Thank fucking God that I planned this five-day trip.
I watch him with my mom for a few seconds without really listening to what they’re talking about when I hear someone boo in my ear and bump into my shoulder.
I jump and whirl around.
“Brendan!”
He stands there grinning like an idiot.
Well, not an idiot, or at least, not an idiot to the world—he might be that for me though.
My little brother is turning out to be very good looking, if I do say so myself. That’s because if I’m the carbon copy of our mother, Brendan takes after our dad.
He has the same dark thick hair as Dad. Only Brendan’s falls on his brows in messy waves. And even though he has a lot of growing still left to do and he’s in that awkward teenage phase where his limbs are lanky and too long, he has the makings of a tall, broad build like our dad’s.
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.