Page 2 of Borrowed Pain
I forced my attention back to the table. Sunday dinner wasn't for work or late-night fantasies. Sunday dinner was for family, and pretending the constant weight on my shoulders belonged to someone else.
My brain had never respected boundaries. Fragmented images flickered through my head: Iris's hands shaking as she gripped her coffee cup during our last session. She was smaller somehow, like something inside her had started collapsing.
There was a call that came after, in the middle of the night, her voice so thin I barely recognized it.
"I shouldn't have gone there, Miles. Something's wrong. Something's really wrong."
Marcus's voice brought me back to the present, "—don't you think, Miles?" He stared at me expectantly, eyebrows raised.
Everyone was looking at me, meaning I missed something important enough to warrant group attention.
"Absolutely," I said with the confident conviction that had gotten me through grad school. "Couldn't agree more."
Matthew snorted. "You have no idea what we're talking about."
"Sure, I do. Hockey. Very... hockey-ish stuff." I grinned and took a bite of Ma's roast, which was perfect but tasted like sawdust in my mouth. "Lots of skating and... stick things."
"Stick things?" Michael's deadpan delivery made everyone snicker.
"It's a technical term." I doubled down on the bit because that's what I did—kept it light and kept them laughing. Kept the focus anywhere but on the fact I'd been somewhere else entirely for the last five minutes.
Ma's hand settled briefly on my shoulder as she passed behind my chair, and I caught the scent of her rose cream again. Such a small thing, but it anchored me. It reminded me of where I was and who I was supposed to be.
The family entertainer. The one who protected everyone else from drowning in whatever darkness they dragged home—Marcus's need to control everything, Michael's SWAT ghosts, and Matthew's savior complex.
I'd been good at it since I was twelve, when I learned that making people laugh was easier than watching them grieve.
So why did my latest laugh feel forced? Why was my smile pasted on instead of genuine?
Ma's sharp blue eyes focused on me again. They'd always seen too much. She said nothing, refilled my water glass, and moved on.
She knew. Ma always knew when one of her boys struggled, even when they desperately tried to pretend otherwise.
Twenty minutes later, Marcus pushed back from the table with a satisfied grunt. Michael stretched, his chair creaking under the movement, and Matthew eyed the last dinner roll.
Marcus stood. "Alright, I should head out. Early morning tomorrow."
"You always have an early morning," Matthew pointed out. "It's like you schedule them specifically to avoid cleanup duty."
"I helped last week—"
"You rinsed three plates and called it even."
"Boys." Ma's voice cut through the brewing argument. "Nobody's leaving until these dishes are done. All hands on deck."
It happened every week. We staged our usual half-hearted protest before falling into the cleanup routine. That's what McCabe men did. We looked after our own.
I was already gathering plates. It was easier than sitting still and letting my mind wander back to more dangerous territory.
"You don't have to do that," Marcus said, appearing at my elbow with a handful of glasses.
"I know." I took them from him and added them to my growing collection at the sink. "But if I don't, you'll stand here debating the most efficient dishwashing technique for twenty minutes, and Ma will never let us leave."
"I don't debate dishwashing techniques."
"You debate everything, Marcus. It's your superpower. Very useful for fire safety protocols, and less useful for family dinner cleanup."
He snorted but didn't argue. He knew I was right. Soon, the whole crew was in motion, everyone slipping into well-worn roles: Marcus and James were stacking plates, Michael and Alex were loading, and Matthew and Dorian were drying. We had it all down to a science—cleaning patterns that required no discussion or coordination.
