House leans forward, and we both glance in all directions, checking for cops. It’s winter, so the landscape is pretty clear. In the summer, the asshole cops hide behind the corn. I crack my knuckles as a joke, and House laughs, his cackle growing more maniacal as I hit the gas hard and climb the car up to ninety in a few seconds. The roar echoes everywhere; I try to take the car up over a hundred, but it starts to feel loose, so I back off.
I flip around at the edge of the woods and push it just as fast on the way back toward town, slowing down to the speed limit when we start to see other cars. House has turned the radio up, and he’s rolled down his window. I can tell he’s happy. It’s nice having him here, too. He and I—we used to do this a lot.
I drive him back to the Ice Palace lot and pull up next to his truck. He gets out, but pauses at my door, knocking on the window. I roll it down.
“Hey, a few of us are getting together for a little party at Sasha’s. Mostly guys you know. Anyhow, if you wanna come, just hit me up,” he says. I nod, and think about forgetting his invitation immediately—just like I used to. But then I realize, Owen’s gone. And I was invited.
“Hey! House!” I shout out the window just before he climbs into his pickup. He turns and flips me off, because that’s his thing. “I’m in. What time?”
“Show up around five. And bring fuckin’ pizza!” he yells, half chuckling.
Maybe I’m the guy bringing the pizza, but House wouldn’t invite me if he didn’t want me there. He’s always been an extension of Owen, and I think I’ll always be a kid brother in his eyes because of that closeness.
One fucked up family. But it’s mine.
* * *
I spend a few hours wrapping up some reading on existentialism for an essay due next week, then I rush out of the apartment around four, giving myself enough time to pick up pizza and avoid my mom coming home from work. I leave a note for her and Dwayne that I’ll be out late, knowing if I say I’m with House that she will call. I just say I’m meeting with a few of the hockey guys instead.
On my way to pick up food, I swing by Emma’s house, and everything about it is as quiet and shut down as it has been all week. Her family has disappeared, but there are a few lights on inside. It’s always the same ones, which makes me think maybe they’ve just taken off for a family trip or a vacation. A little weird in early October, but maybe that’s a thing normal families do. I wouldn’t know. We’ve never taken a trip anywhere, other than a drive for the day up to Wisconsin for some water slides. And that trip was all Owen’s doing.
I stop by the pizza joint next, pick up the four large ones House ordered, and head to Sasha’s.
I’ve been here a few times, but never for long. Usually, I was tagging along with Owen while he talked to someone about something or made plans with House. He never let me stay. But tonight, I pull up on my own, in my own car—invited.
“Douchebag!” House shouts the second I walk through the door.
“You owe me fuckin’ money, yo!” I say, sliding the pizzas on the counter seconds before a dozen people I don’t recognize flip open the lids and start taking away slices. House walks into the kitchen and throws a wadded up ten-dollar bill at me. I look at it in my hand and then furrow my brow at him.
“It’s all I got now. I’ll hit you up with the rest later,” he says, already devouring a slice.
“Right you will,” I say, stuffing the money into my wallet and knowing it’s all I’m going to get. House confirms it with his full-mouthed laugh.
I grab a slice and follow him to the sunken living room, taking a seat in one of the large beanbag chairs. The lights are low, and there’s a group of people playing pool at a table in a room near the back of the house.
Everything in here is either really expensive or a piece of trash. It’s weird. I know Sasha’s parents have money—they own a lot of land, and they’ve sold most of it. They farm this small plot, and they don’t even do their own farming.
They’re never around, but I heard Sasha and her friends are staying here for college, driving to Northwestern for school. The result—this farmhouse has become a five-bedroom dorm without any supervision.
“Hey, baby Harp…” House nudges me with a red plastic cup in his hand. I take it from him and smell it; it isn’t beer. “Just drink it.”
I take a small sip and start to cough instantly while House leans forward and lets out a belly laugh. “Welcome to your first taste of Jack, baby Harp. Don’t tell your brother I gave it to you; he’ll kick my ass,” he says, holding his cup out to click cheers with mine, urging me to drink the rest along with him.