He closes the door and closes me out.
Tabby knocks briefly before walking in with an armload of ingredients. Her smile is broad at first but falls the moment she sees me.
“What’s up?”
“Zeke’s being weird again,” I say, helping her unload things onto the island.
She scoops up my cat and holds him in the air, bringing him down to boop their noses together.
“He does that. You just have to be patient with him,” she says with a sigh.
Figgy springs from her grip, running to the couch to lick his fur flat and reestablish his regal appearance. What I said in the car is even more true. How am I going to navigate Zeke without Tabby?
“I told him we were having a son. He reacted in the strangest way.”
Tabby freezes, her eyes sparkling with excitement, but then she nods.
“You’re sure you used the wordson?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m pretty sure.”
“All my brothers are super weird about the wordson. My dad calls them son when he’s about to kick the shit out of one of them. Zeke is especially triggered by it.”
The easy way she says it floors me. My parents used to scream obscenities at each other. Mom threw a cell phone at Dad’s head on multiple occasions, but never in any lifetime did either of them make a move to hurt me or my brother or sister.
I gape at Tabby, who’s begun pulling the husk off an ear of corn. She stops to look at me, her light eyebrows dipping in puzzlement. “What?”
“Your dad kicked the shit out of them? Zeke told me he was cruel, but I….” I trail out because I don’t know what to say to that. To how normal it seems to Tabby that her brothers were treated that way.
“Sometimes. Xan and Jet took the worst of it. Absorbed it so the rest of us didn’t have to. They think I don’t know.” She taps her forehead. “But I know. I’ve always known. Zeke was so much younger than them. He doesn’t remember a time when my dad wasn’t an abusive drunk. And Jason left before Zeke got old enough to fight back. I think that’s why he’s so… the way he is.”
“That’s horrifying.” The word is breathy, but with it comes so much clarity.
Zeke’s self-deprecating humour, the day his friend told him he’d be a terrible father, the way he has these intense moments, like he carries his emotions on a whip—the good and bad. The way he constantly hides his face with his hood or his hand.
I put my hand on my chest, physically aching for him.
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “I don’t know what it’s like to live in a normal, stable family. We did what we had to do, and we got through it. Xan and Jet made sure we got through it.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for a couple kids, though, isn’t it?” I don’t know why I’m pushing. I feel this intense need to make her admit how fucked up it sounds. How her coming across as nonchalant about her past is a huge problem. Part of me thinks she’s delusional. Part of me believes what she said.
“It is what it is, Nova.” She shuts me down, and I see her own defensive mechanisms kick in. The truth of it all slaps me straight in the face.
People do what they have to do to survive in whatever world they’re born into. Healthy, unhealthy, or downright destructive, we all find ways to cope.
How I had to twist and morph myself into my life are way different than Zeke, but at its core, there’s a small sliver of similarity.
The cardinal rule of both of our childhoods was the same: avoid drawing attention to yourself at all costs. That’s impossible, so when you bring attention, control it.
His jokes.
I run my fingers through my hair.
My aesthetic.
Control how people see you, and then they can’t hurt you.
I place my hand over my belly and think about this baby—our son.