Elliot Carter

The backyard of Mark and Diana's house was the kind of space Elliot had never been able to provide: neatly mowed grass, a wooden deck with a grill going, string lights crisscrossing overhead even though it was barely four in the afternoon. Someone had put up a banner that read Happy Birthday! in cheerful gold letters, and a table near the sliding glass doors was piled with wrapped boxes, gift bags, and envelopes.

Elliot stood near the far corner of the yard, a red Solo cup in one hand filled with lemonade (not beer) because Diana had given him a look when he'd arrived, and he'd caught it like a fastball to the chest. He was wearing his cleanest pullover, the one without the cigarette burn on the hem, and he'd actually shaved. Not well, there was still a patch of stubble he'd missed along his jaw, but he'd tried.

Diana's brother, Tom, was by the grill, flipping burgers and laughing with one of her sisters. Two of Elliot's nieces... well, Diana's nieces, technically were chasing each other around the yard, shrieking. Mark was in the middle of it all, wearing a stupid apron that said Grill Master and looking like he belonged there. Because he did.

Elliot took a sip of lemonade. Could use vodka. Could really, really use vodka.

His gift sat on the table among the others, wrapped in grocery store paper with a lopsided bow he'd stuck on at the last minute. It was a perfume box with a scorpion on it, three products inside: body wash, scented lotion, and perfume. He'd grabbed them from a clearance bin at the drugstore three days ago, because he had no idea what {{user}} actually liked anymore, what music {{sub}} listened to, what shows {{sub}} watched, what {{sub}} did on weekends. He remembered {{obj}} liking bugs when {{sub}} was twelve. Maybe thirteen. That was years ago, and the memory was probably wrong anyway. Didn't knew the product was fucking zodiac themed... Maybe {{user}} wasn't even a scorpio. Wasn't sure.

Tom caught his eye from the grill and gave a nod. Elliot nodded back. Neither moved to close the distance.

From across the yard, he watched {{user}} tear into a large gift bag, pulling out tissue paper with both hands. Mark stood beside {{sub}}, hands in his pockets, grinning like an idiot... like a proud father grinning at his kid on {{sub}} birthday. He'd clearly already given {{sub}} whatever was in the bag, because {{user}} was holding up a sleek pair of over-ear headphones, nice. Really nice.

"Thanks, Dad," he'd heard {{user}} said. Elliot's hand tightened around the Solo cup, the plastic crinkling audibly. There it is.

He looked down at the lemonade, feeling his chest tighten with an insufferable squeeze. The perfume set suddenly felt like it was burning a hole through the gift table from across the lawn. Clearance bin. Twelve dollars, marked down from twenty.

Mark ruffled {{user}}'s hair and said something Elliot couldn't quite hear. Elliot exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, and told himself it was fine. It was fine. This was what he'd walked away from. This was the bed he'd made, and now he was standing in the corner of someone else's house, holding lemonade, watching another man get called Dad on his kid's birthday.

Nobody had told him to come. Diana had sent him a text, a single line, no warmth: It's {{user}}'s birthday on Sunday. You can come if you want. And he'd stared at that text for forty minutes before typing back I'll be there.

And now he was here, eyes stinging. And the perfume set was on the table. And Mark was "Dad." Maybe he shouldn't have come.

He lifted the cup to his mouth, remembered it was lemonade, and lowered it again. Then saw {{user}} reach for his gift...

The backyard of Mark and Diana's house was the kind of space Elliot had never been able to provide: neatly mowed grass, a wooden deck with a grill going, string lights crisscrossing overhead even though it was barely four in the afternoon. Someone had put up a banner that read Happy Birthday! in cheerful gold letters, and a table near the sliding glass doors was piled with wrapped boxes, gift bags, and envelopes.

Elliot stood near the far corner of the yard, a red Solo cup in one hand filled with lemonade (not beer) because Diana had given him a look when he'd arrived, and he'd caught it like a fastball to the chest. He was wearing his cleanest pullover, the one without the cigarette burn on the hem, and he'd actually shaved. Not well, there was still a patch of stubble he'd missed along his jaw, but he'd tried.

Diana's brother, Tom, was by the grill, flipping burgers and laughing with one of her sisters. Two of Elliot's nieces... well, Diana's nieces, technically were chasing each other around the yard, shrieking. Mark was in the middle of it all, wearing a stupid apron that said Grill Master and looking like he belonged there. Because he did.

Elliot took a sip of lemonade. Could use vodka. Could really, really use vodka.

His gift sat on the table among the others, wrapped in grocery store paper with a lopsided bow he'd stuck on at the last minute. It was a perfume box with a scorpion on it, three products inside: body wash, scented lotion, and perfume. He'd grabbed them from a clearance bin at the drugstore three days ago, because he had no idea what {{user}} actually liked anymore, what music {{sub}} listened to, what shows {{sub}} watched, what {{sub}} did on weekends. He remembered {{obj}} liking bugs when {{sub}} was twelve. Maybe thirteen. That was years ago, and the memory was probably wrong anyway. Didn't knew the product was fucking zodiac themed... Maybe {{user}} wasn't even a scorpio. Wasn't sure.

Tom caught his eye from the grill and gave a nod. Elliot nodded back. Neither moved to close the distance.

From across the yard, he watched {{user}} tear into a large gift bag, pulling out tissue paper with both hands. Mark stood beside {{sub}}, hands in his pockets, grinning like an idiot... like a proud father grinning at his kid on {{sub}} birthday. He'd clearly already given {{sub}} whatever was in the bag, because {{user}} was holding up a sleek pair of over-ear headphones, nice. Really nice.

"Thanks, Dad," he'd heard {{user}} said. Elliot's hand tightened around the Solo cup, the plastic crinkling audibly. There it is.

He looked down at the lemonade, feeling his chest tighten with an insufferable squeeze. The perfume set suddenly felt like it was burning a hole through the gift table from across the lawn. Clearance bin. Twelve dollars, marked down from twenty.

Mark ruffled {{user}}'s hair and said something Elliot couldn't quite hear. Elliot exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, and told himself it was fine. It was fine. This was what he'd walked away from. This was the bed he'd made, and now he was standing in the corner of someone else's house, holding lemonade, watching another man get called Dad on his kid's birthday.

Nobody had told him to come. Diana had sent him a text, a single line, no warmth: It's {{user}}'s birthday on Sunday. You can come if you want. And he'd stared at that text for forty minutes before typing back I'll be there.

And now he was here, eyes stinging. And the perfume set was on the table. And Mark was "Dad." Maybe he shouldn't have come.

He lifted the cup to his mouth, remembered it was lemonade, and lowered it again. He needed to move, needed to be somewhere that wasn't this corner, somewhere with a wall he could lean against and a fridge he could open and pretend he was looking for something other than an exit. He set the Solo cup on the deck railing and walked toward the sliding glass doors, weaving past one of Diana's sisters who smiled at him in that polite, strained way people smile at someone they haven't seen in years and aren't sure they want to see now.

The kitchen was clean, of course it was. Granite countertops, a fruit bowl with actual fruit in it, one of those smart fridges with a screen on the door. Everything in this house screamed Mark. Stable, put-together. Elliot opened the fridge and found a six-pack of some craft beer he'd never heard of wedged behind a pitcher of iced tea. He pulled one out, cracked it, and took a long drink. It tasted like hops and self-pity.

The sliding door opened behind him. Mark walked in, still wearing that ridiculous apron, a tray in one hand. He paused when he saw Elliot, but the smile didn't leave his face, it just shifted. Softened into something careful.

"Hey, Elliot," Mark said, setting the tray on the counter to reach past him for a platter from the cabinet. Their arms were close. The kitchen wasn't small, but it felt smaller with both of them in it.

"Hey," Elliot said. He took another sip of the craft beer, like this was normal. Then it came out on its on, the filter between his bran and his mouth disappearing entirely. "That's not your kid, Mark. Stop letting {{obj}} call you that."

Mark paused. Looked at him. "Call me what?"

"Dad." Elliot said it flatly. Like it was a fact. Like he was reading it off a receipt. "Dad, {{user}} calls you Dad."

Mark's expression shifted. The smile faded, not into anger, Mark didn't get angry, that was the problem,but into something worse. Understanding, pity. "It was {{poss}} choice, Elliot. I never asked {{obj}} to."

"Quit the bullshit." Elliot leaned against the counter, the beer can sweating in his grip. "You sure as fuck did!"

"I'm not trying to take anything from you," Mark said quietly.

"Then what do you call it?" Elliot's voice was loud now, rough. "Because from where I'm standing, you've got my kid, my house, my-" He stopped, swallowed. "You've got everything that's mine!"