Y

24: Sunday Breakfast

24: Sunday Breakfast

I take the rest of the week off. The next time that I see anyone who isn't my parents or Graham is on Sunday for breakfast. Benny makes an appearance, and I'm not surprised—Dad has been pushing for family since Byron died, wanting to wrap himself up in a pretend world where his family is perfect, smiling all of the time, that the big gaping hole marked for Byron doesn't even exist anymore.

I get dressed on Sunday. I leave my room with washed hair and a moisturized face. I try on Sunday—it's what my Mom had been hoping for, not having expected for me to have taken a massive step backwards from one news story, and I'm hit with the fact that she doesn't really know me in the way that a mother knows her daughter—wearing a clean pair of jeans and a sweater that doesn't smell or have marks from makeup on it. Dad pauses at the sight of me walking down the stairs to open the front door when it knocks—wanting to capture this moment in time, when the hermit actually opened the door and adventured outside.

Graham has already arrived with Hilton—Mom had almost cried at the sight of them returning, of knowing that this tradition was still going to continue, Byron or no Byron—the both of them trying to see how many strips of bacon they can fit into their mouth at any one time. Dad's discouragement stopped the moment Graham started choking on his seventh—leaving the pair to their own devices, with the ambulance on standby the moment one of them fall into a cardiac arrest.

There's conversation and there's laughter, all of the usual on goings, and a small part of me expects for Byron to lean over the barrister and order all of us to be quiet so he can go back to sleep, as the hours he manages to get are few are far between. When I open the door, it sinks in that things aren't the same, that Byron won't ever do anything ever again, our Sunday breakfast routine will always be different—and the starling reality of it stares me in the face when I blink back at Fred standing on my doorstep.

"You could look a little happier to see me," he admonishes, scratching at scruff on his neck—though I have no idea who told him it would be a good idea to start as it's highly irregular and barely past the stage of being peach fuzz—looking very out of place on my doorstep, and I struggle to remember a time he's ever been to my house in any other setting—drawing up blank with the realisation that he hasn't. That he's Charlie's friend, and this is forbidden territory that isn't allowed to be explored—and I am conflicted on whether or not I should feel relieved that I haven't been the one to break another rule.

"I—" I come up short, unsure of the best way to continue. The truth is that I'm not happy to see Fred—not really, not at all, not in any dimension—but I can't say that to him, not when it's so blatantly obvious to me that he came here on a skateboard and I can't just send him back home now. "Sorry," I apologise, shaking myself out of my stupor, "I'm a little out of it. Did you want to come in? The foods ready."

Fred looks smug at this fact, dipping his head in what I assume is gratitude as he enters the house, leaning his skateboard against the wall and following me through to the kitchen. "Never thought I'd be invited to the Andrews Sunday Breakfast," he lets me know, hints of awe coating his tone, "sweet."

"—right yes, of course, didn't realise that you turned into a massive pussy. It's just a party, man, not the end of the world. Look! Even Kasia will agree."

"Agree to what?"

"Graham doesn't wanna go to Idris' party," Hilton lets me know, and I am sure to look as astonished as it seems I must be, gesturing for Fred to grab a plate for himself and start eating—I don't miss the way Graham's eyes latch onto Fred's every movement, barely offering any complaints to Hilton's rant. "I mean, it's gonna be a sick party, bro."