Page 9 of When The Rain Falls

“I ran into something,” I tell him. Well, I tell the magazine cover in front of his face.

“Something with teeth?” he quips. I blow a long trail of air out from my nostrils. Fucking hell. I came over to help my mom install a shelf in the living room and my parents have done nothing but harass me since I got here.

"Shelf’s crooked," he announces. I back up to examine my work and nearly trip over a toolbox. I measured and re-measured this damn shelf multiple times before I screwed it onto the wall as my dad gave helpful suggestions from his spot in the chair. There's no way it's crooked.

"How’sthatcrooked?" I ask, pointing to the shelf. "It's damn near perfect."

"The left side is too high," comes his quick response. His face is still buried in his catalog.

This shelf is the latest in a long, long list of home improvement projects my mom's taken up since she and Dad both retired last year. Mom was a part-time high school teacher. Now she's a full-time busy body who dabbles in redecorating her home and meddling in my business. I swear that she only takes on these home improvement projects so she can ask for my help and keep an eye on me.

"Don't listen to him," Mom says as she steps into the sunken living room. "He can't even find the ketchup in the fridge." She comes to stand beside me. "It looks great. Five stars." She beams in my direction. Five stars. That's what she used to say to us in grade school. When I hit a solid grounder at a ball game, or got a good grade on a test, or brought home the world's ugliest art projects, it was always five stars. I'm not sure what it would take to get less than a five star rating, because that's never happened once in Hudson family history. She’s my biggest fan. But also, the biggest pain in my ass.

"Believe her if you want. But it's crooked," my dad repeats, putting down his magazine. He watches me behind thick, grey eyebrows. Dear God, I better not have eyebrows like that when I'm his age. I blow out an exasperated breath at him.

Twelve-year-old Vivian bounds into the room. Her long hair floats around her head as she lands on the overstuffed, floral couch with a bounce. Two lanky legs contort into a pretzel as she settles into a cushion and pulls a pillow across her chest. She has Laurel's eyes with their delicate, almond shape and rich caramel color. She has me to thank for everything else.

"Are there any more cookies? I'm starving,” she asks.

Everything, including her bottomless stomach.

"You're always starving," I retort as I grab the level from my dad's toolbox. I set it on the shelf and the little bubble floats to one of the black marks. Ok,fine. The shelf is off. But just barely.

"Finn, are you feeding the girls enough?" Mom asks. "Vivian looks so skinny. Vivian, what did you have for breakfast?"

"Viv, tell your grandma that I feed you or I'll never hear the end of it," I mutter. I unscrew one side of the shelving unit and readjust it.

"He feeds us. But that doesn't mean it's edible. He burnt your casserole last week. And his cooking is borderline child abuse." Vivian throws her head back in feigned drama.

"You didn't say that when you were scarfing down my pancakes, you brat," I scold her playfully. I can’t fault the kid. She hasn’t said anything that’s not true. Cooking is not my strong suit. I blame it on the fact that messes make me twitchy. And it’s nearly impossible to cook without making a mess.

I can stand up in a courtroom full of people and argue logic and reason until my voice goes hoarse. I can look jurors in the eye and convince them, with very minimal glaring, that my client is entitled to half a million dollars. And sure, my partner Rebecca might be right that my success might justhappento coincide with how many women are on the jury. The point is, in the courtroom, I get excellent results. In the kitchen, not so much.

"Finn," my mom goads me. "Didn't you see my reheating instructions on the casserole? Next time I'll use a Post-it note. You’ll probably lose that, too. Oh, for Pete’s sake, I’ll just have to come over and cook it for you." I try not to roll my eyes. If Mom had her way, she’d be at my house every day, taking over the goddamn place. Last time we had family dinner, I caught her swapping out the utensil drawer for the oven mitt drawer.

"Ididsee your instructions,Ma, " I mutter. "You just underestimate my ability to burn things." Burning things is my specialty. Meals, my career, my life, etc.

"Well, sweetheart," Mom says, turning to Vivian, "you can have all the cookies you want. I'll pack the rest for you to take home." Vivian's eyes light up as she bounces off the couch and races for the kitchen. I try not to groan at the idea of bouncing, spritely Vivian with half a dozen cookies in her system. I might stop by the track and make her run laps on the way home.

I finish up the shelf and stand back to admire the result. I look to Dad for the verdict. But he’s moved on to something else.

“What’s going on with the bar complaint?” he asks, eyeing me critically.

I sigh and start organizing tools in the tool box in front of me. “Not sure yet.” A couple months ago, I lost my cool in a courtroom and it resulted in a bar complaint. It was all a big misunderstanding, but the misunderstanding has to work its way through the system, apparently.

"Oh, never mind that. Tell us about last night,” Mom cuts in. She’s practically rubbing her hands together. Jesus. It’s a firing squad this morning. “Did you meet anyone nice?” Her voice is expectant. A nauseating smile spreads across her face. I can't wait to deflatethatobnoxious hope.

Before I can answer, she continues. "Did you get along with Brook? Her family goes to our church. They're the nicest people."How did she know about Brook?Something hot trickles up my esophagus. The way she's grinning expectantly at me, I can only assume the whole thing was her idea. I feel a little guilty for the way I blew off Tyler now.

"Oh, just tell me already," my mom scolds.

"I said hi," I tell her. "And that was it."

And then I had a temper tantrum at the bar.

Mom's face drops in disappointment and she sighs. I know she just wants me to be happy. But fuck, she's just like everyone else. Everyone wants me to move on. They can't wait to brush the ugliness of loss under the rug and pretend it doesn't exist. But it exists for me. Every fucking day.

"Finn, dear, you need to start going out more,” she says with a gentle scold. "You need to go with Tyler to bars. You need to meet a nice girl.” If I don’t stop rolling my eyes, I might strain them.

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