His eyes though, his eyes are where he’s different from our father.
He’s got my mom’s green eyes. Shiny and big and beautiful.
It’s as if there’s one little thing on him that tells the whole world that he’s my mother’s son. Like I have this one little thing on me—my gray eyes—that screams of my dad.
“You’re so screwed, Tiny. Dad’s losing his shit because you took five fucking days to get here,” Brendan says in a surprisingly deep voice, a voice that somehow didn’t come through in our numerous conversations on the phone—exactly how much did he grow up since I went away to college mere months ago?
I stab my finger at my brother. “Hey, don’t call me Tiny.”
Brendan looks over to Dean and winks. These two!
Before Dean can return the wink or say anything, Mom spins around and screeches, “Brendan! Watch your mouth.”
He shrugs his awkward teenage shoulders. “What? Dad said the same thing this morning. ‘Five fucking days, Willow. It’s bullshit.’”
Yikes.
Dad never uses the F word in front of us.
I’m sure he does it in front of Mom, as evidenced by what Brendan just said, but he has a rule to never do it in front of the kids.
“You know what? Keep talking and I’ll take away your phone,” Mom threatens, moving away from Dean, who’s chuckling. “Remember the thing you’re glued to all the time?”
Brendan walks backward as Mom approaches him, his hands up in surrender. “But Mom, you don’t understand. It’s the best day ever. Dad’s finally gonna yell at Fallon.”
My default reaction would be to say that he’s not going to yell at me. But I think today just might be the day that he does.
He was so totally against the road trip. Not to mention, he was so totally against me moving away for college because he wanted me to stay close to the family.
To be clear though, Dad never yells at anyone. Yelling isn’t something that he does. He simply says your name in a calm, low voice and gives you a disappointed look, and you wither in shame.
For the record, Dad’s hardly ever looked at me like that. He looks at Brendan like that all the time though. Brendan is a bit of a troublemaker in our family, which I maintain is why he gets all Dad’s legendary disappointed looks.
But according to Brendan, my brother gets those looks because Dad refuses to be mad at me, so Brendan has to carry the brunt of it all. So it’s a running joke that I’m Dad’s favorite.
As it is, all I do right now is frown at my little brother and he wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Aww, are you scared? You should be. He’s been freaking the fuck out for the past week.”
“Enough.” Mom raises her voice and Brendan finally looks sheepish. “Say goodbye to your phone and you’re grounded.”
“But Mom—”
“No, don’t Mom me. I’ve had enough of you and your bad language. You come out here and talk with your sailor mouth. And you don’t even say hello to Dean.”
Brendan waves a hand at Dean. “Hello, Dean.”
Dean smirks and tips up his chin. “Hey, kid.” Then, in a firm voice, he declares, “No one is getting yelled at. Least of all your sister. Not while I’m here.”
At this, Brendan’s mouth drops open—that’s the only way to describe it. His lips open in an O and his green eyes become wide.
“No way,” he breathes, his gaze oscillating between me and Dean. “You guys kissed and made up?”
What?
Now it’s my turn. To drop my mouth open, I mean. And my own eyes follow my brother’s and go wide.
Oh my God.
How does he know? How does my brother know?
I mean, I could take my mom knowing but not my brother. He’s my little brother. He’s not supposed to know these things. But the way he’s staring at me—at us, Dean and me—it’s clear that he does know.
I’m not sure what Dean’s reaction is but I’m freaking speechless right now. All I can do is stand here and stare at my brother, who, after a second or two, shrugs.
“What? I’m not an idiot. I pick up on things. Fallon loves Dean. Everybody knows.”
His words bring me out of my stupor and I lunge at him. I literally lunge at him like I used to when we were kids and he takes off, screaming.
“Get back here, Brendan,” I shout after him.
I can hear my mom behind me, asking us to cut it out, but I don’t care. I’m also aware that Dean is witnessing our heathen behavior—mine and my brother’s—but the truth is that he already knows. He’s seen Brendan and me fight on numerous occasions so this isn’t new.
What’s new is the fact that my brother knows.
How does he know? Does everyone know?
Including my dad.
Gosh, please don’t let my dad know until I, or rather Dean, gets a chance to tell him.
So I run after my brother who’s still screaming, What’s the big deal? Everyone knows. Although he’s so much faster than me, not to mention his stupid long legs give him even more of an edge, that before I’m even halfway down the hallway that leads to our backyard, he’s already bursting out the door.
Even so, I try to catch up to him. But when my feet slip and I crash into something really hard that almost knocks the breath out of me, I know I’ve lost all hope.
But then, I don’t care about the lost hope or catching up to my brother or who knows what because I’ve just collided with the very person I’ve been thinking about all the way here.
My dad.
He has his hands on my arms, keeping me steady—thank God—and judging by the open door of his study, he’s just come out of it, probably after all the ruckus we were making.
Growing up, whenever Dad would work in his office, Mom would obviously tell us to be quiet. I’d obey her, of course. But I’d also miss my dad. So I’d open his door really quietly and tiptoe up to his desk. I’d even hold my breath so as to stay completely silent.
I used to think that if I didn’t make any noise, my dad wouldn’t notice a tiny silver-haired girl floating inside his room while he was focusing on work.
To his credit, he pretended to not notice me. He’d stay absorbed in whatever he was doing and I’d sit on the carpet, by the legs of his giant desk, and play with whatever I’d manage to sneak in.
And when he did notice me, he’d act so surprised that it made me laugh. He’d tell me that I had the prettiest laugh, just like my mom’s, and so I should never stop laughing.
Like my mom’s words, I think of his words too, at moments when I feel like I’ll never laugh again.
Right now, I smile up at him. “Dad.”
His gray eyes stare at me from behind his black-rimmed glasses, concerned and bright.
“You okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
He sighs, the lines around his eyes and that permanent crinkle between his brows deepening. “You both should know better than running in the house. Floors are slippery, Fallon.”