My jaw ticked as her voice trailed off with her words hanging on the thick, tense air. “Okay. So, what I can do is, take a look at what you’d like to do, and then recommend you to one of the other artists at the shop. What style is—”
“Um,” she interjected awkwardly, “actually, I really need this done by you, specifically.”
I scrubbed a hand over my bearded jaw. I wouldn’t argue with her and wouldn’t allow my pride to mar my reputation as a professional, but it was obvious I’d need to put my foot down with this one. It happened occasionally, but damn, I hated it. It was a real test of my patience and I dealt with that enough as it was with my family.
“O-kay,” I drawled, patronizingly, before putting her on speakerphone to open my phone’s calendar. “I have a cancellation at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. The rest of the day is pretty booked-up, so unless you wanna come in another day—”
“No, that’s fine,” she said, her voice breathy with relief. “I really appreciate you making time for me.”
“Yep,” I replied shortly. “What’s your name?”
“Audrey.”
“Audrey?” I confirmed questioningly, my fingers hovering over the phone’s keyboard.
“Yes. Like Audrey Hepburn.”
I typed her name into my calendar. “Okay, Audrey. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you so much. I’m really looking forward to it,” she answered. I had no idea what this woman looked like, but I could picture her smile in the airiness of her words. So light and delicate, as curved and bubbly as a girl’s handwriting. She probably dotted her i’s with hearts and signed her name with a smiley face, and I could’ve kicked myself for my condemnatory smirk.
“Me, too,” I lied, already predicting this would be a massive waste of my time. But at least it was in the morning. I’d get it over quick and go on with my day. No harm done. “Have a good night.”
“You, too, Blake.”
***
"Come on, Jake. Time to wake up." I opened the blinds in my brother's room, allowing the morning sunlight to stream across his Mickey Mouse comforter. "Gotta get you to school before you're late."
Jake mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the blanket over his head. I gently wrenched it from his hands and pulled it back.
"I don't wanna get up," he whined and pushed at my hands before rolling over. "Go away, Blake. I don’t wanna get up."
"I know, buddy," I sympathized. In all of our lives, Jake had never been a morning person, and I felt guilty every day for waking him up. But someone had to get him up and get him to school, and since my parents would never do it without the battle of the century taking place, that someone had to be me. "You want some oatmeal for breakfast?"
"No way, José," he protested and rolled over again. "Go away."
"How about some fruit? An apple, or a banana, maybe?"
Jake finally rolled to face me. In his grasp, he held his ratty stuffed dog, Mutty. Sometimes, when his forehead crumpled with concern or the creases around his eyes deepened, it was easy to forget the challenges he’d been burdened with. But in these moments, I could easily look beyond his exterior and toward the child within. When his mouth twisted into a pout like this, like he was four instead of almost thirty-four, it was hard to remember that this was my older brother albeit by two minutes.
"Banana with sugar?" he asked.
I raised an eyebrow and bargained, "Will you get up?"
"Uh-huh." He pulled himself into a seated position to prove he was good on his promise.
I crossed his bedroom to grab the clothes I’d laid out for him. "Will you get dressed?"
"You betcha." Jake held out his arms and I handed him the clothes.
"Okay. Then a banana with sugar, it is." I left his room and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
Mom and Dad sat at the table with coffee cups and cellphones in hand, playing the part of a picturesque American couple in their 60’s, living comfortably in the 21st century. While my routine was to get my brother out of bed and to daycare before I headed to work, this was theirs.
Must be nice.
I grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit on the table and went in search of the sugar. It’d been in the same spot my entire life, but today, when I needed it, it seemed to have gone missing.
Addressing my parents with a sigh, I asked, “Where’d the sugar go?”
Mom turned from her phone and pointed toward a white canister right in front of me. “Right there.”
“These are new,” I commented, opening the one clearly labelled Sugar. I felt like a moron for even missing it in the first place.
“Mom picked them up from the store a couple days ago,” Dad said. “Nice, aren’t they?”
“Not my style, but yeah, they’re nice,” I said, nodding as I grabbed a knife to slice the banana into a bowl.
Mom scoffed and shook her head. “Always have to throw your two cents in.”
“Huh?”
Laying her phone down, she leaned back in her chair and pinned me down with a steely glare. “You can’t just say, ‘Yeah, Mom, they’re nice.’ You just have to add something negative. Why does it matter if they’re not your style, Blake? You think I don’t know that?”
“No,” I muttered, pressing my lips into a thin, terse line.
“Okay. So, then why do you have to say it?”
I canted my head and gritted my teeth. My slicing quickened and became more aggressive. “I … don’t know, Mom. Guess it’s just all a part of my charming personality.”
She uttered a disgusted noise and turned away from me. “Always negative. Always sarcastic,” she mumbled under her breath and picked up her phone.
“Maybe I should put that on my resumé.”
“Blake,” Dad warned, shaking his head.
I turned away to grab a spoon and roll my eyes. Snippy retorts nagged at my tongue, but I didn’t say anything more. I kept my lips sealed as I dusted the banana slices with sugar, giving my mother the opportunity to either fire back or accept the miniscule scrap of peace I’d offered by staying quiet.
Much to my surprise, she chose the latter.
Jake entered the kitchen with his sneakers on the wrong feet. I was about to say something as I placed his breakfast on the table, when Mom pointed it out first. She finished by saying, “Honestly, honey, are you ever going to learn? You’re almost thirty-four years old, for crying out loud!”
My lips twisted with a hot anger as I ordered my brother to sit down and eat, before I dropped to my knees to help fix his shoes. He laughed innocently at my mother’s probably well-intentioned jab. She never meant to be nasty toward him—she saved that for me, the negative, sarcastic, problematic son—but I couldn’t help feeling the overwhelming need to defend him. To point out that he was never going to learn, no matter how old he got. And to ask her why she felt the need to rub it in his face, when he was all too aware of how different he was.
But I said nothing, choosing to keep the peace, until after Jake had eaten his breakfast and we were heading out the door. Mom gave Jake a hug, kissed his cheek, and wished him a good day, and as she turned to head back into the kitchen, she casually said, “You better drive safe, Blake, I swear.”