“When are you going to start calling me Porter?”
“Never,” Hutton says. “Pretty sure my parents would murder me.”
Dad chuckles. “I wouldn’t say a damn thing.”
“Yes, but it’s a slippery slope, and before you know it, we’d see each other in the grocery store and I would call you Porter in front of my mom, and you know the kind of wallop I’d get across the back of the head.”
“Ahh, Mrs. Marshall is one to fear,” my dad says with a wink. Just then my mom appears in the same doorway Dad came from. Her hair is ruffled and her lipstick is smeared across her face.
Jesus Christ.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Uh, Marley.” My dad touches the side of his mouth, and her eyes go wide.
“Excuse me for a second.”
I groan and say, “While I was in the house? Come on.”
Dad takes a seat in one of the blue chairs next to the couch and picks up a piece of cheese. “Your parents have healthy appetites for each other. Be grateful.”
“He’s right,” Hutton says, leaning over.
I push him away. “I’m wallowing, I would prefer not to know that my parents are horndogs in the next room while I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.”
Just then, Dad’s laptop, which is on an end table, starts ringing with a Skype call. He accepts and immediately I hear Uncle Paul’s voice.
“Where’s my snookum boy? I want to see how brawny he’s gotten.”
Dad turns the computer toward me, and I’m graced with the sight of Uncle Paul’s shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and massive bush of a beard that tickles the top of his nipples. Best friends since they were young, Dad and Uncle Paul have been in each other’s lives forever, which is hard to believe because Uncle Paul—Mom’s brother—is eccentric, to say the least. Married with five girls, he treats me as his very own boy.
Hand clasping his chest, he shakes his head and says, “God, you’re handsome. You take after me. See that bone structure, Porter? That’s McMann bone structure.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Dad says with a knowing smile. There’s no denying it. I’m a carbon copy of my father.
“Is that Paul?” Mom says, walking in, looking much more put together.
“It is. Just admiring my godson.”
Mom claps her hands and says, “Now that we’re all here, we can begin.”
“Begin what?” I ask, sitting up.
Dad sets the computer on a chair, as if Uncle Paul is actually occupying space in the room, and all eyes fall on me.
Mom takes a seat next to me on the couch, forcing me to scoot over to the middle, and in her motherly voice, she says, “Sweetie, we want to talk to you.”
I look around the room and note that Uncle Paul is already dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. “Uh, what the hell is going on? Is this some sort of intervention?”
“We don’t need to put a label on it,” Mom says. “But, yes. Yes, it is.”
I glance over at Hutton, who has a cheese and cracker heading toward to his mouth. He pauses and says, “It’s an intervention, dude, and I’m living for it.”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but here I am, a blubbering mess,” Uncle Paul says. “I love you, Crew. You’re my boy.” He holds his fist out and honestly . . . how do I even react?
“We’re worried about you, Crew,” Dad says. “You haven’t been the same since Pops passed. You have all the reason to mourn, but we’re not sure if that’s what you’re doing.”
“Didn’t know there was a proper way to mourn,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.
“There isn’t.” Mom places her hand on my leg. “Everyone mourns in their own way, but we, as the people who care most about you, need to make sure that you’re doing it in a constructive way.”
“Your mom is right, dude,” Hutton says. “You’re letting yourself slip into a dark place and, frankly, it’s scaring the shit out of me.”
“Is this about my season? Because trust me, I don’t need you three harping on me about it. I know I was a shitshow out there and that my chances of actually making it professionally are slim to none now. I don’t need the reminder.”
“We don’t care about football right now,” Dad says. “We’re worried about you.”
In a soft voice, Mom says, “We’re worried you haven’t found closure yet with Pops.”
“Have you?” I ask, a little surprised. “He was your dad, Mom. But, then again, you guys knew he was sick, so you had time to prepare. I didn’t.”
“He didn’t want you to know,” Mom says gently.
“And why the fuck not?” I shout. “If I knew he was sick, I would have spent this past summer with him. I would have soaked up every last moment, but he took that from me. You took that from me.”
Mom’s eyes well up and I can feel the tension start to build as everyone goes silent. Minus Hutton, they all knew. And not one of them said a damn thing to me.
Finally, Dad says, “He left you something.”
“Porter”—Mom shakes her head—“not the time.”
“What did he leave me?” I ask.
As if I’m not in the room, Dad says to Mom, “There’s too much anger here, Marley. The only way he will understand is if we tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
“I think you should tell him,” Uncle Paul says.
“I don’t think he can handle it,” Mom counters.
“Handle what?” I ask, growing even more agitated.
Everyone pauses.
The room goes silent.
Mom and Dad stare at each other.
Uncle Paul clutches his hands at his chest.
The crunch of a cracker breaks the silence followed by a mumbled “sorry” from Hutton.
“Someone better tell me what the hell is going on.”
“You’re going to Germany,” Hutton says.
Everyone flashes their eyes in his direction. Dad says his name sternly under his breath, and my best friend cowers with a shrug.
“Sorry, but someone had to say something. I have one day with my best friend.” Hutton taps his wrist. “We have to move this along; we have mindless video games to play.”
Blinking, I turn back to my parents and ask, “I’m going to Germany? The country?”
Sighing, Mom glances at Dad and then back to me. “Pops left special instructions for your dad and me to send you on a trip he went on many years ago. Before Paul and I were born. It’s a trip we’ve all been on and a trip Pops now wants you to go on. This is your final break before everything turns into extreme chaos—that’s if you decide to go to the combine and try to make it professionally. Either way, the trip is booked.”
“Wait.” I sit taller. “You’re going to just . . . send me off to Germany?”
“Yeah. Cool, right, bro?” Hutton says, hitting my shoulder. “Man, what I wouldn’t give to go to Germany during Christmas.”
Ignoring him, I ask, “Are you going with me?”
Mom and Dad shake their heads. “No, but you won’t be alone. You, uh, will meet up with your travel companion when you get there.”