Tom hated August. He hated how it was still the summer, but that it was never actually warm enough to do any summer activities. He hated the fact that the leaves started changing as early as this month, telling him that fall was no longer just around the corner, but it was here. Most of all, he hated the feeling he got when it came to be August, the squeezing feeling on his heart like he was saying good-bye to someone he loved. And Tom had done enough of that for one lifetime, thank you very much.
He got up off the couch where he'd been watching the impending storm roll in and trudged over into the kitchen. It was piled high with dishes that desperately needed to be washed. He used to have a maid, but for some reason he had told her to stop coming. He couldn't remember why now, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. With a sigh, Tom started running the hot water and soaping up the dishes. He wasn't even halfway through them when the rain started slamming in waves against the window. Tom shut the water off in the sink and headed out on his balcony.
Taking in a deep breath, Tom shut his eyes. It was easier to remember that way, with his eyes closed. The rain washed over him as he inhaled again, recalling the floral scent of her shampoo mixed with the perfume she'd been wearing that was way too adult for her sixteen years. It hadn't been their first kiss, actually their second. But it had been the first time that he'd let down his defenses, let go of his strong image and showed her his weakness. It had only been a matter of time, really, since his weakness was her. And she'd been so…so desperate that night. Not in a sad way, really. She just wanted someone to tell her that she was perfect, that there was nothing wrong with her. She wanted someone who loved everything about her, from her fire colored hair to her blue painted fingernails; from her big blue eyes to the fact that she always had calluses on her hands from her guitar; from her voice that made his heart stop for two minutes at a time to the way she glared at him when she was frustrated; from her sense of humor to her heart that was always trying to make everyone happy. And Tom had loved all of those things about her. Standing in the rain helped him to remember that part, the part before things had gotten so complicated that even he had a hard time remembering exactly what had happened. He liked to remember the part before it started hurting.
Tom was snapped out of his memories by his phone buzzing in his pocket. Grabbing it, he held his breath before slowly pulling it out of his pocket. When he looked down, he sighed and shook his head. When was he going to stop hoping that every phone call was her? "Hello?"
"Tommy. It's Trist."
Tom headed back inside the house. His older brother hardly ever called him, and to be completely honest, Tom didn't really have any problem with that. They'd never really gotten along, with Tristan always being the golden boy and Tom the black sheep. Even when he'd gotten famous with the band, had a record go platinum, toured the world, he still couldn't do anything right. "Yeah?" Tom asked, shutting the back door behind him and walking back into the kitchen.
Tristan paused. "I just wanted to call you…I don't know if you already know…"
"If I already know what, Tristan?" Tom snapped. When his whole world had fallen apart, Tom had vowed to work on his temper. Well, four years later he was still a hot head. Well, he'd thought that a lot of things were going to change in four years, and his life was basically the same, so the fact that he still couldn't stand any member of his family wasn't really a surprise.
"Mom died."
Tom waited for it to hit him. He waited to feel sad. When it didn't come, he asked a question, relieved when his voice came out scratchy. "When?" he asked.
"This morning."
"How?"
"She just…went. In her sleep," Tristan explained.
Yeah, right. More like she'd swallowed a fistful of Ambien and went down for a nap that she would never wake up from. That combined with all of the other meds she was on had been a recipe for disaster, one that Tom didn't want to stick around for and that his mother certainly didn't want him witnessing. "Oh," was all that Tom found he had to say.
"The funeral is in two days. I just wanted to let you know in case you wanted to come home. I told everyone else that you probably wouldn't."
"Nice Tristan, tell the whole family that I won't come to my own mother's funeral."
"Yeah, because they thought so highly of you already."
"I'll see you in two days," Tom said with finality and hung up the phone.
He probably should have felt something. Maybe his legs should have been shaking. Maybe he should have felt a heaviness in his heart. He might have even wanted to cry. But he didn't feel any different than he had before the call. So instead of crying, or sitting down, Tom kept washing the dishes, listening to the rain.