Page 138 of Sweat

33

Tommy

Seven Months Later

The summer heat finally showed itself this week, as if spring had held out just for Erica. It always was her favorite season. When all the flowers bloom and the trees get green again.

Today is the eighth day of the post-Erica world, and I still don’t feel totally human yet, but I’m not the hollowed out shell I was on day one. The heat helps, because I actually prefer summer, and the morning sun blazing through my bedroom window right now is helping my body to sweat out all the darkness and soothe the demons from my mind. The voices telling me how ugly life is when, in my heart, I know the opposite to be true.

I’m alone now, but only right now. Only in this room and in this bed. I’m not really alone, though, because as I sweat it out in basketball shorts on top of the sheets, I still smell Rowan around me. Even after a week of him using my soap, my shampoo, and stealing my clothes, I still smellhim.His skin, his breath, his cum, his sweat, and that cologne in his bag that he spritzes on sometimes because he thinks it’ll help win Ma over.

I hear Rowan just as clearly. By now, I know his footsteps from anyone else’s, so I know it’s him moving around in the kitchen. I hear dishes rattling, silverware clanging, and water periodically running. I hear his voice. Muffled, but it’s there. I hear Ma’s voice, too, more shrill and discernible.

They’ve been getting along, kind of, which has been nice, but I still don’t like leaving them alone together too long. Rowan is a sweetheart, and anything Ma has to say about him rolls right off his back with minimal damage, but Rowan is fiercely protective of me. If Ma utters a single critical word about me, Rowan won’t shy away from setting her straight, and Ma isn’t a fan of being set straight.

Just in case, I unglue myself from the mattress after nearly an hour spent staring at the ceiling since waking up. I find a muscle shirt on the floor that probably doesn’t smell much better than my bare skin does, and I tug it on as I leave my room.

I’m yawning and rubbing the lingering sleep from my eyes when I come through the hall, and Rowan’s voice says, “Hey, you. Sleep okay?”

He’s sitting at the dining table, Mav on his lap, and he’s smiling that somber smile at me. The one he offers before he’s sure I’m in a mood to be smiled at for real. I’m always in the mood to be smiled at by Rowan, even when it feels like there’s a hundred pound weight pressing down on my shoulders.

Because Ma sits right across from him, I forgo a more honest answer in favor of a white lie. “Yeah, it was okay.” Standing at the head of the table, I scan my family and notice they’re all in their pre-planned outfits already. Ma in her black dress, Mav in his black button down, and Rowan in his black polo shirt and chain.

“Shit, you’re all dressed,” I mumble, hearing the hoarseness in my voice. “Am I late?”

Rowan’s head shakes as he uncurls an arm from around Mav to tap the next placemat over. “There’s plenty of time. Sit down and eat something.”

While my room smells like Rowan, this one smells like breakfast, and my stomach growls, which I count as a win considering my appetite has been hovering just abovenonesince Erica left us. On the table is a platter of pancakes and plates of bacon and scrambled eggs. Mav uses Rowan’s lap as a booster seat while he picks at his plate with a kiddie fork, and Ma is cradling a mug in her hands.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” she says, and I beeline for it. Hot coffee sounds like just the thing to help expel the darkness inside me.

I take a mug of coffee and cream back to the table and drop into the seat Rowan had directed me toward. There’s a clean plate out with a fork and knife. I go straight for the pancakes, still warm, and slap two on my plate. It takes until now for me to recognize these pancakes as the ones Erica would make—the ones from the recipe box Grandpa left to her.

“Full disclosure,” Rowan says, palm stroking across my shoulder blades, “I made these, so they’re not very good.”

Despite how dull and drained my body feels, my eyes well with emotion as I stare at the thin, whole wheat pancakes that somehow always taste better than the boxed, buttermilk ones. “You made my grandpa’s pancakes?”

“Tried to. Your mom helped me.”

I gaze at my boyfriend before shifting it to Ma.They were cooking together?

Sensing my surprise, Ma answers my unspoken curiosity. “If you’re going to be living together now, he’s going to need tolearn how to cook. Twenty-three and the man can hardly crack an egg.”

Directing my incredulous smile at my perfect boyfriend, I say, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Like I said, I messed ‘em up a little.”

Under Rowan’s watchful eye, I butter my cakes and douse them in syrup before carving out a big bite and shoveling it in. Even better than the taste is the comfort of familiarity. Maybe they’re a little clumpy, but they’reeverythingright now.

“So good,” I hum, swiping the stray tear from beneath my eyelid. “Thank you so much.”

Rowan’s hand slips up to my neck, thumb stroking the short hairs at my nape.

Laying my hand atop Mav’s head, I say, “You okay, buddy?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, staring at his eggs.

“Gonna see your dad today.”

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