Page 6 of Holding On

"Andrew."

He glances up from his phone. "What?" He bites out the word, angry that she interrupted him.

She glares at him. "Never mind."

Even when they bicker, my parents remain civil to each other. They rarely raise their voices. But that doesn't mean they're in love. Their marriage is a business arrangement. They both thought it would benefit their careers to be married. It would make them appear stable. Dependable. And they assumed having a child would make them seem caring and responsible. But in both roles, as spouse and parent, they put forth little effort. Just enough to keep up appearances but nothing more.

"I don't need to eat," I say. "I'm not hungry."

"Ethan, don't be that way." She's angry about my mood, but how the hell does she expect me to act? I have a broken leg, an uncertain future, and three dead friends.

"You guys just go ahead," I say.

"We're not going without you. You have to eat. What have you been doing all these weeks for food?"

She asks me this now? I've been out of the hospital, living on my own, for six weeks. Did she even consider this before today? Has she even wondered how I'm doing?

My parents haven't been here since the accident. They came right after it happened and spent a couple days, then insisted they had to get back to L.A.

Weeks later, when I was released from the hospital, they said they'd help me move into the house, but then they never came, saying something came up at work, so I had to call Jackson to come help me. He lives four hours away and has a summer job but still managed to find time to drive down here and move me into this house. He got me some groceries, and when they ran out, he offered to drive back here and get me some more but I couldn't ask him to do that. I told him Coach has been taking me shopping, but that was a lie. I haven't spoken to Coach since he visited me in the hospital. So as for food, I've been ordering takeout from the pizza place down the street or the Chinese restaurant near campus.

My dad gets up from the chair. "Claire, if he doesn't want to go, we'll just bring him something back."

"Or you could make something," I say. "There's a grill out back."

They both stare at me, not sure if I'm kidding or being serious. Neither one of them cooks. They have a chef who comes to the house once a week and prepares meals that my parents can just heat and eat when they get home. But the meals usually don't get eaten because my parents eat out all the time with clients or business associates.

My mom gives me an unamused smile. "Very funny, Ethan. Now just tell us where you'd like to have dinner."

"How about The Chicken Shack?" I act totally serious but I'm just joking. There's no way in hell they'd ever go to The Chicken Shack. Personally, I love the place, which makes me wonder if maybe I was adopted. I'm not like either one of them. It wouldn't surprise me if my parents adopted me. I can't imagine my mom ever being pregnant. She's rail thin and has a panic attack if she gains a pound.

My dad knows I'm messing with them and dismisses me by checking his phone.

"What do you think, Mom?"

She shakes her head. "Anything with the name 'shack' in it is not a place I'm willing to eat."

I shrug. "It's just a name. The place itself isn't bad. And the food is really good. It's hand-breaded chicken."

"Let's try something else. What else do you like?"

Actually, now that I brought it up, The Chicken Shack sounds really good. I haven't been there for months and I wasn't kidding when I said they had good chicken.

"How about this little French restaurant on the other side of town?" My mom shows it to me on her phone. She was searching for restaurants while I was talking. It's rare that I have the full attention of my parents.

Taking her phone, I check out the restaurant. It must be new. I've never heard of it.

"It doesn't have a ramp. I can't get in."

My dad blows out a breath, annoyed with my wheelchair status, as if I'm inconveniencing him. Again, it pisses me off. Does he think I want to be in this chair? I fucking hate it. I'm hoping in a week or two I can convince the doctor to let me use crutches.

"Then where do you want to go?" Now my mom's annoyed with me. Actually, she's been annoyed with me since she got here. The messy house. My attitude. The fact that I'm stuck in a wheelchair.

Why these two even bothered coming here is beyond me.

"There's a steakhouse on the other side of town," I say, finding it on her phone. "I've never been there but I've heard it's good."

"Do they have more than steak?" my mother asks. She only allows herself red meat once a month so I'm assuming her comment means she's already met her monthly limit.

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