I twirled my wedding ring around my finger. “So,” I said, “This is where we live now?”
He nodded. “This is where we live now,” he said. “You ready to head in?”
Before I could answer, Griffin shut off the car and walked around to open the passenger door. He opened the door for me and proceeded to pick me up in his arms, carrying me down the snowy sidewalk—pausing at the front door, preparing to carry me over the threshold, into the house.
I was laughing, a little uncomfortably, mostly because I felt embarrassed. I wasn’t good at displays of romantic affection, especially traditional ones. I used to think that I found them corny. It would only occur to me later that it wasn’t so much that I found them corny, but that I found them unfamiliar. But Griffin seemed determined to change that, moving us confidently in the direction of the front door, turning the knob while holding me, moving us both inside, onto the green hallway mat that read WELCOME.
“We’re here,” Griffin said, and kissed me.
Only someone else answered. “Hey there . . .”
A man’s voice came from deep inside the house, and Griffin dropped me, bottom first, onto the welcome mat, right on top of the WELCOME.
I looked up, shocked. First at Griffin, who looked angry, then at the guy he was staring angrily at, who was casually standing in front of us, eating a Fudgsicle. He had a four-day shadow, his dark hair uncombed. But that couldn’t hide how handsome he was, with piercing green eyes and a smile that matched Griffin’s. There was a small child on either side of him—one with his own Fudgsicle, one holding what looked like a plastic yellow watering can. They were five-years-old, six at the oldest. And they were twins. Practically identical, very adorable redheaded twins.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Griffin said.
“Will you watch your language for Christ’s sake? ” the guy said. “We have impressionable children here.”
Griffin leaned down to pick me up off the floor. “You okay?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”
“No . . .”
I shook my head, as Griffin lifted me up. I was more startled than anything else, looking up at him, looking over again at the two small boys. They smiled widely, seemingly enjoying all of this. They were beautiful little boys with that red hair and enormous green eyes. They looked quite a bit like the man I was assuming was their dad—same shape to their faces, those same green eyes. But their awesome red hair, that must have come from somewhere else.
“Aren’t you guys going to hug your Uncle Griffin hello?” he said. Then he simultaneously patted the boys on their heads.
Uncle Griffin.
This was Jesse. Of course, it was Griffin’s brother Jesse. Griffin hadn’t had family photographs with him in Los Angeles, but it made perfect sense. He had told me that Jesse had little boys—had he told me that they were twins?—Sammy and Dexter, if I was remembering correctly. I knew they lived in Boston, which wasn’t so far from western Massachusetts. Jesse was a graduate student working toward his PhD at MIT. And Jesse’s wife—what had Griffin told me her name was?—owned a flower shop in Cambridge. That was what I knew. And now I knew this: behind those eyes, and that Fudgsicle, Jesse was looking a little crazed at the moment.
“They’re having a silent contest right now,” Jesse said, gently pushing both boys in Griffin’s direction. “Go on, guys. No talking necessary.”
The twins ran to Griffin, who scooped them up into his arms, holding both of them close—one hand cupped under each small body, his eyes still drilled into his brother.
I noticed it, right on the other side of Griffin and the boys, at the foot of the stairs: several enormous suitcases and piles of clothes. Sporting equipment. Children’s toys. All of it partially unpacked and spilling up the stairway, spilling all the way down the upstairs hallw
ay, which, from my angle at least, was a total and complete disaster: paintings falling from their hangers, carpet ripped up. And the distinct smell of grape juice, coming from somewhere that I wasn’t sure I wanted to visit.
Griffin must have followed where my eyes went because he looked that way too, and then back at his brother.
“Jesse, how long have you been staying here?” Griffin asked.
Jesse shrugged. “Not long.”
“How not long?”
“Not long,” he answered. “Like five weeks.”
“Five weeks? ” I said.
It was the first thing I’d said. And Jesse turned to me—for the first time—as if just noticing I was there. Standing in front of him. After falling out of his brother’s arms.
“Hey there,” he said.
“Hey there,” I repeated.
Then I gave him a small wave, more than a little surprised I had opened my mouth at all.