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are-you-OK-honey-I-didn’t-know-you-had-such-tiny-testicles look, but there’s nothing. So Hank must have kept his promise.
    “Hey, do you want to open your birthday present from me?” Mom asks.
    I shrug. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sounds good.” I kind of assumed that this hockey night was a present from both of them, but I guess we’re not playing the whole one-present-from-the-parents game yet. Which is good. It means the cement hasn’t completely hardened on this relationship, and I still have time to wedge my crowbar between them.
    Mom reaches into her purse and takes out a gold envelope. She leans over Hank and hands it to me.
    It’s light. Almost weightless. Which is curious because Mom’s not a check writer. She usually puts a lot of thought into her gifts. Even if they don’t always hit the mark. Like the time she bought me a framed
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movie poster. Sure, I read the graphic novel, watched the film. But did I want a life-size shot of a totally ripped dude in a loincloth hanging over my bed? Not really. Still, it’s sweet of Mom to actually pay attention to my interests.
    “Go ahead, hon,” she says. “Open it.”
    Inside the envelope is a green sheet of paper, which I unfold. It’s a homemade gift certificate of sorts, the message written with gold Sharpie in Mom’s greeting-card-quality cursive.
    Mom is vibrating with excitement. “Read it out loud.”
    I smile, her enthusiasm contagious. “OK.” I clear my throat: “‘Happy Birthday, my beautiful boy.’” I roll my eyes. It’s her standard birthday-card opening, and it’s getting a little old. Just like I am. I continue, “‘I know you’re sixteen now, but in my heart you will always be my adorable little baby bundle.’” I glare at her over the paper. “Thanks, Mom.”
    She flushes. “Sorry. But it’s the truth. Keep going.”
    “‘That being said, I love and adore the man you are becoming and continue to become. And it is with this knowledge that I have organized a very special trip: a survivalist camping adventure for you and Hank to share together.’”
    My heart nosedives. Seriously? A camping trip? With Hank?
    “A camping trip?” Hank says, sounding as flabbergasted as I feel. “You didn’t mention anything about —”
    “Shh, Boogabear.” Mom pats Hank’s arm. “Let him finish.”
    I keep reading, though I’m no longer here. No longer in my body. “‘Over Easter break, my two favorite men will get to know each other as you spend five days exploring the undisturbed backcountry of Idaho’s Frank Church – River of No Return Wilderness. There you can bask in . . .’” There’s a parenthetical CONT ’ D and a tiny arrow at the bottom of the page. I turn the sheet over and resume reading, “‘. . . two point three million acres of untouched forest and prairie, which is home to untold wildlife including mountain lions, gray wolves, black bears, coyotes, elk, moose, lynx, big horn sheep, and countless others. No tents, no prepackaged food, no electronics, no modern conveniences at all. Just you and nature!’”
    In the small blank space under these words, Mom has attempted to draw some trees, a few blades of grass, a campfire, and what look like puffy clouds with four legs, eyes, and half-moon smiles, which I’m pretty sure are meant to be the big-horned sheep. A few tiny floating hearts pepper the bucolic scene like loving pixie dust.
    Tear it up. Rip it into a million pieces, throw them into the air, and let them rain down like confetti. She doesn’
t know you. If she knew you, she never would have done this to you — embarrassed you like this, put you in a situation like this. Invited this asshole into your life.
    “Oh dear.” Mom bites her lower lip, her eyes big. “Did I goof up? I thought you’d be so excited.”
    Ah, shit. She looks so vulnerable. Worried. Like I just told her I was thinking about spending Christmas at Charlie’s house.
    “No. Yeah,” I say, twisting a smile onto my face. “I am.