Page 90 of On the Beat

That, I won’t disagree with.

* * *

Dinner is a meatloaf and tuna casserole, with a side of green beans and broccoli. I hate green beans. River hates broccoli. When we were younger, we used to trade. Now, we just take what we want and leave the rest.

“So, have they dropped the charges against you yet, bro?” I ask between bites of broccoli.

“My lawyer’s working on it,” he says, his voice tight. “The piece thatFBLApublished should probably help me, though.”

I don’t want to flinch at the mention of the article. But I do. Just inwardly, my throat spasming as I nearly choke on my food.

River looks at me like he’s latching onto my weakness and trying to figure me out. We used to know each other better than this. Now, we don’t know each other at all, except for what we read in the news.

“That’s good to hear,” Mom says, clearing her throat. “Ryder, drink something or you’ll never stop coughing. Here.”

She pours me some sweet tea like I’m still a child. I take it and drink it, ignoring River’s disdainful look. He’s the one who’s been living with our parents for the past three months, so I think I have the upper hand in the maturity department.

“Funny,” River says. “I almost thought you were going to say something, Ryder. Like how you’re the reason that I have these charges against me in the first place?”

“What are you trying to say?” I finish my tea, the sugar sickeningly sweet. “You’re trying to accuse me of what–messing with your business?”

“Boys,” Dad says. “No fighting at the table.”

“We’re not fighting,” we both say at the same time. It might almost be funny if I didn’t see the pure, unfettered malice in my brother’s eyes.

“You’ve never respected my business.”

“I gavemoneyto your business. Too bad it turned out to be a scam.”

River bites down on his meatloaf, chewing like he’s trying to keep from spitting more words—or food—at me. “You don’t even know what I’ve been through.”

“Then why didn’t you tellme, instead of telling a journalist?” I say finally. Instead of duking it out in the backyard like we used to, we’ve grown so distant that we have nothing to say to each other except through mediators like the press.

River says nothing, shoveling more meatloaf into his mouth. We continue our dinner in silence, until I stand up and say I’m going to do the dishes since River set the table.

“Thank you for volunteering to do the dishes, Ry,” Mom says. “But that won’t be necessary. Your dad said he would wash up.”

I frown. My mother never passes up a chance to make me do anything. Something must be wrong. “Why?”

“Oh, I guess he’s just being nice.” She pats the seat next to her on the sofa and flicks off the TV with the remote, which my dad always calls the clicker. “Come have a seat. I want to talk to you about something.”

An uneasy feeling swells in my abdomen, climbing up my ribcage. “Okay.”

“Your father and I have been very worried about you. Living all by yourself in L.A…. I mean, it was one thing when you were dating Skye. But now that you and Poppy aren’t even speaking, and Skye is married to… whatever his name is, Leo, I just don’t know how you’re doing. You haven’t called home in a long time. Not since your last birthday. It just feels like you’re slipping away from us.” Her shoulders slump, and her voice sounds like she might break into a sob at any moment.

“Mom…” How do I tell her about Isla? What we had, and what we lost?

“I just… wish I could see all my children happy again. But lately, Poppy has been so busy looking for work. Did she tell you she got fired fromLa Mode? And River had this drug problem, and now he’s been arrested, and I just… Oh, Ryder, when you have children, you’ll understand. It’s a parent’s worst nightmare, really.” She dabs at her eyes with a tissue.

I pat her on the shoulder, unsure of what else to do. My mom usually gets misty-eyed over graduation photos or home videos of us taking our first steps. Not… not this. Not talking about her disappointments over how we’ve turned out.

“It feels like I don’t know you anymore, Ryder. We used to be so close. Like this.” She twists two of her fingers together. “Now…”

“Mom,” I say again, clearing my throat. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“I’m your mother. I’ll always worry about you.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s my responsibility to see the three of you settled.”

I try to understand what she means by settled. Settled with stable careers? With happy marriages? With children? Settled, the way you settle for second-best when you can’t get first place?

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