For people like Chet, living month to month, vacations are not a luxury but a liability. What if his roof springs a leak or he needs a new refrigerator? Any money left over at the end of the month should go into an emergency fund, and Chet’s question was rhetorical. He can’t pay for a Disney vacation. He shouldn’t.

Chet sighs. “And then the rent came due and I couldn’t make my share, and there was that cookie jar full of cash, just sitting there on the counter...” His words dissolve into a shrug.

“Chet. You didn’t.”

“What? Half of it was mine anyway, and I was going to put her half back as soon as I found another job. I’m gonna pay her back. I just need for her to give me a minute.”

This is the part where I’m supposed to reach for my wallet, to offer up some cash he’ll never spend a second thinking about repaying. Chet pauses, waiting. I press my lips together and say nothing.

He sighs. “Honestly, Char, in this weird-ass way, it feels like maybe the universe is giving me a sign. I mean, that mechanic thing felt like something I just fell into, you know? I’m decent at it, but it’s not what I love to do. Maybe it’s time for me to branch out. To find my passion.”

A mechanic, a concrete pourer, a leaf blower, a valet, a window washer. Chet changes jobs like other people change out their toothbrushes. I try to be supportive, but he’s running out of new professions to try.

“What’s your passion?” I say, my voice dubious. Sometimes I wonder how we’re related. All I’ve ever wanted out of life is stability, but Chet seems to thrive on upheaval.

His gaze roams the kitchen, landing on the cup of coffee in his hands. “Okay, but you gotta promise not to laugh.”

“I promise.”

“I’m serious, Charlie. Not so much as a snicker.”

“I promise, Chet. Now tell me.”

“Fine. Okay.” A pause, his gaze wandering away from mine, then sticking. “I think I want to be a chef.”

At the thought of food, my mouth waters, and a stab of hunger slices through the acid churning in my empty stomach. I think of last night’s dinner, shrimp stir-fry I was too excited to eat much of, and the oatmeal I just stuffed down the drain. I need food, and fast, and Chet’s taste buds are like mine. He likes things deep-fried and smothered in cheese.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? I like to cook.”

“I know you do.” I smile across the kitchen at my baby brother. “You can start by making me an omelet.”

11