I throw my bag on the floor when I push the front door open.

Mom does not like when I throw my bag because the zipper scratches the hardwood if it lands wrong, but I do not care right now. The landscapers are outside, and I can still hear the lawn machines through the door before it closes behind me. They are making long straight lines in the front lawn, light green, dark green, light green, dark green. Normally I like that because it makes the grass look organized.

I do not care about that right now either.

"Paul?"

My voice comes out weird. Too loud and too thin at the same time. It does not sound like my voice, and that makes my chest go tighter because sometimes my voice does strange things before the rest of me catches up.

"Paul?"

I turn toward the den.

Paul is sitting on the couch with Mom and Dad, watching baseball on TV like he has been here the whole time. Like he did not vanish for eight months. Like he did not come home while I was at school and nobody told me. Mom is halfway through a sentence, one hand lifted because she talks with her hands when she is explaining something, and then Paul looks over the back of the couch.

For one second, my brain does not believe my eyes, because Paul is supposed to be coming home next week. Coming home is future. Paul sitting in the den is now. Those are not the same thing, and my brain does not like when two things that are not the same try to exist in the same place.

"Paul?" I breathe.

His face changes in the smallest way. His mouth softens, and his eyes do that thing where they make room for me before I even get there.

"Hey, kid," he says.

He smiles like he is proud of me just for existing.

I sob. "You said first hug!"

It comes out of me before I can stop it, a hard, broken sound that hurts my throat and makes my face hot. I cover my face with both hands because I do not want to look like this in front of Mom and Dad, but that does not help because now I am crying into my palms like a little kid.

I am not a little kid. I am tall. I play hockey. I can take hits against the boards and keep skating. I can review tape for two hours and know exactly where I made the wrong turn in the neutral zone. But Paul is home, and I did not know, and everything inside me is too big to fit where it is supposed to fit.

Eight months is a lot. People say it like it is only a number, but it is every dinner he is not at, every game he misses, every time Mom says he will call when he can, every time the connection freezes and his face turns into squares. It is waking up and remembering he is still somewhere else. It is checking the calendar even though checking the calendar does not make the days move faster. It is pretending FaceTime is good because Mom wants it to be good, even though FaceTime is not a person in the room.

When Paul first joined the Marines, he was gone for shorter stretches. Four months. Six months. Those were still bad, but they had an end I could point to. Now he is Captain Paul Lemhurst, and everyone is proud, including me, but promoted means important, and important means the Marines take more of him. More places. More months. More phone calls instead of him in the room.

"Hey." Paul is already moving.

He comes around the couch fast, but not too fast, because he knows sudden motion can make me worse. That is another thing Paul remembers. He remembers that even when he is gone for eight months. He gets in front of me and puts both hands on my shoulders, and I sob harder because now he is close enough to touch but I still have not touched him.

"You lied!" I say. "You said first hug!"

I do not hear Mom anymore except for a small sound from the couch, a squeak of a sob she tries to hide and fails. Dad makes one of his heavy sighs, the kind that means he is feeling something but does not want to make it bigger. I do not look at either of them because if I look away from Paul, something bad might happen. He might go back to being on a screen. He might become next week again.

Paul squeezes my shoulders. "You're getting the first hug, Eric. I promise."

"You were here already."

"I know."

"You were here before me."

"I know that too."

"You came home and I was not here."

His face pulls tight for one second, and that is how I know he understands the rule. Not a house rule. Not a Mom rule. Not a Dad rule. My rule. The rule we made because eight months is too long and because airport escalators are terrible but worth it if Paul is at the bottom of them. The first hug is not just a hug. It is the proof that the gone part is over. It is the official end of waiting.

"I didn't know they were letting me off until three in the morning Middle East time," he says carefully. "Service was down again, so I couldn't call. I called Dad when I landed in Virginia, and he met me in Columbus. I didn't hug him. Mom tried to hug me when I walked in, and I told her she had to wait."

Mom makes another sound from the couch, and I know I should maybe feel bad for her, because Paul is her son too, but I cannot make room for that yet. I can only make room for the thing he just said.

Paul does not look away from me.

"I waited," he says. "All right? I waited for you."

My hands come down from my face. My palms are wet, and I hate that, but I do not wipe them on my jeans because that would mean moving my hands away from where Paul can see them shaking.

"You did?"

"Yes."

"You did not hug Mom?"

"No."

"That is mean."

A laugh breaks out of him, but it sounds wet and cracked. "Yeah, well. I made a promise to my kid brother."

I stare at his uniform, at the sand-colored fabric and the name tape that says LEMHURST. I stare at the hard line of his jaw and the tired places under his eyes and the fact that he is real. He is not squares on a screen. He is not a date on the calendar. He is not next week. He is here, standing in the den with his hands on my shoulders, and he waited for me.

Paul lifts his arms a little, not all the way.

He waits.

That makes it worse, because Paul knows I need to choose it. He knows hugging is sometimes too much if I do not start it. He knows I love him and still need one second to get my body to agree with my brain.

I step forward, and then I cannot step forward anymore because my body stops asking permission. I crash into him so hard he makes a sound, but his arms close around me anyway, strong and exact and Paul. The first hug is mine. It is actually mine. I bury my face in his shoulder and hold on to the back of his shirt with both hands.

"You smell like the airplane," I sob.

Paul laughs into my hair. "Yeah, kid. I know."

"And outside."

"Probably."

"And you are too skinny."

"Good to see you too."

I grip him harder because joking is allowed now. Joking means he is here enough to tease me. Joking means his chest is moving against mine and his hand is on the back of my head and he did not forget. He waited. He actually waited.

Behind us, Mom cries for real this time, and Dad says something low that I do not understand, but Paul just holds me tighter.

"I missed you," he says.

I press my face into his shoulder. "I missed you eight months."

His hand stops moving on my back. Then he kisses the side of my head like he did when I was little and the world was too loud.

"I know," he whispers. "I missed you eight months too."

I try to breathe normally, but breathing normally is not possible because my nose is running and my throat hurts and my face is pressed into his shoulder. His uniform is rough against my cheek. I know I am probably getting tears on it, but he does not tell me to stop, so I do not stop.

"You're supposed to be the man while I'm gone, huh?" he says, and there is laughter in his voice. "No sobbing, right?"

He is teasing. I know he is teasing because Paul is the one who told me crying does not make somebody less of a man, and also because the phrase the man is imprecise. Dad is here. Dad is a man. Paul is a man. I am technically not a man yet even though I am bigger than a lot of grown men, and masculinity is not measured by whether water comes out of your eyes.

Usually I would say all of that because Paul likes when I correct him, especially when he says something stupid on purpose.

But I cannot say anything. I cannot get words through the crying.

Paul knows that too. He laughs softly and rubs the back of my head, not in circles because circles can be annoying, but down once, then pause, then down again.

"It's all right, kid," he says. "I'm joking."

"I know," I try to say, but it comes out as a sound that is not a word.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I know you know."

I hold on tighter because I am afraid if I let go, everyone will start talking at once. Mom will want her turn. Dad will clap Paul on the shoulder. The television will keep making baseball noises. The landscapers will still be outside making lines in the grass like this is a normal day.

But it is not a normal day.

Paul is home early. Paul waited. And for right now, before anyone else gets him, he is mine.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Then again.

Then again.

It is probably Cameron. Ryan would not text me this many times. Mom and Dad are both here. Paul is here.

I do not reach for it.

Not right now.

Not with Paul's arms still around me and his shirt smelling like travel and dust and home trying to come back underneath it. Not when I have only had him for a few minutes after eight months, and I have not even counted all the things that are different about him yet. His shoulders feel sharper. His hair is shorter than it was on FaceTime. There is a tiny rough place on his jaw because he shaved too fast or too long ago. His hand is still on the back of my head, and I am trying to memorize the exact weight of it before somebody moves and the moment has to become a different moment.

"Come on, Eric," Paul says, pulling back enough to see my face. "Come on. I only have a little while, and if you cry through all of it, we're not going to catch up at all."

I wipe my face with the heel of my hand, but then I stop because I heard the wrong part.

"How long is a little while?"

Paul looks at me, and his smile changes. It does not go away all the way. It just falls at the edges, and that is enough for me to know I asked a bad question because the answer is going to be worse than the question.

"Seven," he says. "Technically, I've got about seven days."

Seven is better than a few.

Seven is also too small.

Seven days can fit on one calendar square if you write carefully, and I have eight months of things saved in the wrong order.

"But I have some things to take care of while I'm home," he says. "House stuff. Paperwork. People I need to see. So I can't stay here the whole time."

My stomach gets tight. "Can I come?"

Paul sighs, but not like he is annoyed. Paul does not sigh at me like that. It is the sigh he does when he wants to have his own life and I am trying to climb into it because I missed him so much I do not know where else to put myself.

"We'll see, all right?"

"I'll be quiet."

His face changes again, softer this time. Sadder too, maybe. He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side.

"I know you would," he says. "But I would never ask you to be, okay?"

My throat stops working again, so I nod. I do not know what that means exactly. I know it means something nice, because Paul's voice is nice when he says it, but it still means there are places he might go where I do not get to follow. I hate that. I hate places I cannot follow. I hate that the Marines get places, and Dad gets phone calls, and airports get him first, and now there is house stuff and paperwork and people he needs to see that might get pieces of him too.

My hands are already fists. I squeeze them tighter until the bones press together, then I let go and squeeze again. Dr. Silverberg says when I am overwhelmed I should find the safest way to the stim before the feeling gets too big. My hands are good for that. My hands know how to grip. They know my hockey stick. They know Paul's sleeve. They know how to hold on even when the rest of me cannot figure out what it is supposed to be doing.

"Okay, Paul."

Paul squeezes the back of my neck once, firm and warm, then looks me over like he is checking if I am still all in one piece. He does that when he comes home. He looks at me like he expects to find the exact amount I changed while he was gone and also the exact amount that stayed the same.

Then he grins a little, like he is trying to put us back where we were before I heard the number seven and understood that seven could disappear fast.

"Also," he says, "you got huge."

I blink at him.

He looks me up and down. "Seriously. What the hell are they feeding you?"

"Food."

"No kidding."

"I eat a lot of chicken," I say. "Plain chicken. No sauce. No black grill marks from Mom's cast iron pan."

"That'll do it, I guess." He presses his hand against the top of my head, flattening my curls for half a second before they spring back up. "You're taller than me."

"I know."

"You don't have to sound proud about it."

"I am proud about it."

Paul laughs, and it does something inside my chest. It loosens one thing and hurts another thing at the same time. I missed that sound. I missed it so much it makes me mad at him for making it now, like he can just come home and laugh once and make the whole house remember how to breathe. It is not fair that he can do that. It is also very good that he can do that.

I look at him, and he smiles again.

I smile too, even though my face is still wet.

"You're not too full from ice cream, are you?" he asks.

I blink at him.

His smile turns into a smirk. "Because I have a hankering for steak and rolls."

My whole body lifts. "Texas Roadhouse!"

It comes out too loud. I do not care. Texas Roadhouse has rules I understand. The rolls come in a basket. The butter is sweet and has cinnamon in it. The steak can be ordered the same way every time even though it has strings and I do not eat it. It is loud there, but it is a good kind of loud if Paul is there, because Paul can make a loud place feel like it has walls around just us.

Dad laughs then, the big relieved kind of laugh people do when the crying part is over and they are allowed to breathe again. "I guess I'll grab my keys."

"Honey," Mom says, wiping under one eye with her finger. "Did you eat a lot of ice cream at Ryan's? Gosh, I wish I could have caught you before you left school, but your brother just came home and—"

"Does it matter, Mom?" Paul asks. "Kid could eat his way through a whole carton of Dutch chocolate peanut butter ice cream and still out-eat me at dinner."

"That is not accurate," I say.

Paul looks at me. "Yes it is. I've seen you hoover half a carton before."

"I would not eat my way through the carton. I would open it first because I do not want to eat cardboard, Paul."

Dad laughs again, and Mom makes a sound that is half laugh and half sob, which makes my chest hurt in a different way. She is happy Paul is home too. She just hides it better because mothers are supposed to make everything stable even when they are not stable. Mom's hands are moving too much, though. She keeps touching her face and then the edge of the couch cushion and then her necklace, and I know she is not stable yet.

My phone buzzes again against my leg.

Paul feels it too because his hand is still on my shoulder. He looks down at my pocket, then back at my face.

"You popular now?"

"No."

Dad raises his eyebrows. "Something we should know?"

"No."

That comes out too fast, and Paul's smirk sharpens.

"Oh," he says. "Now I definitely need to know."

"It is nothing."

"Nothing doesn't text five times."

"It might."

"It doesn't."

Mom tilts her head at me. "Eric?"

I look at the television because the baseball game is still on and one of the players is adjusting his batting gloves even though he already adjusted them before the pitch. Baseball players do that too much. They step out. They step in. They touch the gloves. They touch the helmet. They touch the gloves again. It is not efficient. Hockey is better because if you adjust your gloves that much, someone will take the puck from you and Coach will yell.

"A girl asked me to prom," I say.

Everyone goes quiet.

Not bad quiet.

Interested quiet, which is worse.

Paul's hand tightens on my shoulder. Dad slowly turns his head toward me. Mom's mouth opens like she has many words and they are all trying to leave at the same time.

Paul says, "I leave for eight months and you get a prom date?"

"I did not get one on purpose," I say. "She asked me, and I wanted to be a gentleman, so I said I would go with her."

Paul stares at me.

Then he breaks.

He laughs so hard his hand drops off my shoulder and he has to put it on the counter instead. Not mean laughing. Paul laughing, bright and loud and real, with his head tipped back a little like the sound surprised him coming out.

My face gets hot. "Stop enjoying this."

"Absolutely not," Paul says. "You like her?"

I look back at the television. The baseball player is still fixing his gloves. "I do not know. She is pretty."

Mom makes another sound, softer this time.

Paul's eyebrows go up. "Pretty, huh?"

"She has shiny hair and skin that looks gold in the Home Culinary lights."

"Oh, shiny hair. That's serious. And skin—that's important too."

"It is," I say, because I do not know why he is saying it like that. "People have skin."

Dad covers his mouth with his hand.

Paul presses his lips together, but his eyes are laughing. "They do."

"And hers is nice."

"Okay."

"And she asked me in front of people, so I think she wanted me to say yes."

Dad's smile fades, but not completely. I can feel him listening harder now. Paul hears it too. Paul always hears the change in me before anyone else does, so he stops teasing so much.

"Was she nice about it?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Good."

"She said I did not have to dance if I did not want to."

Mom presses her hand to her chest like that information has injured her.

Paul looks at me for another second, and his face goes softer again. "That's good, kid."

"I told her I could dance some. Not all the songs. But some."

"Very generous of you."

"I think so."

He smiles, and I look at him again because I cannot help it. He is standing in our den with his Marine haircut and his boots and his stupid smirk, and the whole house is bright because he is inside it. Seven days is still not enough. It sits under everything like a bad number. But Texas Roadhouse is a real place. Rolls are real. Paul's hand on my shoulder is real. Cameron's texts are real. Prom is real too, even though I do not know what to do with it yet.

That is too much real all at once.

My phone buzzes again.

Paul points at my pocket. "Is that shiny hair?"

"I do not know."

"Check it."

"No."

"Eric."

"No."

He grins. "Fine. You can tell me about her over rolls."

"I do not want to tell you about her."

"You already told me she has shiny hair. We're in this now."

Dad grabs his keys from the hook by the garage door. "Everybody shoes on."

"I have shoes on," I say.

"You have school shoes on," Mom says. "You might want different ones."

"They are shoes."

Paul bumps his shoulder into mine. "Come on, Prom King."

"I am not Prom King."

"Not with that attitude."

"You are making this worse," I say.

Paul laughs, softer this time, and pulls me toward the garage with him. "That's my job, kid."

I let him pull me because he is home, and we are going to Texas Roadhouse, and for the length of one car ride and one basket of rolls, seven days can stay ahead of us instead of already ending.