We Have Till Monday

He laughed. “You know I’m right. People over forty spend their days telling the younger generation to slow down. Someone’s in love? ‘Oh no, this ain’t the one—you’ll have plenty of time for that later.’ Or, ‘Take your time. It could just be a crush.’”

That was it. I was gonna sell my brother.

I scowled to myself and took a drag from my smoke.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t take the time to clear your head,” he went on. “In fact, that’s what I’ve already told you. But don’t dismiss the feelings either. That’s dumb.”

“You can be dumb,” I muttered.

He sucked his teeth. “On second thought, maybe you’re twelve.”

I flipped my fingers under my chin and left his messerschmitt ass behind.

The emptiness hit me for real when I got home and I’d talked to August, showered, and thrown myself on the couch with a beer and a bag of chips.

I’d promised August I’d get something to eat…

Chips were food, right?

I sighed and rubbed my jaw, feeling strange after having shaved for the first time in a week. Then I caught sight of the bracelet on my wrist, and I read the word over and over. Daddy. He’d said I was one too.

Fuck.

It was too quiet here. I stood up and grabbed the remote from the kitchen bar, then turned on the TV.

It took care of the silence, but it didn’t stop my thoughts from wandering. Throwing a handful of chips into my mouth, I glanced around my home and pictured August and Camden here. They might even like my kitchen. The only thing missing was some extra workspace. Nonna had told me to install an island between the kitchen and the stairs. There was plenty of room—for a table and chairs too. I’d just never gotten around to it. Money used to be tight, and I hadn’t cared enough. I ate at the bar or right here.

Next to the stairs, a narrow entryway lead to Nicky’s old bedroom, the guest bath, and the closet where I kept most of my instruments. I still hadn’t done anything with the bedroom, unless you counted loose plans to turn it into a larger storage area for my gear. Maybe Camden would have some ideas.

Before I could prevent it, a pipe dream of a future appeared right before my eyes. Camden would have his own room there. My instruments wouldn’t get their own space; they’d stay in the closet and in the small unit underneath the stairs. August and I would share my room upstairs. Perhaps we’d hang a lot of pictures on the walls.

I’d been meaning to put some up, but fuck, drilling into brick…

No more postponing that shit. I had plenty of photos from my stay in Nashville, and I’d bought the damn drill—oh, some six years ago. Tomorrow after work, I was gonna develop some photos and hang my family on the wall, including August and Camden.

Even if nothing happened with us in the end, I’d cherish my memories.

Cazzo, I missed them so much already.

“No running in the halls, kids,” I hollered.

Giggles and “oops” flooded the area outside of a classroom.

“Sorry, Mr. Fender!”

“Sorry, Mr. Fender.”

I waved it off and wished them a good choir practice, then ducked into my office where my lunch waited for me.

A Twizzler and a small bag of Doritos.

In my defense, I’d been too tired to prepare lunches after I got home last night, and I didn’t have the time to buy anything that didn’t come from the vending machine at the main entrance of the school.

My lack of time was also why I was spending my lunch break hiding out in my office. The plan had been to buy picture frames and develop some photos, but then I’d taken one look at my schedule for the week and realized it wasn’t gonna happen.

I was working too many hours.

If I was going to have the slightest chance at creating something with August and Camden, I needed to make room. Nicky had already shared a bunch of ideas, so I knew where to start.

I powered up my old computer and unwrapped my Twizzler.

A knock on the door was followed by Nicky poking his head in. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.”

He sat down on the other side of my desk and cut straight to it. “I talked to Gideon on the way back from Nashville—told him about what a second building could do for the Initiative’s future. How we could sign on more schools and hire more teachers.”

I raised a brow but kept my gaze on the empty document I’d opened.

For years, I’d been toying with the idea of offering online tutorials, starting out with children who—for one diagnosis’s reason or another—weren’t able to meet face-to-face. It could be crippling anxiety for someone with autism, or severe shyness for someone with a stutter. I’d worked with several of those kids before. But it didn’t have to be limited to students with special needs.