Boy Who Has Everything

2

Slamming the door to the car shut, you turned and looked up at your dad's house. You hadn't been here since last year, and every year, it hit you with nostalgia just the same. Letting out a sigh, you felt warm and fuzzy even if the morning weather was fresh and cool. Not frigid, but the wind was definitely hitting your skin briskly.

The sound of footsteps behind you coming towards your direction was heard clear as day. You didn't need to look back to know it was your father, as you recognized it was him from the sound of his feet hitting the pavement.

"Beautiful morning, isn't it?" Your father told you as he was looking away from your house, and towards the sunrise in the distance. It must've been around five or six in the morning at this point from what you could tell from judging the sky alone.

"Yeah." You agreed as you saw the black fade into a more blue color. It truly was a gorgeous sight, it being incredibly appealing to the eye.

"Alright." Father began as he turned to looked down at you. "Let's get inside, shall we?" He said as he started towards the familiar burgundy front door of the house.

You followed along with him wordlessly. After he unlocked the front door and let it wide open, you saw the inside of the house itself. Nothing had changed since you saw it when you were fifteen and visited then. It was nice to see it all the same - comforting in a light. The same light yellow walls, the same wooden flooring with a rug your grandmother got him as a gift for the home one year during Christmas.

"Home sweet home, huh?" Said your father as he walked inside, putting the car keys in the bowl on the small table beside the door. "I'll get to getting you something to eat, yeah?"

Your gaze turned away from the yellow tinted light that your father flickered on and onto your father himself. "Um, yeah. I'd be down to eat."

"Alright. Your favorite as always, right?" Asked father as he walked towards the fridge to get the ingredients he needed. When he said that, you already knew exactly what he meant.

"Of course!" You said happily. Even if you were tired out of your mind, you were still ecstatic to finally be home. You never really considered the small Washington Heights apartment you, your mother and older brother lived in as your true home. It was always Brighton that you felt most welcomed.

"I'll get started on it right away, pumpkin." Said father.

"Make sure to cut out with the whole 'pumpkin' thing when we're in public, alright?" You managed to slip into the conversation. He had called you that nickname since you could remember, and now that you're a teenager, it did feel a bit infantalizing. Even if it came from a place of genuine adoration and love for his daughter, it still made you feel a bit like he was babying you.

"Yeah, right." Father replied sarcastically. "Not a chance, pumpkin."

Surprisingly, you weren't angry one bit. You were just happy to see your dad was all. Right now in this moment, he couldn't do anything wrong in your eyes. He was your father and you loved him unconditionally.

"I'm gonna go put my stuff in my room now." You said, gesturing to your backpack and suitcase.

"Of course! Text your friends while your at it." That last part hurt a bit to hear. If only he knew Amanda wouldn't answer you. "I'll call you back when your food's done."

"Okay." You replied, walking up to peck your father on the cheek. His five o'clock shadow was scratchy as always. The way your face scrunched up from feeling it always made him laugh afterwards. Even now, he was chuckling away.

After that small and kind interaction with your father, you walked up the carpeted stairs to your room. The old steps squeaking away as you climbed up them. If you didn't have the suitcase in your hands, you probably would've crawled up the stairs on all fours, Ethan Nestor-style. Even if your hands were free, you were too exhausted to do that right now. Maybe tomorrow.

You smiled when you saw the door to your bedroom labeled with a little chalkboard sign that had your name on it in scribbley writing. The swirly letters were clearly in your older brother's handwriting from eleven years ago. Turning around to the other side of the hallway, you saw the door to your older brother's bedroom with a chalkboard of his own. The words that spelled his name were messier. You wrote each other's names. He was fourteen and you were five at the time, so it's no wonder why your handwriting was horrid.

Turning the knob of your bedroom, the room lookedalmost identical to how it looked when you left last year back to New York. Maybe a little cleaner from your father coming in to dust it off and pick up the trash every now and then. You dropped your backpack onto the fuzzy carpeting below, your other hand letting go of the suitcase. Jumping into the mattress of your bed, you groaned as you landed. It wasn't uncomfortable, just sudden. You were laying on your stomach, eyes closed and mind wandering.

Eventually you opened them after a moment. You could see your desk with your rickety old wooden chair. The paint had been peeling for years, but now it just looks rough and in need of a touch up. Your eyes moved away from the boring old chair and onto what was on the desk in front of it. Your collection of paint bottles you had were running low and probably dry or goopy since you last used them. They were cheap acrylics anyway. The jet lag had finally caught up to you and your eyes were suddenly heavy and fighting to stay open and alert. Making a mental note to go stock up on paints at the art supply store, you closed your eyes once more and let out one more sigh before your dreams gave you a warm embracing welcome.

It was a calm and comforting dreamless sleep. Even the anticipation of what could happen this summer couldn't keep your mind wandering and awake anymore. Though you did sleep lots on the flight home, you still felt tired. Life was tiring and you needed a moment of rest. The rest was gifted to you in this quiet moment.