1 Chapter 1

1

Ah, Sunday nights.

Dinner with my parents. Laundry. Routine.

Bored, I leaned back against the washer and checked the time on the dryer again. With nothing to do, I automatically slipped my phone out of my jeans, but then tucked it back into my pocket. Hadn’t I promised myself I’d reduce the time I spent on social media and read a little more?

Determine to stick to my word, I picked up the box of fabric softener and read the instructions.

Fascinating stuff.

“Honey?” My mother Joyce stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and a tense look on her face. “You don’t have to hide out in the laundry room. You know the machine beeps when it’s done.”

Yes, I knew this fun fact. “No, I’m fine. They’re almost dry, anyway.”

She hesitated, her blue eyes studying me with a hint of annoyance, but remained in the door. My mother was a retired architect and usually didn’t do casual, but tonight she looked dashing in her black jeans and button-down white shirt. “You know how your brother is,” she said. “Vincent gets excited about money. I mean, it’s his passion. He can’t help himself.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not offended.” I was used to my brother’s somewhat condescending attitude with me. It was just Vincent’s way. He was ten years my senior and liked to pick on me from time to time.

“Oh, Micah, you brother adores you. And Dad’s real proud of what you’ve accomplished in the last few years.” Whenever my mother mentioned my modest success, I felt like I was four years old again, bringing home a dry macaroni necklace.

My father and brother argued that with my managerial skills, I should be running a small or medium size company, instead of a coordinating a bunch of volunteers from my two-bedroom downtown apartment. They simply didn’t get it. I helpedpeople. I was my own boss. Could work in my pajamas if I chose to. I managed my own schedule. All that freedom and meaningfulness was worth being broke, and yes, often exhausted.

I picked up my empty gym bag. “It doesn’t bother me, okay? I love what I do.” But I couldn’t tell her that lately, I was afraid I’d bitten off more than I could chew. That maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t going to succeed in non-profit.

“What about retirement? You don’t have any investments or savings.”

“Mom, I’m twenty-nine years old. And anyway, by the time I’m your age, we’ll all be trading in bitcoins, swapping secondhand clothes, and living in homes made out of plastic bottle bricks. So don’t worry.”

“That’s nonsense. Complete nonsense.” As usual, my mother didn’t get my humor. “Vincent could help you with your financial portfolio. And it would make him feel good about himself. He’s been downhearted since his divorce.”

My older brother Vincent was an investment broker. “I’ll think about it, okay?” I said dismissively. I had approximately forty-two dollars to invest.

“All right. All right,” Mom said, walking in. She popped open the dryer. “These are done.”

Together we unloaded my week’s provision of clothes and I tossed shirts and pants inside my bag. “Thanks for dinner and everything. The superintendent says he’ll have new machines installed in our building next week.”

“Yeah, he said that last week, didn’t he? Why don’t you just move out of that decrepit building already?”

Decrepit? Ouch. I pushed everything down into the bag and struggled with the zipper, then threw the bag over my shoulder. “You know, some people actually travel across the world to visit my neighborhood.” I lived in Montreal, in the famous Quartier des Spectacles. The theater district.

“It’s so noisy. All those festivals. So full of tourists. I don’t know how you sleep.” She pointed at my bag. “Your shirts will be wrinkled.”

“It’s okay. They’ll match my pants.”

“Micah.” Mom sighed sharply. “Can’t you ever take anything seriously?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Because, yes, I took things seriously. Probably too seriously most of the time. Didn’t she know that?

“All right. Don’t get tense.” She combed her fingers through my ash blond hair. “You need a haircut.”

“Actually, I like my hair this length. I can part it to the side and go for the classy look.” I demonstrated this to her. “Or I can do the whole I just got out of bed look.” I messed up my hair. “See?”

“Yeah, well,” Mom said, probably noticing my tense expression, “you’re gorgeous either way.”

I didn’t know what to do with that compliment, so I stuffed it under all of her disguised insults or criticism. “Thanks.”

She leaned in and kissed my forehead. “I’m just overly protective of my baby boy, you know that.”

Protective, and yet, she’d hurt me a little in the last minutes. But she couldn’t see it. And I couldn’t tell her.