Swing (Landry Family 2)

As if she can’t think about it a moment longer, Vivian turns back and works to form a tray of little sandwiches and fruits. And that’s the end of that.

Lincoln

My father greets my older brother quickly before heading back to the house. I stand, still a little perplexed, and walk towards the car. Graham is standing at the hood of the car waiting on me.

“Hey,” I say as I reach him.

“Good to see you.” Graham pulls me into a quick, one-arm hug. “How was your flight?” He tugs on his green tie, loosening it from around his neck.

“How do you wear that shit every day?” I ask, watching him unbutton the top button. “Don’t you feel like a monkey in a suit?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t you feel like a giant little boy playing ball every day?” he teases.

“A giant little boy a lot of chicks want to fuck.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he says, heading to the driver’s side door. “Chicks might like ball players. Women like suits.”

Climbing in the passenger’s side, I laugh. “Whatever you say.”

“Speaking of women, did you bring Danielle?”

Her name sparks a warmth inside me. “Yeah. She’s inside with Mom and Sienna.”

He flashes me a look. “Is that safe?”

The car slides down the driveway towards the house. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Um, Linc. Your normal girlfriends make Sienna want to brawl. Remember the one that wore fishnets to Barrett’s birthday party?”

“She wasn’t a girlfriend,” I scoff. “Don’t give her too much credit.”

“You brought her.”

“Kind of. I kind of brought her,” I say in defense. “Seriously, why do we always bring her up?”

“Because it’s so easy,” he chuckles. “Just like I’m guessing she was.”

“Dude, she used to take my—”

“No. Just no,” Graham laughs as the car comes to a stop in front of the house.

“Pussy,” I wink.

We exit the car and I breathe in a lungful of clean, Savannah air. It smells different this time. Tastes different. Feels different.

Cleaner, maybe? Crisper? I can’t figure out what it is, exactly, but something seems like a page has turned.

“What?” Graham asks, furrowing his brow as we climb the steps to the house.

“What what?”

“You’re thinking something.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you only have one face you make when you are thinking about something. And because you rarely think, it’s a look all its own.”

“Fuck off,” I laugh, opening the door. Graham goes in first and I hesitate a moment before stepping over the threshold. I wait for it, anticipate it, and the door isn’t closed behind me before I feel it: the sense of being home. It’s the same feeling I’d get when I was a little boy and had been to baseball camp two too many days. It only happens here, at the Farm. It’s the warmth of the lighting, the perfect temperature, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, like a fleece blanket has been draped over me.