“Then why did you come? You think that he’ll leave you an inheritance?”

“Oh, he has. Just not the kind that’s worth anything.” An inheritance of bitterness.

“May I sit?”

“It’s your mother’s house.” I don’t move over until I realize he really intends to lower his bulk next to me. I squeeze against the wrought-iron railing.

He sits with a huff, as if even sitting is a form of exercise for the once-athletic Paul. “Hey, this is hard on all of us.”

“Why? Why would you think that?”

Paul tugs a little at his sweatpants, loosening the obvious constriction of his crotch. “I know things got weird back then, but that’s history. Old, old history.”

I twist my head to get a better look at him. “Some things are always present. I don’t care how many years go by.”

He turns his fat face to meet mine and for an instant I see the other boy, the thin, popular boy whose best friend was Ronnie Markham.

I remember Ronnie Markham even before my father married Adele, when we went to the annual Markham Motors Christmas party with my mother. Ronnie always seemed to be crying at those parties, overtired and oversugared. By the time we were in our teens, Ronnie had stopped crying and turned into a golden boy. Girls fluttered around him. Boys like Paul simply surrounded him, an uneven admiration society. I did neither. I hung in the shadows and nearly died anytime Golden Boy cast his eye on me, as accidental as it might have been, like my being in the sight line between Ronnie and the cool girls, the popular girls he dated. I was not worthy of notice, but, like all the other girls, I daydreamed that someday he might.

*   *   *

“Hey kid.” Ronnie Markham acknowledges my presence there in the kitchen and I feel like a god has spoken. In high school terms, he is a divinity, a god of sports. I am two years younger and tongue-tied. I grip a glass of milk and my hand trembles with the effort not to drop it. I blush, throw a look at Paul, who is oblivious as he ransacks the cupboards for snacks for himself and his buddy. Does he notice that Ronnie has spoken to me? Somehow validated my existence?

They disappear into the basement rec room, where they will play Ping-Pong, talk about girls, and drink endless Cokes. As he pushes past me, Paul gives me a fraternal shove, making me spill the milk down the front of my shirt. I am mortified, but Ronnie doesn’t seem to notice. I am already forgotten.

*   *   *

Ronnie Markham was the reason I plucked those damned eyebrows.

Paul turns his face away from mine. “Anyway, we’re here for Dad now.”

“Dad. Right.” My father, not yours. I have never called Adele “Mom.” The word would have burned a hole in my mouth.