Growing Pains Read online

  Unlikely. Very unlikely. In fact, if the way his stomach was threatening to return breakfast, it was possible that he might give them an actual reason to be angry with him for once.

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Brock.” She paused, clearly conflicted. “I know my son isn’t the calmest person in our family, but I hope you know he cares deeply about you. We all do.”

  Oh God. Not this. Not sympathy. That was the last fucking thing he needed.

  A lump rose in his throat, and he forced it down. “Yeah. Sure.”

  She had grey eyes—Gigi’s eyes—and a kind but worried expression. “If you need us, any of us, please call, okay? You won’t interrupt anything. Lunch is just food.”

  Damn it, now he was embarrassed. “Got it. Thanks, Naomi.”

  She gently brushed his arm. “I’ll see you later.”

  He didn’t see Gigi on his way out—not that he went looking. If Brock lived in another universe where his parents were nice people who hadn’t hurt him for years, then he’d have brought Gigi home a lot earlier, and gladly. He’d have shown Gigi off. He’d have demanded they meet and like each other.

  But that wasn’t the universe he lived in. No, this was the universe where his nervousness had him barely able to start the car, continually wiping his hands on his jeans on the drive over to his parents’ place, and taking calming breaths the entire way.

  When he drew up outside his old house, he needed a few moments to sit and prepare himself. There was a weird feeling that every action he took was beyond his control—as though he was a windup toy, and someone had set him in action, so he was stuck until the mechanism had played out.

  Granted, it had been a long time in coming. And if he’d done it before now, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Despite the feeling of predestiny, he knew he could resist it. He could simply drive away and not stop until he reached Toronto. He could drive in the opposite direction and not stop until he reached Vancouver. He could keep going—fly back to Europe or to South America or Antarctica. Never come back.

  Thoughts like this were stupid. He had come back. Maybe even to do this very thing.

  The house looked the same as it ever had, though a little older and faded. Paint peeled around the corners and edges, and the gutter looked like it needed clearing. His stomach clenched at the sight of it. When he had been a teenager walking the long way from school, his stomach would drop and his pace would slow to a dawdle as soon as he’d turned the corner into this street.

  No dawdling could happen in a car outside the place.

  He took a deep breath and turned the car off.

  Keys out. Step out. Lock. Check it’s locked. Keys in pocket. Check for phone. Check for wallet. Check again for keys. Check for . . . Stop fucking around.

  Without him telling it to, his body walked the twenty steps to the front door. His hand raised and knocked because his dad hated the doorbell. The welcome mat was the one his mom had bought when he was in high school, still in surprisingly good condition despite being over ten years old.

  Footsteps sounded behind the door. It swung open to reveal his mom, Fiona Stubbs. His heart ached at the sight of her: rounder, a little more hunched, comfortable jeans and blouse buttoned up to her neck, her big brown eyes peering warily. Still his mom.

  She brightened as she recognized him. “Brock! Oh honey, welcome home!” She opened her arms wide, and he stepped into them, bending slightly so he could hug her back—gently, tentatively. She smelled as he remembered: floral, with an underlying tang of antiseptic.

  “Hey, Mom.” He let her go. At closer range, he could see more lines in her face and grey strands in her blonde hair. Was that a healing cut on her lip?

  “It’s wonderful to see you.” She pressed a papery palm to his cheek, and his heart turned over. The last time he’d seen his parents had been after returning from overseas, before he’d moved to Toronto and essentially cut off contact. Years. Literal years. If he were a parent, he’d have been understandably furious.

  His mom didn’t look it, but then again, his mom had stopped showing anger a long time ago. Even if she was angry, she also looked genuinely happy to see him. There was love there, right? Maybe he could’ve kept in contact with her without involving his dad. Somehow.

  But she didn’t go anywhere or do anything without telling his dad. Brock doubted that had changed if she was still here.

  “You too.” It was almost true.

  “Is that the prodigal son returned home?”

  Brock stiffened and looked beyond his mother’s shoulder. His dad stood in the shadows of the hallway. Of course the curtains were partly drawn during the day, like it would kill the people in this house to have some sunlight in there. Like it would kill his dad to be visible from the front door.

  Pete Stubbs also looked older, a little smaller, and rounder. A bigger beer belly than Brock remembered preceded the rest of him as he stepped forward with a smile and an extended hand.

  “Hey, Dad.” Brock warily shook his hand.

  “Good to see you. Glad you’re in town.” Brock’s hand was clenched painfully tight for a moment, then let go. “Your mother’s prepared lunch for us.”

  Heart thumping, Brock stepped inside the house, ensuring he closed the door quietly behind him.

  Being back was surreal. The place looked unchanged. Still the lone, posed glossy family photo hanging by the front door, the rack of coats, the hardwood floors and cream wallpaper. Still the chemical smells of a clean house, with an added faint odour of something cooking. Brock toed off his shoes and followed his parents through the dim hallway to the living room.

  There were changes here. The flat-screen TV was bigger and the sofa was new. The wallpaper had changed, and there weren’t as many tchotchkes on the sideboard and furniture. Dad’s framed Stanley Cup ticket from 1967 was above the fireplace now.

  There were lots of memories here. Watching TV. Presenting his report card. Playing on a rug in front of the fireplace. Being shoved so close to the open fire in that fireplace as a child that his eyebrows singed. Huddling on the carpet as screams raged overhead. Beatings. Running away.

  He shook his head to clear it. He needed to be focused on the here and now, to be alert and ready.

  They moved to the table in the kitchen, the informal one that sat four and had been the scene of family meals for years. The formal table in the official dining room was hand-carved maple, sat eight, and was only used for guests. Brock had been in that room maybe five times in his life.

  “Have a seat, boys,” Mom trilled as she bustled over to the oven.

  Pete sat at his usual place at the head of the table, and Brock automatically went to sit next to him, but paused. “Can I help you, Mom?” He thought he heard a snort from his dad.

  She flapped an oven mitt at him. “No, no, honey.”

  He sat.

  “How long’ve you been in town, son?” his dad asked.

  Was that a loaded question? Maybe. Brock never knew with his dad. Ah, shit, he could feel his nervousness making him sweat. Don’t overthink this. He made sure his face was still and his voice casual as he said, “Oh, only since yesterday.”

  “Right, right, last-minute trip.”

  Pete sat in his chair, legs wide and forearms proprietorially on the table near his cutlery. The regal position sent an abrupt wave of hate through Brock, and he turned his attention to the settings. They were already laid out with their usual military precision. Knives facing the right way and in the correct right-hand position, fork on the left, sparkling clean, all lined up at the bottom.

  God, it was like he’d never left.

  What was he doing here? Why did he have to be here? Eating lunch like this again?

  He wasn’t a kid anymore.

  He was taller than his dad now.

  Brock was pretty certain he was stronger now too.

  And Pete honestly looked older than Brock remembered. Fragile. It was kind of a shock.

  Okay, so when Br
ock had imagined something like this happening, he’d figured there would be a grand declaration of who he was and his sexuality—but right now, all that was going through his head was You both can go fuck yourselves. He hadn’t thought about saying that to people who seemed much older and weaker than he remembered.

  Reality wasn’t as noble and easy as his imagination.

  In any case, this moment wasn’t a good time to come out with anything. Past experience said there was no good time for breaking news, but after food was better. Fewer things his dad could throw at him.

  Time to change the subject. “How’s the office?” Brock asked. Pete was a legal clerk in the local practice.

  “Same old. People keep dying and leaving their junk to their kids. Some of whom are less deserving than others.” Hard stare.

  Here we go. “Uh-huh.”

  “I never thought I’d find myself being jealous of the idiots who walk through the office door, but . . .” His dad warmed to the subject, as he always did, and Brock resisted the urge to fidget as he heard the usual spiel. Kids these days have no gratitude or respect. People are fucking morons. The world is going to shit. You will get nowhere unless you work hard and listen to me. If only everyone thought the same way. I could turn that practice around in weeks. I know what’s best. I have built this family up from nothing. I, I, I.

  Mom came over and placed food in front of Dad, then came back with Brock’s and her portions and sat down. They waited while Pete scanned the food, then picked up his fork and began eating. Brock resisted sighing in relief as he followed suit. If Dad hated the food—

  “This tastes burnt.”

  On Brock’s right, his mom stilled. “It does?”

  It didn’t.

  “Tastes fine to me.” Brock shovelled a big mouthful in.

  Dad picked over the food. “You left it in the oven too long.”

  “I followed the recipe. Maybe it’s the bacon? I used a different kind of bacon.”

  “No kind of bacon tastes like this unless it’s burnt.”

  Brock wanted to duck under the table, the way he used to when he was a kid and could feel the tension building in the air. Instead, he stared at his plate. What even was this? Noodle casserole? If anything, it looked undercooked. The cheese was barely browned.

  His mom straightened as if to rise. “You want something else?”

  Pete shoved the plate away. “Yeah.”

  That was Brock’s cue to stop eating. No one ate unless his father did. Because they were a family, and families ate together. His stomach clenched, and his hands gripped his cutlery tighter. Why were things like this? Why did they have to be so fucking tense? Why couldn’t he just eat, say his thing, and leave?

  What was stopping him?

  He rebelliously shovelled in another forkful and chewed, eyes still on his food. Pain exploded across the back of his head, and he grunted as he jerked his head away. Shit. He might be older, his dad might look weaker, but he still had a hefty palm. Brock should’ve seen his dad’s hand coming.

  A mistake to rebel. He knew better.

  “You forget your manners?” his dad growled.

  Brock dropped his fork, and his mom hesitated by him as she rounded the table. “You want something else too?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Give him something else,” his dad snapped. “No one wants to eat burnt food, Fiona.”

  His plate was moved from in front of him. Brock had also forgotten how his dad loved to drag shit out like this. If it wasn’t the food, it was the cutlery. If it wasn’t the cutlery, it was the cleanliness of the table, or the plate, or Brock’s hands. If it wasn’t any of those things, it was the goddamn lighting or the time or his mom’s hair or . . . something. Always something. Even if there was nothing, it was only a matter of time until he found something.

  How the hell had he lived like this? He could remember when things had been good, when he was young and had loved playing with his parents. Somewhere, somehow, things had gotten bad, but he’d only really woken up to that around the age of ten, when his dad had slammed his mom against a wall and threatened to kill her if Brock told anyone. That had been the first really bad thing.

  But afterwards, he’d been fine for a long time. Everything had been okay. Then Brock lost his pocket money and his dad had hurled a mug through the TV. Then he’d seemed better again, and they bought a new TV, but Mom spilt tea on the couch, so that had gotten her slapped so hard she fell to the floor. And so it went, months of happy family times before Pete snapped. Slowly it had turned to weeks of sunny behaviour before his dad lost his temper, then days. As Brock entered his final year of high school, it had reached a stage where his dad was liable to lose his shit at any time at all. Brock and his mom had had no idea what would set him off or when. Opening or closing doors. Cleaning dishes loudly. Not picking up groceries when asked. Correcting him. Fighting back.

  What was almost worse was his mom’s excuses. Dad was stressed. He doesn’t mean it. You shouldn’t have done that. Don’t provoke him. It was my fault.

  It couldn’t be her fault every time. Or Brock’s. Not every time.

  Fuck this place. Seriously, fuck it. Why the hell had he come back? Why had he let Gigi talk him into coming here? Why was Brock doing this to himself? This wasn’t some grand, empowering exercise in standing his ground—this was walking into a war zone and expecting to deflect shrapnel with the sheer force of self-belief.

  “So how’s your job?” his dad asked him. “I assume you have one.”

  His mom walked back into the kitchen and began looking through the cupboards.

  Brock gritted his teeth. “Good. Earning.” He had to leave. Say his thing and leave.

  “Big city treating you well?”

  “Yeah.”

  His dad shook his head. “Don’t know how you do it. The place is expensive. All that noise and crime. Full of fags and immigrants too. Going to the dogs.”

  Such an asshole. Such an asshole. Brock felt less and less like a person, and more like a pulsating sack of pure anger the longer he sat there not saying anything.

  “Guess I fit right in, then.”

  Wait.

  Who said that? Did he say that?

  He’d said it.

  Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

  In his peripheral vision, his mom’s movements stopped.

  Beside him, Pete went very, very still. “Care to repeat that?”

  Brock forced himself to look at his dad, if only to be prepared for whatever he would do next. “The reason I’m in town is because my boyfriend’s sister is getting married.”

  His dad was expressionless.

  “We knew that, sweetie,” his mom said slowly. “Why would . . . Oh, boyfriend?” She blinked. “Toby Rosenberg.”

  Brock didn’t move his gaze from his father.

  “This better be a joke.” Pete’s voice was low and calm. A shudder ran up Brock’s spine at that tone. It was one of the worst ones.

  “It’s not,” he ground out.

  “Honey,” his mom said, “are you—”

  “Shut up.” Pete’s eyes bored into his. “Don’t say things you’ll regret, boy. We discussed this back in high school, remember? No son of mine is a fag.”

  Brock remembered that “discussion.” Once the rumour mill had picked up the discovery of him with Toby—because of course it had—Brock had known his dad would have something to say about it. He’d prepared his story, the same one he’d told Josh and anyone else who’d cared to listen, and had it ready when he came home late one night and found his dad waiting for him in the living room. He’d managed to convince him he wasn’t gay, that it had been entirely Toby’s fault, but it hadn’t spared him the belt or kicking.

  His mother had said nothing at all, simply haunted the doorway and rushed in to pick him up and ice his back and sides once it was all over.

  But this wasn’t the same. Brock was older and stronger. Not a child, not a lanky teenager. An adult.


  Somehow it didn’t seem to matter now that he was here, in this house, facing the man who’d tormented him for almost as long as Brock could remember.

  No. Fuck that shit. It did matter. This stopped here.

  He braced himself. “I am gay. So I guess that means I’m not your son.”

  He saw the fist coming and scooted his chair backwards out of the way. Pete still slammed into him with all the heaviness of a brick wall, and Brock brought his arms up in time to shelter his face from blows. He kicked out and twisted off the chair, landing in a heap on the floor, Pete on top of him.

  “The fuck you say?” Pete grunted, lurching off him.

  Brock rolled to his feet and grabbed the chair, holding it between him and Pete. His dad stood too, clenching his fists.

  Brock would never consider himself a quick thinker, but his mind very clearly mapped the route to the front door. He knew he could get there before his dad could. Whether he could do it without wetting himself or throwing up was another matter.

  “After all I’ve done for you,” Pete snarled. “I fed you”—he picked up a fork and flung it at Brock, who deflected it with the chair—“I clothed you”—more cutlery followed—“I put a roof over your head for years”—a ceramic mug that Brock didn’t manage to deflect thudded into his collarbone before shattering on the floor—“put you through school, and this is the thanks I get?”

  To Brock’s surprise, a bout of hysterical laughter bubbled up from nowhere. In for a penny . . . “I’ve always been gay. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re not too old for a whipping.”

  Brock glanced down at Pete’s belt, then grunted as another mug shattered against his chair. He turned his face aside instinctively, but in his distraction, a fist followed.

  Brock saw red. He felt red—a hot, hazy rush of fury that surged through him when another punch caused pain to explode across his face. The chair. He swung the chair almost like a baseball bat, aiming high.

  The next thing he knew, his dad was collapsed on the floor, clutching his head and groaning. One leg of the chair lay next to him, and there was a small crack in the seat of the chair in Brock’s hands. Cheap, uncomfortable piece of shit.