Johanna Chamberlain stood over a boiling pot with a wooden spoon in her hand. She wore an apron that read “Kiss the Cook.” Graham did as it asked and placed a kiss on his mother’s cheek.
“Smells good in here.” Graham rested his hand over his rumbling stomach. He hadn’t eaten earlier because he knew he would need the space for dinner.
“Thank you. Your father is in the den. There’s sausage, cheese, crackers, and chips and dip in there. Drinks are in the cooler on the sunporch.” She paused and looked at her son. “Have you heard from your brother?”
The question gave him pause. Grady lived with his parents, and Graham had expected to find him sitting next to their father, watching football.
He shook his head slightly. “He didn’t come home last night?”
His mother continued to stir. “He hasn’t been home in a couple of days.”
Graham placed his hand over his mother’s. She stopped moving the wooden spoon, turned, and looked at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“I didn’t want you to worry. You have so much going on with the bar . . .” She trailed off.
“He’s my brother.” The day Graham returned home after the fateful phone call was the day he put Grady before everything else in his life.
Graham excused himself and went outside. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, brought it to life, and pressed Grady’s number. It rang and rang until voice mail picked up. “Hey, call me back. If you need me to come and pick you up, let me know.” He hung up and held his phone in his hand. Across the street, a group of teenagers playing a game of flag football got his attention.
“Okay, Austin, you’re going to linger near the line for a bit and then take off like you’re late for dinner. I’m going to fake a handoff to Bowie, circle around, and send a pass your way. On three.” The three of them clapped, and Graham moved toward the makeshift line of scrimmage. He crouched down, called his audible, and prepared to get the football from the center.
“Chamberlain steps back,” he said as he moved backward. “He looks to his left, to his right. He fakes a handoff to Bowie Holmes and fires a bomb downfield to Austin Woods. Woods catches the ball and dodges a tackle by Jason Randolph.” Graham threw his arms up in the air and danced around when Austin jumped over the broom handle they used as a goal line.
Grady dramatically fell to the ground.
“Get up, sore loser,” Graham heard Austin say to his brother.
“Every year. I give up,” Grady lamented. He sat up and pointed at Graham. “Next year, I get Austin on my team.”
“Whatever you say, Grady.” Graham walked over and held his hand out for his brother, helping him up. The friends huddled together and on three chanted, “Forever.”
Graham brushed the back of his hand over his wet cheek. That was the last time the five of them played together. By summer, Austin would be gone. The Thanksgiving following the accident, no one even suggested the boys get together and play. Their forever had ended. He went back into the house, kissed his mother on the cheek again, and went into the den to visit with his father.
George Chamberlain yelled at the television with a string of curse words to rival any sailor. He sprawled back in his recliner, jerking slightly when the mechanism locked into place. He pointed the remote control at the screen and mumbled incoherently.
“It’s not even the Seahawks,” Graham said as he sat down on the couch. Instantly, his body sagged and relaxed.
“It’s football. It doesn’t matter who’s playing,” George bellowed after another round of his yelling at the television subsided. Graham knew his father’s statement to be false. His dad was a die-hard Seahawks fan and flew a flag out front for everyone to see. That particular act of showmanship always confused Graham. It would stand to reason most people in Washington would be fans of their professional teams, and he could understand if someone had moved to the state, such as his neighbors, but they would display their hometown team, unlike the locals. Graham liked to consider himself impartial, something he’d learned while working at the bar. He never wanted to pressure his employees or patrons to root for one over the other and respected all the sports fans and whatever teams they supported. With that said, because he ran a tourist-town bar, he subscribed to the most expansive sports providers in the market so he could appease his customers.
Graham paid attention to the game, cheered when required, and greedily helped himself to the appetizers. When his pop was empty, he’d get up and get a new one, along with a beer for his dad, and the men would continue to watch the game until it was time to eat. Every so often, Johanna would come into the room, say something about the officiating while wiping her hands on her apron, and disappear back into the kitchen.
“Where’s your brother?”
“Not sure.” He spoke quietly as he took his phone out of his pocket, hoping to find a message from Grady. Nothing. He sent him a text message, asking him to call. He waited for the three conversation bubbles to appear; they never did. He typed out a message to his friend Monroe, asking her if she had seen Grady.
Monroe Whitfield had grown up with the twins and had always had a crush on Grady. From early on, when Grady and Austin decided to start a fishing company back in high school, Monroe said she had no plans of ever leaving Cape Harbor, and everyone knew it was because of Grady. Her younger sister, Mila, couldn’t get out of there fast enough. After the accident, Roe tried to fix Grady, show him he could still have a life, but he pushed her aside as he had done to everyone else. Yet, she still lingered, often showing up with him in tow after no one had seen him for a few days. She always knew where to look.
Monroe Whitfield: I haven’t seen him in a few days.
Okay, thanks
Monroe Whitfield: Is everything okay?
Nothing is ever okay, he wanted to say to her.
He’s late for dinner.
Monroe Whitfield: I’ll keep an eye out.
That was precisely what Graham didn’t want her to do, to interrupt her Thanksgiving to look for his drunk-ass, irresponsible brother.
Don’t, Roe. He’s an adult and needs to figure things out on his own. I’ll see you later at B’s.
Monroe sent back a sad-faced emoji, and Graham pocketed his phone. He felt like shit for ruining her holiday, even though she would never admit it to him.
“Maybe Grady should move in with you.”
Graham turned his head slowly until his gaze fell upon his father. “What?” he croaked out. “I don’t have enough room.”
“Move,” his father suggested gruffly. “Grady needs his family to be supportive.”
“What Grady needs is rehab and therapy, and he needs for his parents to accept the fact he’s an alcoholic. Besides, doesn’t he live here?”
“Dinner!” Johanna’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension-filled den. “Come on—come eat.”
Graham didn’t hesitate and followed his mother into the dining room. He sat in his usual spot, across from the empty chair where Grady would sit when he arrived. His mom would sit to his left, with her back facing the kitchen, and his dad would soon be to his right.
Their table was small, fitting the four of them cozily, but add anyone else, and it would feel crowded. The tablecloth was plastic and had turkeys, cornucopias, and leaves printed on it. A plate of sliced turkey sat in the middle of the table, and without giving it much thought, Graham reached for a piece of the crispy baked skin—his favorite.