You look pleased with my contribution. “You know, if you ever need space from your pops, you can come on over. Anytime,” you say.

Randall said you were into us. But you probably liked us because we weren’t your problem. You probably didn’t even like us. You just didn’t mind us. But now you seem to actually like me because I’m an adult, but not the kind you feel you have to prove something to. “I live out of town,” I say.

You give an ah-ha nod, as if you had forgotten who I am and just now recalled a conversation with my dad, he standing on our driveway in work clothes, you on the edge of your yard, shirtless and sweaty for no good reason. 

“But thank you,” I say.

“And your baseball buddy?”

I must give you a funny empty look.

“He kind of looked like you actually. A good strong arm from what I saw.”

“He also left town,” I say looking off to the west hoping the sun will sear my eyes. The truth is, Randall could be anywhere. He wouldn’t say where he was going or if he’d come back.   

I finish my lemonade then tell you I need to use the bathroom. You tell me twice how to get there, but I’m pretty sure you give me two distinct sets of directions.  

The room you send me to on the second floor is not a bathroom. I push open the door and enter a bedroom with baby blue walls streaked with brush strokes and a strip of white just before the wall becomes ceiling. The blinds are tightly shut and only let in the slightest ray of light. At the far side of the room, a wooden desk cluttered in textbooks. At the foot of the bed, a dresser with a half cup of water on top. The bed neatly made. And tucked neatly into the bed, a boy—not a living, breathing boy. A wooden boy. Only his head and a little bit of neck showing. The sheets snug, revealing his trim physique. A fat lower lip and your drifty eyes; frustrated as if he’s having trouble falling asleep or waiting for something and has no idea what or who it is, or how long it will be. If only Randall were here!