She started adjusting the collar of my shirt. “You know why I named you Jack?”
I rolled my eyes. “After Grandpa Jack. And the old Hollywood guy. I know, Mom.”
She sighed. “Yes, Jack Burns, the comedian and actor. Funny, handsome, so Hollywood glamour. Not unlike you.” She kissed my cheek.
“Okay, Mom, thanks.”
I checked my reflection in the hallway mirror. I’d left my hair un-gelled in the front, but I looked good. I felt good.
“You been hanging out with that cutie you brought home?”
I flinched. “Huh?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, wagging her eyebrows at me. “That nice boy you brought here recently, Connor, I think it was? He was definitely a dish.”
“Mom,” I said. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop being…creepy. He’s way too young for you, anyway.”
She smiled this slow, knowing smile. “But not too young for you.”
“What?” I turned away so she couldn’t see the look on my face. “What are you talking about?
“Stop pretending like I’m an idiot, Jack,” she said more seriously. She moved over to me me and put an arm on my shoulder, which I shrugged off. “You’re my son. I know you better than you think.”
Something caught in the back of my throat, a tangle of words I wanted to say. I said nothing as she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. Nothing when she kissed my forehead and gave me that look, that look that said she knew, and all I could do was nod and pull away from her and leave the room before I started crying.
She knew.
33.
I sat on the kitchen counter, drinking down one of Connor’s protein shakes. It tasted gritty and sweet, like sandpaper in a smoothie.
“How do you drink this shit every day?”
He shrugged and continued rummaging through the cabinets, organizing things, putting food away. “Hand me that bag, would you?”
For the next few minutes I helped him unload five heavy bags of groceries into the lavish designer kitchen. I loved being in there, with its chrome fixtures and all those top-of-the-line appliances. It was such a nice change from my house—so immaculate, so clean, so nice for the sake of being nice.
“I guess your uncle doesn’t need to hire a housekeeper with you around.”
He didn’t smile. “He’s a good guy.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He chewed his fingernail and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his bag. “I know you didn’t.” But he didn’t look at me.
Feeling uncomfortable, I wandered over to the living room to check out the home entertainment system and the giant aquarium full of tropical fish. I loved the way the wood floors felt against my bare feet. Connor’s house was huge and beautiful, full of cool little things like heated floorboards in the master bathroom and a popcorn machine next to the flat-screen TV. There were tons of pictures everywhere of friends and family with Connor’s uncle, a friendly-looking guy with roughish features and the same grin as his nephew. Alvaro. I’d met him before. As far as I understood it, he was this big deal tech guy who’d worked for several of the biggest start-ups out west. Why he’d moved out here, to this shithole of a town, I still didn’t quite get.
But when he came home and I was there, he’d always say “hello” to me politely and ask me about my day. And it was nice, having that kind of normalcy, even if I was never sure how to act around Connor with him there, if he ever suspected anything. But he was “married to his job,” as Connor liked to say, so we mostly had the house to ourselves.
Connor wasn’t in any of the photos that I could see, but I didn’t want to ask about it. And then it caught my eye: an elegantly gold-framed picture on the mantle of the fireplace of a pretty young couple and a little boy with shaggy black hair and bright green eyes.
I picked up the picture carefully, as if it were fragile and might easily break. I held it up a little and called out to him, “Hey, is this you?”
He squinted, then went back to looking through his bag. “Yeah.”
“Are these your parents?”
“Yup.”
I put the picture back in its place and studied it. The woman had flowing hair like a black waterfall and a dreamy smile. The man was much darker than her in complexion, broad-shouldered and handsome like his son.
“Do you…ever talk to them?”
“Nope.”
And then he added, “Never will.”
“Why?”
He snorted. “They don’t give a shit about me, whether I live or die. They made that pretty clear. Why should I give a shit about them and their bullshit lives?” He was rinsing the glass I’d been drinking out of, fiercely scrubbing out the protein gunk.
I walked over to him and put my hands on his shoulders, but he kept at it, then filed it away in the dishwasher with a loud clang and began washing his hands with the same ferocity. Steam was rising from the tap.
I reached over and turned it off. His hands were bright red.
“Don’t do that,” I said gently.
“Don’t ask me about them.”
“Sorry.”
He shook his head and his shoulders relaxed. “No, it’s okay,” he said, his tone gentler. “You knew they were in prison, but you didn’t know that.”
“Can I ask…where were you before? Before you lived with your uncle? I know you said you were in the foster system, but where exactly?”
He laughed shortly. “What are you, a fucking journalist?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just curious. I mean, I tell you everything about me, about my family. I barely know anything about you. And you just—you just always seem so together. So impossibly…perfect. I know, that sounds dumb. If you want me to stop, just say it.”
He finally turned around to face me. I expected some anger,
