And whose signature is in everything and everywhere.
Organization.
How everything is neatly arranged, the books on the bookshelf, the cushions on the couch. The fact that all the posters are straight as opposed to even slightly tilted or off-center.
I know he’s responsible for that.
For overseeing everything and everyone.
Conrad.
He’s also the one who brought me here.
Like we discussed, or rather, like he reluctantly promised me on Monday, he was waiting for me at the end of the road that cuts off the highway and leads to St. Mary’s. The forty-minute ride to his house was done in silence. And if it was a usual situation, I would have made some conversation.
But it wasn’t.
I mean, he was driving me to his house, where I’m now going to put my plan into motion.
So I stayed quiet and I stared.
At him, a lot.
From the corner of my eye, of course.
I stared at his strong hands that were gripping the wheel in a way that I wanted them to grip me. And his jaw that was set in a firm line that made me want to stroke it and loosen it up.
And then there was his hair.
That has grown out, very noticeably too, and that was really hard to look away from.
Anyway, we’re here now and we’ve yet to say a word to each other.
But it’s okay.
While I was nervous before, I’m not anymore.
I’m calm.
His house, a glimpse into his life, has made me calm.
So when I’m done running my eyes over his living room, I settle them on him and say in a bright voice, “Are you going to just stand at the door the whole time? This is your house. You can take a walk through it if you want.”
At my words, something enters his eyes, something that I now recognize as amusement. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of all your watching.”
“I know I’m being a creep but this is amazing.” I smile with pleasure. “I love your house.”
“As opposed to your mansion that can fit three of these things,” he says drily.
“Oh, you mean the mansion where I’m not allowed to draw?” I raise my eyebrows. “Yes, I think so.”
He watches me for a second before tipping his mouth up on one side, something that I still see as victory, his quarter of a smile.
“Point taken.” Looking around his own house he murmurs, “This place is a dump. But it’s home. It’s always been home.”
“You know, you think I’m this rich, snotty teenage princess,” I tell him. “But I’m really not.”
“Yeah?” he rumbles “How about a rich, snotty teenage wallflower?”
“No,” I say, my heart drumming in my chest. “Just a wallflower.”
And I’m going to show him that.
His wallflower.
But for now, I want to see more of his house.
So I fold my hands at my back and turn around to keep taking my walk. There’s a hallway down from the living room with a couple of rooms off it and a flight of stairs that goes up. But before that comes the dining room, and when I glance at it, I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.
Because photos.
Tons and tons of them. They are hanging on a wall, almost covering it, and instead of going down the hallway, which was my original plan, I detour and make my way up to the pictures.
As soon as I reach them, a smile breaks out on my lips.
I haven’t even analyzed them or focused on one, but just the whole mosaic of smiling, laughing faces fills me with so much joy.
I pick a photo at the center, then and slowly and carefully make my way outwards from there.
Most of the pictures are of Callie, right from when she was a baby up until as recently as this summer, I think. In each one of them, she’s surrounded by her brothers. And in each one of them, they’re goofing around.
Especially Ledger and Shepard, with their bunny ears and grinning faces.
Stellan too, but not as often. His smiles and poses are more subdued. More in line with gravity and arrogance, even with a lopsided smile or a smirk.
I guess I can see who he takes after.
His oldest brother.
Only I can’t find him anywhere.
Unlike his signature, which was pretty apparent back in the living room and also here with everything tidy and clean, I haven’t been able to find his photo and I think I’ve gone through more than half of them.
I search for him in the other half, and just when I’m about to lose hope, there he is.
Off to the side, as if letting his family take center stage while he keeps to the shadows.
But he can’t, can he?
He’s too shiny for that. Too magnetic. Too much the force that binds this family together.
Too much the authoritative oldest brother.
And this photo of him — a few actually, all lumped together — are fucking magical. They’re a time machine, taking me to his past.