*
We pull up to a gate a few minutes later. At last, something looks promising. The drive through town was downright depressing. The tallest building in the entire town is maybe three stories. Everything is weirdly slow, as if it’s sluggish from the heat. Besides a few fast food places, gas stations, and something that apparently passes as a mall, there’s not much going on in Faulkner.
But as we enter our gated community, sprawling green lawns stretch before us. Huge shade trees dominate the yards, and behind them stand enormous houses that belong in an old movie.
“Welcome home,” Daddy says, spreading out his arms toward the entire neighborhood before twisting around to check our reactions.
His words have me swallowing hard, half terrified that I’ve just stepped into a world I know nothing about and half giddy with excitement at the unfathomable difference between this and our Manhattan brownstone. We have a vacation house in the Virgin Islands, but this is…
Our new home.
The car slows, and I stare down a long walkway that leads under the gently arching branches of two rows of mossy trees bending over it as if they’re bowing to the royalty that walks beneath. The walkway cuts through the lush, green, perfectly cut lawn to the front of an enormous white plantation-style home with rows of towering white columns, black window trim, and an intricate black railing on the balcony that stretches along the entire second floor.
As I’m gaping at the house, about to ask Daddy if it’s ours, a classic convertible shoots by us on the right side, spitting gravel at the Porsche like we’re a taxi in the wrong lane. I catch a flash of blond hair and a masculine profile before it swerves back onto the road inches in front of us, shoots forward, and skids into the driveway of the house. The car roars down the drive and disappears behind the house.
I bite my lip and glance up at Daddy, but he doesn’t even flinch, let alone take off after the asshole driver. Instead, he laughs.
“I better not catch any of you driving like that knucklehead,” he says, gesturing to the next house. The driver pulls in as I turn to Royal, widening my eyes.
“Knucklehead?” I mouth incredulously.
Daddy has never used that word in his life. He’s notorious for swearing nastily and vehemently. It’s like we’ve suddenly stepped back into the 1950s. Even the convertible was reminiscent of an older time, all spiffed out and in mint condition.
Our driver pulls into the driveway Daddy indicated. This house does not have a row of trees for the front walkway, but it has the same sprawling lawn, huge shade trees, and meticulous landscaping. An enormous white plantation house sits back from the road, with two curving staircases leading up to the second-floor balcony like a pair of welcoming arms.
Daddy turns to us and grins. “I thought you might like to have a little freedom to come and go as you please.”
“Wow,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. I feel like I just stepped onto the set ofGone With the Wind.
“Not you,” Daddy says. “The boys. You’ll keep an eye on your baby sister, right?”
Royal salutes him. “That’s what brothers are for. To do the job dads are supposed to do.”
Daddy ignores his little dig and hops out of the car when it stops. He opens our door and gestures toward the house with a flourish. “Welcome to the new Dolce family home.”
four
Who would you be if you could be anyone? I’m not sure I know. I never got to choose before, and I don’t know if I do now. Sometimes, I think my whole life was manufactured by my family.
Here’s what I’d choose. I want to be… Better.
Not better than everyone else. Better than me. Better than I was. But I don’t know if that’s asking for too much. My family expects me to be better than everyone else, just like they are.
I lie in bed the night before our first day of school, listening to the big house settling around us. Daddy’s still at the office, working late to get everything in order for the new branch he’s opening here. I can’t seem to sleep in the new, strange house. Foreign noises invade my consciousness—the crickets and other insects so loud I can hardly go outside after dark, the wind through trees making eerie sighs like restless ghosts in the hot night.
Tonight, another sound that I can’t identify rouses me from my half-sleep. I check my phone. It’s midnight, and Daddy’s car still hasn’t turned into the white gravel drive. Outside, an irregular slapping sound catches my attention. I snag a silk robe from the back of my closet door and step outside, cinching it around my waist. A gust of hot wind sweeps over me, and I think I must have heard a loose shutter banging somewhere.
Twack!
The sound is somehow familiar, though I can’t tell what it is. I peer down into the bright moonlight that lights up the entire yard in an eerie glow. The balcony runs all the way around the top floor of the house, though my room is on the far back corner. To reach the stairs, I’d have to walk past Duke’s windows on one side and then King’s windows on two sides since he has the front corner room. I’m pretty sure they set it up that way on purpose.
From the balcony outside my room, I can see the back yard, the side yard, and the row of lilac bushes that forms the boundary between the houses. According to the new housekeeper who came with the house, they’re quite impressive in springtime. Beyond the lilacs, a slice of the neighbor’s backyard and one side of their house are visible. A handful of looming shade trees toss in the heat and wind as I wait for the sound that disturbed my attempted slumber.
Suddenly, something small and dark races between the lilacs and into the moonlit yard. I gasp, startled into thinking it’s a varmint for a second. But then it rolls to a stop in the dewy grass, and I see that it’s something much more familiar than a yard pest. A football.
I blink at it, not sure if I’m dreaming. The light on the dew gives everything a silvery, dreamlike quality. Then a tall, blond guy steps between the lilacs. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of drawstring sweats hanging so low on his hips that I can see more of him than I should want to. His body is slicked in sweat, his tan skin glistening in the moonlight. I swallow, my eyes raking from his tattooed shoulders, over his washboard abs, down to the V of muscle that dips into the waistband of his pale grey sweats, which he’s cut off at the knee.
It’s not like I’ve never seen a guy in nothing but shorts before. My brothers spend half their time dressed that way. But this boy is not my brother. He’s thinner than my brothers, less bulky, but every bit as muscular in a more lean, ropy way. The kind of muscle you might get from working instead of working out. His skin is more golden than the olive tone my Italian brothers have, and his tan is concentrated on his shoulders and arms, like he got it from being outside. I can see so much of him, and yet, seeing doesn’t illuminate. Each thing I notice is a mystery, a question instead of an answer.