Until You Feel At Home

Chapter Three

Brandon

He watched through her windshield as his mother put her cigarette in her mouth so she could free her hands to open the car door. He was surprised to see she'd been wearing a seatbelt. She was also wearing sweats and slippers, to match her exhausted expression. Debra Colter, previously Debra Bloomfield (before the divorce), never looked like a million bucks. But she looked especially exhausted that morning.

She slammed her car door and crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against her vehicle. She reached up with her two fingers to grab her cigarette and exhaled. Her brows furrowed and her expression was pained when her gaze dropped to her fuzzy shoes.

"Hey, Mom." Brandon said, loosening his hold on Simon and standing upright, now that the car was turned off..

"Hey, honey." Her voice wavered. He felt the slight urge to reach out and hold her, but it wasn't strong enough to actually make the move. He preferred to fold his arms across his chest.

"You doing okay?" He gave her a moment to respond, but she just swallowed audibly. "Are grandmom and grandpop alright?" He continued.

"They're fine, Brandon." He held his breath. "I just-" she let out a labored, unsteady breath. "I got a call about your dad." Relief filled him and he exhaled. As long as his grandparents were fine.

"What did he say?" He let Simon run towards the house, and stood.

"It wasn't a call from him. It was a call about him." She looked down at her slippers and shifted her weight. "He was in a car accident."

"Oh." Brandon said. The hair on his arms stood up. He knew where this was going. He had to be in horrible shape for someone to reach out to them. The updates about Pierce were few and far between. "Is he-?" He trailed off.

His mom looked back to Brandon and met his eyes. Suddenly her cheeks were red, and her eyes were watering. Brandon nodded. "Was anyone in the car with him?" He asked. His mom shook her head frantically. A knot was tying in his chest, and he had to work harder and harder to take a deep breath. "Why don't you come in for a cup of coffee?" He motioned to the house she'd grown up in. Her parents' house. She nodded silently.

She walked past him and made a beeline for the house. Typically he'd be panicked at the thought of her coming in with such short notice, but he wasn't feeling anything at all at the moment.

She entered and went right for the couch in the living room, and he followed. He grabbed a fire-starter from the bin next to his fireplace and tossed it in, making quick work of the few logs stacked on the mantle. He had a small fire crackling in just a few minutes. Mom liked cream in her coffee, but no sugar. He microwaved the cup before adding the milk, and gave it to her with a napkin. He thought it might double as a tissue. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, and stared into the fire.

"This place could use a deep clean, you know?" She said, quietly.

He sighed. "I know."

"My parents would hate to see their home like this."

"I can hire a cleaner."

She scoffed. "A cleaner from another town, I hope. I don't need Annie Holmes cleaning my parents house, and telling everyone what it's turned into."

"I'll hire a cleaner from another town." He muttered, feeling the heat on his nose and cheeks.

"I don't mind cleaning it for you."

"It's fine, mom. I'll take care of it." Silence filled the room as she picked at the flower design peeling off her mug. All he could hear was an unpredictable crackle from the fire, and the skip her nails made on the ceramic.

"Do you remember the last time you saw him?" She whispered.

"Only a little." He swallowed the foam forming in his mouth. "He saw us at the Food Mart and tried to talk to you in the parking lot. You told me to get in the car."

"Do you remember what I said to him then?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't hear much from the car." He lied. He could remember his mom's shouts like they happened that morning. You should have thought about your son before you chose her over me. Back then, he missed his dad. Back then, he blamed his mom. His view changed not long after, and stayed consistent ever since.

"Have you spoken to him lately?" She asked.

"No," he sighed, "He sent me a card after my high school graduation. I never opened it. I threw it right in there." He tilted his head toward the fireplace.

His mom sniffled, and he looked down at the carpet below him. He was suddenly aware of every fiber, every stain. "Maybe we should have been nicer to him." She whined. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You know," she continued, "maybe I shouldn't have kept him away from you."

"I was old enough to decide for myself. And I stand by my decisions."

She wiped her nose with the tissue. "Really? You don't have any regrets now that-" She paused, "Now that it's too late to change anything?"

"I don't regret a thing." He didn't not regret anything, either. He could barely feel his hands and feet. How could he feel regret?

His mother cleared her throat. "I still can't believe he left me for her."

"Well, it didn't work out anyways." Brandon replied, referring to Liz dumping him only months after their fling started.

"She hasn't changed one bit." He looked at her mascara-covered face in question. "She's the one who called me."

He shook his head in confusion. "She knew before us?"

"He wanted the daughter to know right away." Brandon scoffed, and averted his eyes again. Claire. The girl Pierce was all too happy to replace him with. He'd never met her, and he supposed their connection was severed now. "Does that bother you?"

He shook his head.

"Good." She replied. "Because, if it did, you would really hate what else I have to tell you."

Brandon felt the first emotion since reality set in: fear.