If they were ever bothered by gaining a new little sister, they never showed it. Even as they got older, they still included me in their plans. They made me feel like their real sister, not a stepsister.
“The box underneath is filled with report cards, school projects, and trophies,” Michelle says, interrupting my memories. “I’d have never thought your father was such a pack rat.”
I’m surprised to hear he had this stuff too. He never seemed very impressed by my grades or my artwork.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “Lunch will be ready soon.”
I pull out a pink-bound book that is vaguely familiar, like someone I knew long ago. After scanning a few pages, I identify it as a fifth-grade-era journal. I flip through a couple of others and decide that these could make interesting reading on some rainy day. Seeing how my younger self viewed the world might be good for laughs, if nothing else.
As I’m stacking artwork back on top of the diaries, a bright yellow piece of paper catches my attention. “Happy Birthday to the Best Daddy in the World!” it reads, in blue and red crayon. Something squeezes in my chest, and I’m struck by a complicated sadness over once feeling that way about him, and then growing up and seeing him through different eyes.
“Hi.” I drop the homemade card as a deep voice startles me back to the present. I hadn’t even heard anyone approach, but now four tall men fill the doorway and the hallway beyond.
9
Desire
“Hi. I’m just going through some of my dad’s things.” I have no idea why I feel the need to explain myself, as though I’m an intruder.
“Aunt Michelle told us,” Bronson says.
“Are you staying here? I didn’t hear you come in,” I tell them. The four of them are in jeans and t-shirts, which seems to be their usual attire, but their cheeks have color from the sun and they smell like fresh air.
“No, we’re renting a house for now,” Barrett says. “You must have been caught up in what you’re doing.”
“I guess I was.” I stick the birthday card back in the stack of artwork and pile it on top of the box.
“Need help?” Lennox asks, stepping forward.
I’m instantly transported back through time to a memory of sitting on this same floor with the younger twins, playing a card game. Uno, probably. We were obsessed with that one for a while, but Barrett and Bronson usually didn’t want to play.
Lennox liked to keep the game going at a fast pace and I could tell he’d get impatient with Lincoln for taking time to think about which card he should play, but Lennox never complained. None of the brothers fought with each other, which is strange, now that I think about it. They were nice boys.
“I still don’t understand why my dad threw you out,” I say, instead of answering Lennox’s question.
Barrett shrugs, and they all look uncomfortable again.
“It doesn’t make sense. What exactly were you saying?”
“I don’t remember the exact conversation,” Bronson says.
“Something about your body. How good you looked. That’s all,” Barrett says. “Nothing explicit.”
I’m simultaneously flattered that they liked my body and angry about my dad overreacting. “That’s bullshit, then. You were just talking; you weren’t doing anything.”
“We knew we weren’t going to act on our desire, but your dad didn’t know that,” Bronson says.
The word desire shoots a spark low in my belly. Desire. It repeats in my head as sensation pools where the spark landed.
“He was just trying to protect you, Caz,” Lennox says. “You shouldn’t hold it against him.”
“Weren’t you mad at him?” I ask.
“We were, but we got over it,” Barrett says.
Bronson leans back against the doorframe. “You were his only daughter. We understand that he was worried about you.”
“Maybe we’ll be overprotective if we have daughters someday,” Barrett says.
The little ball of tingly feelings in my belly dissolves. I don’t like the idea of them having children — or more specifically, them being married and having children.
Why in the world am I feeling possessive about them? At most, shouldn’t I wish them well, and hope that they’ll have families if that’s what would make them happy?
“Do you have girlfriends?” I ask. Only when their expressions change in response to my question do I realize I’ve just blurted out what I was thinking. “I mean … or … women you were seeing in New York?” Looking through my childhood things must have my head in a weird place.
There are near identical grins on Barrett and Bronson’s faces when Barrett says, “No, none of us is involved with anyone. What about you?”
“Are you seeing anyone?” Bronson adds. “Mom said she didn’t think you were.”
Did they ask Rachel about my relationship status, or did she volunteer that information? I give a small shake of my head. “No.”