Mikey and I sprawled together on his bed later that evening. It was dark outside, but not late. No longer apprehensive about arranging myself attentively toward him, I lay on my side while he rested on his back; my arm was slung loosely over his stomach.
"We don't last very long," he was saying. "You know, when we do stuff."
"Does that bother you?"
"No, not at all. It's normal, then?"
"I definitely wouldn't be concerned about it. We're still extremely excitable around each other, I think."
"So, what, we'll probably last longer later on?"
"Seems that way to me," I said. "Once we get used to it."
He smiled faintly. "Good thing we have all this time."
"Oh," I said. "I guess...yeah, well I'm sure we'll still hang out, even after I move."
"Right, yeah, I was thinking that, too. Okay."
I felt an immediate desire to continue with the thought, but Mikey changed the subject and it did not come up again.
Because I would be living out of town soon, Sunday-night dinners had taken on a new urgency among my mom's various machinations. The next evening I walked over in the rain and was fairly soaked by the time I arrived.
"Wyatt, where is your umbrella?" she demanded.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not sure if I have one." I crossed the living room and sat with my back to the wood stove. "I'll dry off here. It won't take long." I grinned at her. "Feels nice."
"Help your dad out and tend to that if it gets cold," she said, stepping back toward the kitchen. "Stephanie should be here soon. She probably hit traffic on the bridge. It's so unpredictable during the weekend."
I sat alone for a few minutes, glancing through news stories and texts before initiating a system update on my phone. As I left it on the floor next to me to conduct its business, my dad came down the hallway from the bedroom. He had likely been napping, his common practice in preparation for a merciless workweek. He managed a team of freight shipment laborers at the main harbor and, in his mounting age, had finally escaped most of the backbreaking manual loading and unloading. Meanwhile my mom worked an early shift in midtown as a PA, at a hospital a couple miles north of Mikey's neighborhood.
"Wyatt," he said, sinking into his chair, "put your old man's mind at ease. You're sure about your move?"
"I'm sure," I said. "It's official, anyway."
"You're feeling good about it?"
"Yeah, I am," I said. "I know it's the right thing for me."
"Well, that's what's important. You do what's right for you."
I nodded. My mom had clearly done a number on him. "What's going on at work?"
"Same as ever. We've caught up on everything since the labor strike. Upper-management is still breathing down my neck. They've been doing that for the last twelve years, though. They'll do it until the day I'm done. It's not so hard to ignore, these days."
I smiled. "I wish I could ignore that kind of thing."
"With time, you'll learn," he said, and then heaved a booming laugh of a duration too long to match the humor in his statement, a characteristic that I had grown to love about him, if only since leaving home.
I stood up and looked out the front window in time to see Stephanie's Camry pull up along the curb. She sprinted across the front yard in the rain and stamped her feet on the porch before opening the door.
"Hello, hello," she chanted upon entering. "I'm getting over a cold so don't touch me."
"Stay away," came my mom's disembodied voice.
Stephanie kicked off her boots and unwound her scarf. "Oh," she said, noting my position near the stove. "That fire, my savior." She hurried over to stand next to me, bending a little to massage the backs of her thighs.
I bumped my shoulder affectionately into hers.
"Knock me over, why don't you," she said.
"Mom, do you need help?" I asked, projecting my voice toward the kitchen.
"Yes, Mom, we can help you," Stephanie added.
"No. Almost done."
"Want to watch something, Dad?" she asked. "You look like a zombie."
My dad sat with his feet flat on the floor, hands cupped over the ends of the chair arms, staring blankly out toward the television, which was not turned on. He snapped back to alertness and looked up. "No thanks, Steph. Thinking about work. How was the drive?"
"Not that bad," she said. "Seems to go by faster when you're not in a hurry."
He smiled, acknowledging the sentiment. "Did you get that serpentine belt on yet?"
"No. I need someone to hold the tensioner loose while I take off the old one. I can't do both at once."
"I'll take a look after dinner," he said.
"I don't have the new belt with me, though. I left it at home."
"Alright, but it's got to get done soon. That old one isn't looking good and you don't want it to snap in traffic."
"I know, Dad. It's okay. I've got someone who can help me. I'll do it tomorrow."
Her voice took on an odd quality as she said this, prompting me to ask, "Who, exactly?"
She grinned. "None of your business."
"Oh my god, who?"
"I work with him," she reasoned, as if that would dispel my curiosity.
"Don't let him screw anything up," my dad warned. "Some guys just want to prove to you that they know their way around an engine. I promise you, they don't. Wyatt, are you listening?"
"Yes. Be suspicious of helpful men. Got it."
Stephanie laughed.
"You little weasel," he said. Again came his booming laughter.
"Come eat," yelled my mom.
