Fifty-eight

The ride home is quiet. It’s always quiet but the silence leaves room for me to think. I don’t want to think.

“Turn on the radio,” I tell Enzo. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before the voice of the presenter fills the air. “Thank you.”

Raindrops pelt the window, rolling down to the floor. Buildings come into view as we take a turn into a residential street. A boy runs out of a brown house, his father catches him before he steps into the rain. His rambunctious laughter rings out after him. Given the chance, I am sure he will do it again. 

Why can’t I be a kid again? I miss the days Brendan was still Brendan and Brandon was still Brandon.

“Sir?” 

My head raises. We are home. 

But the problem is the Porsche in the garage. Only one person drives a Porsche. I scamper to the house. He didn’t tell me he was coming today. Brianna is in the house. He doesn’t