There aren’t many people out at this hour, but the ones who are filtering in and out of coffee shops and workout classes are generally young and good-looking. A couple of cute girls check me out as I pass. But instead of returning the favor, I find myself glancing through shop windows and holding my breath when I approach street corners, almost like I’m looking for someone.
A very specific someone with bright pink lips and hobbit ears.
I tear through my workout, the coach even telling me to slow down at one point when I lose count of my box-jumps and end up doing them over and over at manic speed, sweat flying everywhere.
At least it clears my mind. Sort of.
I’m still shaking when I get in my car an hour later. Driving is one of the few things I missed living in Manhattan, so I enjoy guiding the used Jeep Cherokee I just bought onto I-77. Most guys I work with drive Range Rovers and brand new Denalis, but I’ve never been a big car guy. I’d rather put my money in my sisters’ 529 accounts than spend it on stupid shit like six-figure SUVs.
The Cherokee’s not fancy, but it’s sparkling clean and comfortable and has a decent stereo. Turning on my current favorite podcast, Smartless, I hit the gas and feel a little steadier.
I got this.
I know how to win.
I have won. I’m doing what I set out to do as a kid—I’m giving back to the family who gave up so much for me. I paid off my parents’ house. Footed the bill for my sisters’ private school education. I’ve saved for their college too.
Who else can say that at thirty-four? After a decade-plus of busting my ass, I can finally give my mom and sisters whatever they need. Whatever they want. They ask, and I deliver.
Problem is that to keep delivering, I need to keep earning. Tuition for three sisters is not cheap. Neither is the new house Mom won’t let me buy her. Never mind the health insurance the four of them need to pay for out-of-pocket now that Dad’s gone, and of course there are the million other random bills that pile up in daily life. A few weeks back, my sister Ava rear-ended someone and caused fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of damage to the other car. I didn’t want her insurance premiums to go through the roof, so I cut the other guy a check and bought Ava a new Civic. Her rusted-out beater wasn’t worth the money to fix anyway.
It’s a lot. But it’s what I owe them. Mom got pregnant with me her senior year of high school. She had a scholarship lined up at Wake Forest, her dream college; Dad had plans of getting a degree in engineering. At eighteen years old, they gave all that up to have me. Instead of going off to college to make their dreams come true, they got married, set up camp in my grandparents’ basement, and got the best jobs they could. Dad never planned on becoming an HVAC repairman, but that’s where he landed. Mom didn’t want to wait tables, but she’s still doing it thirty-some-odd years later. When they weren’t working, they were taking care of me, scraping together what money they could to make sure I got the opportunities and freedom they didn’t.
My sisters didn’t come along for another twelve years. My parents never had money, but I guess they finally felt “stable” enough to have more kids at that point. All three of my sisters were born within five years. I don’t know what planet my parents were on when they decided to have so many, so quickly. It was chaos. Fun, yes. But also stressful. Money was always tight, but my parents worked hard to give us what they could. I worked hard too and got a partial scholarship to a private high school in Concord, about twenty-five minutes north of Charlotte. Somehow Mom and Dad footed the part of the bill my scholarship didn’t cover. I’m grateful they did: that school got me into Duke, even if I did have a really tough time at first running in those circles because I was so different from most of the kids there.
Now I just want to give my sisters what my parents gave me. Can’t hurt if I can give them more than that too. I don’t want them to struggle the way I did. If I can provide the security (and, yes, the clothes and the cars) that will make my sisters feel less like outsiders at school—if I can provide first and last months’ rent for their first post-college place—I’ll do it, no question. Even if my sisters are a freaking handful.
The oldest, Birdie, is twenty-two and a senior at UNC-Charlotte. She has a good head on her shoulders. But the rest of my siblings? Their judgment is questionable on a good day. On a bad one, there’s no telling what trouble they’ll get into. Ava is eighteen, a senior in high school; the baby, Shelby, is sixteen, a firecracker who’s boy crazy and barely passing her classes.