Chapter 2 - The Frostbite of Reality
The snow was coming down in thick, blinding sheets as I walked down the stone driveway toward my car.
Before I could even put the key into the lock of my six-year-old Honda Civic, the front door behind me slammed open so hard the storm glass shuddered against the brick siding.
“Aiden! Stop right there! Aiden!”
It was Aunt Sarah. She had run out onto the porch without a coat, her red knit sweater fluttering in the sub-zero wind. Behind her came Luke, still holding his shiny new iPhone, holding it out as if he were trying to capture my face in the streetlights.
“Are you out of your mind?” Sarah screamed, stumbling down the porch steps into the calf-deep snow. Her suede slippers turned dark and sodden instantly. “What did you just say to me? What did you say about my rent?”
I didn’t turn around. I unlocked the driver’s side door, opened it, and dropped the heavy messenger bag onto the passenger seat.
“Aiden, come on, man!” Luke yelled, trotting down the steps after her. The snow was blowing into his hair, but he wasn’t looking at the weather. He was staring directly at the leather bag sitting on my passenger seat. “What are you doing? Clara’s crying in there! You just ruined Christmas over a stupid mug? It was a joke, bro! Mom made a joke!”
I turned and stood between them and my car door. My hands were deep in my coat pockets. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn't tremble. I was twenty-seven years old, six feet tall, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was actually taking up space in the world instead of shrinking to fit into their margins.
“A joke?” I asked.
“Yes! A damn joke!” Sarah barked, her lips already turning a pale, bruised blue from the freeze. “You’ve always been so sensitive! We get you something practical, something you can use at work, and you throw a temper tantrum like a spoiled brat! Hand over the envelopes, Aiden. Don’t do this to your mother on the holidays. She’s sick with worry about the heating bill!”
“The heating bill?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh that puffed out as white steam in the freezing air. “Sarah, I paid the gas company six hundred dollars two weeks ago so Mom’s furnace wouldn’t get shut off. I paid Luke’s car insurance last month because he said he’d lose his retail job without a ride. And you... you haven’t paid a single dime toward your landlord since last January.”
“That was a loan!” Sarah shrieked, her voice cracking as the wind whipped her hair across her face. “Family helps family! That’s what we do! You have a corporate job! You make tech salary! What are you going to do with all that money anyway? Hoard it like a miser while your own flesh and blood freeze?”
“Sarah,” I said, looking her dead in the eyes. “You’re fifty-two years old. You wear cashmere sweaters and drink thirty-dollar pinot noir while I eat canned tuna in a studio apartment so I can cover your delinquent notices. It was never a loan. You never intended to pay back a single cent.”
Luke stepped closer, his chest puffed out under his down jacket. “Hey, don’t talk to her like that. She’s your elder.”
“And you’re my brother,” I replied, shifting my gaze to Luke. “Where did Mom get the cash for your iPhone, Luke? Where did she get the two grand for Clara’s MacBook?”
Luke hesitated. For half a second, his eyes flickered down to the snow. “She... she saved it up. She worked extra shifts at the florist.”
“The florist pays twelve dollars an hour,” I said flatly. “She works twelve hours a week. That doesn’t buy Apple products, Luke. It doesn’t even cover the interest on her debt.”
The front door opened again. Mom stood on the threshold, wrapped in a thick wool shawl. Her face was flushed red, tears leaking down her powdered cheeks. She looked smaller from here, but the weaponized helplessness in her posture was as familiar as my own heartbeat.
“Aiden,” she wailed across the snowy yard. “Please. Bring them inside. Don’t embarrass us in front of the neighbors. If you’re upset about the mug, I’ll find something else! Clara has some bath soaps from Sephora she hasn’t opened yet! We can trade!”
A bath soap. Re-gifted scraps from Clara’s vanity.
That was what I was worth to them. The family pack mule who carries the water, fed on the peeling crusts of bread while the thoroughbreds ate grain out of silver buckets.
“Keep the mug, Mom,” I said, loud enough to carry through the falling snow. “And keep the soaps. You’re going to need them.”
I slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut.
*Click.*
Before I could turn the ignition, Sarah lunged forward and slapped both palms against my driver’s side window. Her mouth was contorted into a snarl of pure panic. “Aiden! Aiden, open this door! The rent is due on the first! The eviction notice is on the fridge! Aiden!”
Luke grabbed the door handle and yanked on it, but the lock held firm. He hammered his fist against the tempered glass. “Don’t you dare drive off! You owe us this! You promised!”
I didn’t look at either of them. I turned the key. The Honda’s engine coughed, turned over, and settled into a low, steady idle. I shifted into reverse, tapped the horn once to clear them from my blind spot, and backed down the driveway.
In the rearview mirror, Sarah fell to her knees in the slush, screaming something that was lost to the wind. Luke stood over her, his phone raised, recording my taillights as they disappeared into the white-out storm.
I drove until the streetlights gave way to the gray expanse of the interstate. My hands were steady on the steering wheel, but my breathing was shallow. On the passenger seat, the leather messenger bag sat untouched. Twelve thousand dollars. My freedom. My self-respect.
Then, my dashboard console lit up.
*Incoming Call: Clara.*
*Declined.*
*Incoming Call: Mom.*
*Declined.*
*Text from Luke (10:14 AM): You’re dead to me. You broke Mom’s heart. Hope you choke on that money.*
*Text from Aunt Sarah (10:16 AM): If the sheriff comes on Friday, I am telling everyone in town what kind of monster you are. You signed that lease as a guarantor, Aiden. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE.*
I stared through the sweeping windshield wipers. The words on Sarah's text burned into my mind: *You signed that lease as a guarantor.*
A cold sweat broke out under my collar. Three years ago, when Sarah had nowhere to go after her divorce, I had co-signed her lease. I had forgotten. I had assumed, foolishly, that she had removed my name after the first year.
May you like
I pulled into the parking lot of an empty, snow-covered rest stop, slammed the gear into park, and pulled out my laptop. It was time to see exactly how deep the parasite’s teeth had sunk into my bone.
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