Headlights slice through the darkness as I drive us home, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. The restaurant fades in the rearview mirror, taking with it one of the most surreal dining experiences of my life.
"That went better than expected," I say into the silence, glancing at Summer's profile illuminated by passing streetlights. She hasn't spoken since we left the restaurant, just stares out the window with unnerving stillness, like she's solving complex equations in her head.
She doesn't respond, just continues tracing invisible patterns on the passenger window with her fingertip. The quiet between us stretches thin, ready to snap. I focus on the road ahead, the rhythm of yellow lines disappearing beneath us hypnotic in the midnight hour.
"Hey Summer," I say, the thought striking me suddenly, "have you been keeping up with your brother and sister at all? I never reached out to them when..."
I let the sentence die, not wanting to explicitly mention her absence or the circumstances surrounding it. The words hang in the air between us, incomplete but understood.
Summer's head turns slowly toward me, her features half-shadowed. "I wasn't in contact with them during it," she says, her voice oddly flat. "I called them on Monday after I fingered myself for you on camera."
The casual way she drops this information makes me choke on nothing. I cough, trying to recover as I navigate a turn. "Oh," I manage, unsure how else to respond to that particular detail. "How's Patience doing?"
"Patience is actually doing really well," Summer says, her voice softening. She places her hand on my thigh, her touch warm through my jeans. "Still teaching yoga at that fancy studio in Portland."
I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel her gaze on my profile. Patience, the ironic name for Summer's wild-child older sister. The same sister who first introduced me to weed back in high school, kickstarting what would become my long, destructive relationship with substances.
"She's pregnant, actually," Summer adds, giving my thigh a gentle squeeze. "About five months along now."
A genuine smile spreads across my face. "That's wonderful news," I say, meaning it. Patience may have inadvertently set me on my path to addiction, but it wasn't her fault. She was just a teenager sharing what she thought was harmless fun. "Is she still with that drummer guy?"
"No, thank god. She's with a chiropractor now. Much more stable."
I navigate a turn, streetlights washing over Summer's face in rhythmic intervals. "Was she mad? About us not visiting her for Christmas?"
Summer's fingers tense slightly against my leg. "She's very upset with us for missing so many holidays," she says, her voice taking on that artificially sweet tone that makes my skin prickle. "Thanksgiving, Christmas, her birthday..."
"Oh fuck," I mutter, already imagining the awkward conversations ahead.
"Don't worry," Summer says, patting my thigh reassuringly. "I'll smooth it over for us. I told her we've been going through a rough patch, but we're working on things. She understands."
There's something unsettling about how easily Summer has slipped back into the role of family member.
"What about your brother Jonah?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. "Is he still in Texas?"
Summer's face immediately transforms, her expression shifting to something awkward and uncomfortable. She fidgets with her seatbelt, avoiding my eyes.
"Jonah... um... he works for ICE now," she says, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper.
"Jesus Christ."
"Yeah," Summer confirms.
"Like, the ones that..." I trail off, hoping I've somehow misunderstood.
"Yes, that ICE," she says firmly, cutting me off before I can finish the thought. "Immigration and Customs Enforcement."
I shake my head, struggling to process this information. The same Jonah who used to make porn scenes with his Legos in his college apartment and talked endlessly about dismantling the government.
"Is he going to be at holidays too?" I ask, trying to imagine the family dynamics with this new information.
Summer nods, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, so apparently, politics is a no-go topic at family gatherings now."
I can't help but scoff. "Wow, I did not see that coming at all."
"Yeah..." Summer agrees, her voice trailing off.
The car falls silent after our talk about Jonah. I focus on the road ahead, watching the streetlights play across the dashboard. It's strange how life twists people into versions of themselves you'd never predict.
We drive for several minutes without speaking, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something almost peaceful about sharing this quiet space after the tension of dinner.
Summer breaks the silence suddenly, turning in her seat to face me. Her expression shifts into something bright and open, a genuine smile spreading across her face.
"Hey," she says softly, her fingers tracing small circles on my thigh, "you know if you relapsed at all, you can tell me, baby. I'm here for you."
The question comes out of nowhere, hitting me like a punch to the gut. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I process what she's asking.
"No," I say firmly, keeping my eyes on the road. "No relapses. It was really hard, but Steve helped me through the worst of it after...
Summer studies my face, her brow furrowing slightly. There's confusion in her eyes, like she was expecting a different answer.
"Would you tell me if you relapsed?" she asks, her voice quieter now, more probing.
I consider this for a moment, feeling the weight of her gaze. "I hope so," I admit. "But I've seen a lot of people relapse, and a lot of them lied about it. Especially to the people they love most."
She shifts in her seat, angling her body toward mine. The streetlights flash across her face in rhythmic intervals, illuminating the intensity in her expression.
"You won't be punished for relapsing," she says, her voice taking on that strange, measured quality that makes my skin crawl. "And if you have relapsed and tell me right now, I promise I won't punish you for lying."
The way she says 'punish' sends a chill down my spine.
"No, Summer. Seriously," I say, my voice sharper than intended. I take a breath, softening my tone. "I appreciate that you care, but I'm on top of my sobriety. I have been for a while."
Summer falls silent, her gaze dropping to her hands folded in her lap. She nods slowly, but there's something off about her response, a stiffness to her shoulders that wasn't there moments before.
"Of course, Scotty. I believe you."