Chapter 3: Christmas Dinner Rain Check

Justin adjusted his necktie in the mirror. He hated wearing a tie, but for as long as he could remember, it had been an unspoken tradition that everyone dressed up for the Holmes family's Christmas dinner.

He crossed his bedroom to his window. The sun had set, and the street was lit up by Christmas lights in addition to the usual, dirty glow of the streetlights. One of those streetlights was situated directly outside the window of his second-floor bedroom. It sometimes flickered weirdly, and it buzzed so loudly at night that you could hear it from inside, even through double-paned glass.

Justin's grandpa had once told him that the houses in this neighborhood had all been built by an old, rich guy who had predicted the hilltop's valuable access to the businesses on Main Street. That seemed like a funny concept these days, given Main Street's empty storefronts and revolving door of tenants. Grandpa Holmes called it a "rust belt" town. Or he had, anyway. He couldn't talk much since the stroke.

Justin turned back from the window. He looked around his bedroom, at the bed and the nightstand with his old-fashioned clock radio-always better at waking him up than his phone's alarm. At his TV and his PlayStation on his dresser. At his iPad on his desk and his backpack beside it. At the posters on his wall, the push-pinned yearbook photos of his friends, and the taped newspaper cuttings from some of his highest-scoring basketball games.

He looked at it all, and without warning, something deep inside rose up and said, You should just tear it all down. Put it in the trash where it belongs.

No, he thought. That's crazy. This is my life. My memories. It's all...

Pointless. All of it. It's all pointless.

He tried to squash the feeling, but the best he could do was relocate it. He looked at his phone again, at the message from Kate: "Hey. Merry Christmas. Missing you today." What was he supposed to say to something like that?

He tossed his phone onto the bed and looked at his reflection again. The tie and dress clothes felt all wrong. It felt like make-believe. Like polishing a cheap knockoff. Their Christmases had always been good. Truly good. How could he even pretend that today compared, after everything that had happened?

He loosened the tie and ripped it from his neck. His fingers couldn't unbutton the shirt fast enough. He threw it over his head. When his belt got stuck in the belt loops, he yanked it out and flung it across the room into the corner, and the buckle gouged the drywall. Angrily, he grabbed the jeans and T-shirt he'd been wearing earlier and changed back into them.

"Justin?"

Zipping up his jeans, Justin craned his neck toward the bedroom doorway where he had a clear view down the stairs to the first floor of the house. At the bottom of the stairs, his father sat in his chair. He wore a sweater vest and tie. His hair was perfect.

"You... all right?" Ben asked.

"Fine," Justin said.

Ben's glasses were halfway down his nose again. This time, he pushed them up to the bridge to look at Justin through them. "Uncle Paul just called," he said. "They're on their way, but they'll be a little late. Wanna help me finish that model ship?"

Justin shook his head. "If they're going to be late, I'd better give the driveway another once-over," he said.

"Nah, the driveway's fine," said Ben. "You don't have to-"

"I know that," Justin cut in, still riding the wave of frustration. "But if I don't do it, it's not like anybody else is going to..."

Ben's nostrils flared a little. He leaned forward in his chair.

"That's not what I..." Justin said. "You know I didn't mean it like-"

"I know things have not been easy, Justin," said his father.

"Dad, you know I didn't-"

"No," Ben said with uncharacteristic sternness. "That's enough. I know things are hard right now, so I've done my best to try to be understanding about the occasional slamming door. I've tried to keep my mouth shut about all these drives you take in the truck that you won't tell me about, because I know you need your space to deal with what happened in your own way. But you can't. Keep. Doing this."

"Dad, listen-"

"You listen. If you're pissed at me about something, we can argue-we can have a fight. Stay here, and we'll fight. If you need to yell at me, stay here, and let's have a yelling match for God's sake, but you don't get to just storm out of the house and leave me here every time something makes you a little upset. Problems aren't solved like that. Running away won't work the way you think it will. You're not a child. Your actions have consequences-"

"I know that!" Justin snapped.

It came out much more loudly than he'd meant to, and Ben drew back a bit. Soberly, Justin realized a threshold had just been crossed. He had never yelled at his dad like that before. But instead of getting angry, Ben smirked a little.

"Good," Ben said evenly. "Now we're getting somewhere." The oven timer went off in the kitchen, and Ben pivoted his wheelchair. "Come downstairs when you're ready," he said. "I'll be in the kitchen. I will listen to you yell at me for as long as you want. Anything, if it will keep you here."

Justin opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn't sure what to say as Ben used his hands to wheel himself back through the living room, which was currently the dining room. Then Justin put his phone into his pocket and headed down the stairs.

He hesitated. For a moment, he just stood there, looking down the hallway, listening to the clatter of pots and pans as his dad finished up dinner. Then he turned, and he walked toward the front door.

Quietly, he pulled his boots on, wrenching hard on the laces to tie them and clenching his teeth, already angry at himself for his decision. And angry at his dad for always being right. And angry at Uncle Paul for being dumb enough to bring Grandpa over in this weather just because it was Christmas. Angry at the whole world for reasons he couldn't decide on right now.

He grabbed his coat and pulled it on. He gripped the doorknob, looking at his mother's green jacket on the coat rack for about the thousandth time. He always tried not to look at it. But he always looked. And it made his stomach hurt every time. He balled his hands into fists. Now there was a reason to be angry if there ever was one.

He opened the door and stepped outside. At the sound of the door, his father yelled down the hallway, "Justin? Wait, Jus-!"

Justin slammed the door behind him and marched out into the snow.