Before he did something stupid like drive away, Matt opened the door and stepped out. Just as his parents made it to the porch, he called out, “Mom! Dad!”
His mom whipped around in his direction. His dad’s movements were a little slower as he held onto the railing and turned. His mom’s hand went to her mouth and Matt knew it was shaking. Knew she was crying because he hadn’t seen them in years.
Not knowing what else to do, he shrugged and stepped around the car. “Surprise.”
That was when his mom came running for him. She leaped into Matt’s arms. He made an umpf sound but caught her as she hugged him and cried into his neck.
Guilt and regret made a lethal cocktail inside of him as he held his mom and stared at his dad who stood on the porch watching them.
“You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here,” she said softly against his skin as his dad smiled at him.
He let her down and she turned toward the house. “Rusty, Matt is here!” She opened her arms and hugged him again.
“I think he can see that, Ma. Can you see me, Dad?” he called, trying to keep the mood light.
“Where is he, Jolene? I can’t see him!” he called back and his mom pulled away and swatted Matt’s arm.
“That’s enough, you two.”
“Hey.” He rubbed where she hit, pretending it hurt. “Why’d you hit me? He said it.”
“You started it. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” She grabbed his hand and began dragging him toward the house. Matt hit the lock button on the key fob just as they made it to his dad.
“It was a last-minute thing. I just decided I needed a short trip so I figured it would be a nice surprise.”
“Nice? It’s the best surprise.” She gave his arm one more squeeze.
He and his dad looked at one another awkwardly, as though neither of them knew what to do. The truth was, they didn’t. It was his dad who made the first move, giving Matt a small nod before he said, “It’s good to see you, son.”
They wouldn’t hug. That wasn’t how they were so Matt just returned the nod and replied with, “It’s good to see you too.”
His mom reached toward his dad to help him but then pulled back as though she thought better of it. He didn’t like to show any weakness. Matt knew the cane was bad enough for him. He wouldn’t want to accept help in front of anyone, so he used the railing and his cane to hobble up the three steps.
“We should get you guys a ramp,” Matt said without thinking.
“I don’t need a ramp. It’s fine.”
“I’ve been telling him that for months. It would make things much easier,” his mom said as she unlocked the barred screen door before unlocking the main door next.
“I’m fine,” his dad gritted out for the second time. It was on the tip of Matt’s tongue to say that he wasn’t, that it was okay to have help but he didn’t want to fight with him.
They made their way into the kitchen. His father sat in one of the chairs as his mom asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink. “No thanks. The place looks good.” He let his eyes roam the kitchen. The wallpaper was gone with a fresh coat of paint now applied.
“Because of you. I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you.” She sat at the table. It was a dark, almost cherry wood, small and square with four chairs around it.
“You don’t have to repay me. You guys supported me for eighteen years. It’s the least I can do.” They’d worked their ass off for him. They’d tried to indulge his desire for music and arts, even when it set them back. Even when the things he wanted were like a foreign language to them. Things they couldn’t understand their son wanting.
“That’s what parents are supposed to do. That’s not what their children should have to do.” She looked down and he knew she felt guilty for not being able to give Matt the things she felt he’d deserved. Growing up, he felt similar guilt for wanting things that were so different from what his family had. For wanting things like Oliver, Miles, and Chance had. For feeling so fucking out of place in his own skin and his own home.
“Anyway,” she shook her head, “is that what you’re in town for? Work? I still can’t believe it. Can’t believe what my boy has accomplished.”
Remorse spread through him like a Southern California brush fire. How sad was it that he gave them no reason to feel like he would come home for anything other than work? Work that he didn’t want, work that he’d begun turning down. Work that every time he did it—made his pulse race and his vision swim and his hands shake.