio Flyer