Chapter One
**COOPER**
“You have a hole in your sock,” Dad says, pointing to my foot, which is currently resting on my parents’ twenty-year-old coffee table.
I sigh, folding my arms across my chest and sinking lower into the couch. “I know.”
“If you know there’s a hole in your sock, then why are you wearing it?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe for the same reason you still wear your shorts, even though they all have holes in the crotch.”
Dad shifts and turns his attention back to his coloring book. “More room to air things out.”
“Gross, Dad. Jesus.”
“What are my two favorite guys doing tonight?” Mom asks in a chipper tone, strutting into the living room with a trayful of warm cider.
The house is decorated to the nines, as my mom does every year around the holidays. Green garland is strung around the crown moldings, and dripping lights are sprinkled through the faux greenery. Stockings hang by the chimney, one for each member of this family, which includes me, Mom, Dad, and my sister, Palmer, and brother, Ford. Doubt they’ll be home for the holidays, though—it’s rare. But Mom still represents them during Christmastime.
The tree is perfectly placed in front of the bay window in the living room, shining for all the neighbors to see, just the way Mom likes it. She is quite particular when it comes to her tree, so when we decorated it this year, instead of hanging ornaments, Dad and I sat patiently and waited for direction while listening to Christmas music.
“Ford is going to develop a complex, you know, if he finds out you don’t include him in your bundle of favorite guys. Since, you know, he’s the oldest and is always trying to please.”
Mom scoffs. “That boy wears the crown for favorite. You know that, Coop.” She winks.
“Thanks a lot. Guess I won’t be taking the ferry all the way to Marina Island from Seattle almost every day to help you out anymore.” I reach for a cider, but Mom swats my hand away.
“Take this one.” She hands me a mug and smiles.
“What’s in this?” I ask her, suddenly wary.
“Cider. What do you think is in there?”
“I don’t know, arsenic?”
Mom laughs and then reaches down to pat me on the cheek. “Oh, honey, why would I kill off our little YouTube handyman?”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“I like the ring of it,” Dad says, still focusing on intently coloring. He has a coloring book of swear words that he thinks is the “bee’s knees,” and he’s currently coloring a purple F.
“I’m an editor, not a handyman.” An editor who hates his job immensely and wishes for nothing more than to never read another nonfiction book ever again.
Mom touches the bottom of my mug and guides it to my lips. “Drink up, sweetie. I really think you need it.” She then snaps her fingers at Dad and shoots him a pointed look. As if I’m not in the room, sitting between them, watching them wage some silent argument through mouth quirks and eyebrow raises.
Finally, my dad relents—though God knows what conversation they just shared—and turns toward me. “Let’s have fun tonight.”
I glance between my parents, feeling uneasy. “Let’s have fun tonight?”
“Yeah. You know, fun. Have you heard of it?” Dad asks, full of snark.
“Yes, I’ve heard of fun before. I’m just wondering why you want to have fun tonight when I know you’d rather fall asleep in your chair, your hand halfway down the collar of your shirt.”
“We are in the mood for a good time, Cooper,” Mom butts in.
I sit up now. Eyeing them wearily, I ask, “What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing,” Mom answers, exasperated, and guides my mug up to my lips again. “Just drink up.”
“Mom, I suggest you stop trying to get me to drink whatever is in this cup. You’re being too weird.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dad says, getting out of his recliner and taking a seat next to me on the couch. He grabs the drink from my hands, and before Mom can say anything, he takes a swig. His eyes immediately roll up, and his cheeks pucker. “Good Christ, woman. Yowza! How much rum did you put in that thing?”
“Half a cup. Too much?”
Dad hands the drink back to me. “Good luck with that.”
“Why is there a half a cup of rum in my cider?”
Heaving a heavy sigh, Mom leans back on the couch and dramatically drapes her arm over her eyes. “I’m attempting to loosen you up, Cooper. But your dad ruined it.”
“Any person with working taste buds would know that drink is flammable,” Dad says.
“Why do you want to loosen me up?”
Mom turns toward me and takes my hand in hers. “Honey, we need to talk.”
Shoot me now.
We need to talk. Nothing good comes from those words in any situation.
Not in a relationship.
Not with work.
And especially not with your parents.
Because with your parents, you’re about to get a lecture about how they think your life should be different, and what they think you should do to change it.
“You know what, it’s getting late.” I pat my legs. “I should really get going.”
I go to stand, but Dad’s booming parental voice springs into action. “Sit down, Cooper, and listen to what your mother has to say.”
Even though the man wears shorts with holes in the crotch, I still tend to listen to him.
I press my back against the couch and prepare myself to be annoyed.
Mom takes my hand in hers and gently pats it. “Cooper, we are concerned.”
Yup, here it comes.
“It’s been a year since you and Dealia decided to get a divorce, and now that the entire thing is final, we believe you need to get back out there, test the waters.”
Could have bet money that this is what they’d want to talk about.
Yes, just like Ross Geller, I’m part of the divorced man’s club. I married Dealia young—we had big plans to travel the world, but those plans changed as my parents got older and needed more help from me. Because I owe them everything, I stayed close while my two siblings went off to live their lives. Am I bitter about it? Maybe a little, but even though I’d never admit it, I take pride in making sure my parents are okay. They gave me a home when I needed it and brought my brother and me into the kind of family we could only dream of. I’ll do pretty much anything for them.
Well, almost anything. Whatever they have up their sleeves right now . . . I’m probably going to turn it down immediately.
“As much fun as this conversation is, I’m very certain I don’t want to hear it.” I go to get up again, but Mom places her hand on my leg.
“I don’t want you to die alone,” she says, her voice choked up and tight.
Wow.
Okay, we have a flair for the dramatic tonight.
I turn to my mom and give her a questioning brow. She sighs. “Okay, that might have been an over-the-top statement, but I do worry that you’re going to end up alone.”
“Why do you think I’m going to end up alone? Your other two kids aren’t currently attached to anyone.”
“But their hearts haven’t been broken. A broken heart tends to not want to venture out into love again. Different circumstances.”
“My heart isn’t broken, Mom. Dealia and I just wanted different things from life.”
“And what exactly do you want from your life?” Dad asks, his voice serious. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re not happy with your job, you’re a recently divorced man who sits at his parents’ house on a Friday night rather than going out, and from the status of your sock you’ve apparently let yourself go.”
“It’s one pair—Jesus, Dad. You’re not even wearing matching socks.”
“And I am in a committed, almost fifty-year marriage with the love of my life. Unfortunately for her, I’m allowed to let myself go, and she just has to deal with it.” He gives my mom an apologetic look, but she just beams right back at him. “You, my son, don’t have that luxury. You need to figure out what you plan on doing with your life.”
I drag my hand down my face. Why is that something parents always want for their kids? For them to “figure” out their life? Why can’t we just go through trial and error as the years pass, never really figuring out anything, but just going with the ebbs and flows of life?
And who’s to say I’m not content right now.
Maybe I don’t want to “figure” things out.
Maybe I want to stay permanently in the rut that I’m living in.
Perhaps I am content . . .
I think we all know that’s a bald-faced lie. Divorced in my twenties, working a job I hate, spending Friday nights with my aging parents . . . not sure many would be content with that kind of life.
But I can’t possibly understand what my parents mean by “have fun,” or what that entails.
“So, what do you want to do? Take me out? Be my wingmen?” I ask sarcastically.
My mom’s eyes light up.
Oh fuck.
That was a mistake.
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