by Emma Doherty
I stare up at his house and wonder what it is that makes me not see it as small and kind of beat-up, and instead as homely and charming. Maybe it’s the fact that he lives there and I’m learning that I’m finding it increasingly difficult to dislike anything about Brett.
It’s not just the peeling paint that I see, or the scuffs on the front door; it’s the basketball hoop attached to the side of the house, which probably drove his mom crazy with the banging against the wall all the time but is there regardless. It’s the bright flowers in the garden that have obviously been planted with care, if not a little haphazardly, and that make the place look warm and welcoming.
Brett’s house looks like a home.
Something I’ve started to realize is more important than I ever thought.
God knows when you pull up outside my house, it’s not a home that you see. It’s taken me eighteen years, but I’m finally starting to get it—it’s truly not what’s on the outside that counts. It’s what’s on the inside that matters.
I climb out of my car and walk up the path, which has weeds coming through the stones, and I ring the doorbell then wait, pretending my heartbeat hasn’t picked up just slightly as I hear footsteps on the other side and the door swings open.
Brett stands before me, wearing sweatpants, a crinkled t-shirt, and bare feet.
I swear my heart genuinely skips a beat.
He looks better than he has any right to.
His eyes drop to the bunch of flowers I’m holding in my right hand.
“You brought me flowers?”
I roll my eyes. “I brought your mom flowers, for cooking dinner.” He told me since we were studying late, his mom would make dinner. “It’s rude to show up somewhere new empty-handed.”
He looks confused. “It is?”
I nod as he steps back to make room for me.
“Wow. I’m rude a lot.”
I chuckle as I step in, toeing my shoes off and looking around the small living room. It’s full of pictures of Brett, all the way from when he was a little kid up to fairly recently, and there are also numerous pictures of what I can only assume are his parents. His dad stands in a military uniform with his arm proudly around a woman who can only be his mom, they look that similar, and a younger Brett. There are other pictures too, of older people and other children, people who are probably important to Brett’s family, his grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, his extended family.
The only picture we have in our house is my mom and dad on their wedding day. Any other pictures, me and Ellie as babies or as we grew up, have been tucked away in photo albums and cabinets and are rarely seen.
Compared to this front room, it suddenly strikes me as sad.
“I know it’s kind of small,” Brett says self-consciously, following my gaze and clearly misinterpreting my thoughts.
“What? No, no,” I tell him firmly. “It’s not small.”
A smile drifts over his face at that because it’s a flat-out lie. It is small, but it doesn’t matter.
Because it’s a home…something I wish I’d grown up in.
“My mom’s in the kitchen,” Brett says before turning and trailing over that way.
I follow him in, and the second we’re through the door, the most delicious fried smell hits my nostrils, making my mouth water.
A small woman is standing with her back to me and turns at our voices; the picture I just saw doesn’t do her any justice. She’s an older, female version of Brett, with the same red blonde hair and the same big eyes. Their only difference is that she’s tiny; Brett must have gotten his height from his dad. She lets me take her in for a couple of seconds, my eyes darting over her frame as a huge, welcoming smile crosses her face. “Abigail, hello! Welcome.”
I’m suddenly shy. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Sanderson.”
“Of course. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” She comes over and gives me a big hug, and I’m so surprised by her friendliness that I almost miss what she says next. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Almost, but not quite. My eyes dart to Brett, who reddens slightly. “Mom.”
She chuckles. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll stop.” She winks at me conspiratorially. “He hates it when I embarrass him.”
I don’t think I’ve ever come close to seeing Brett embarrassed before.
“Mom,” Brett moans again.
She shakes her head, and then her eyes fix on the flowers that are still in my hand. “Are those for me?”
Oh. “Yes.” I hold them out. “Thank you for having me.”
Her face lights up. “That’s so lovely of you.”
I smile back at her, liking her even more in this moment. She just seems so warm, like a mom should be.
“Is it ready yet?” Brett asks, clearly bored of us and looking past us to the food.
“Just about,” his mom says, and Brett moves to the table, pulling out a chair. I’m about to follow him when his mom leans over to me just slightly. “He’s trying to act casual, but he made me promise three times to make the fried chicken because he said you like it, and he set the table an hour ago and keeps coming back to fiddle with it.”
I stare back at her in astonishment. I mentioned that once weeks ago when moaning about dieting and missing fried chicken. “He did?”
She winks back at me, and I’m just about to open my mouth, not having a clue what I’m about to say but wanting more details from her about what she just told me, when Brett interrupts us.
“What are you guys talking about?”
We both look over at him, and he’s watching us suspiciously.
“Nothing at all, Brett,” his mom replies, moving away from me. “How about you serve while I put these flowers in water.”
He springs into action, grabbing serving dishes as I just stand there, lost in my own thoughts, thinking about what his mom just said.
He wanted to make sure his mom cooked my favorite meal so he pestered her three times? And he went to the trouble of setting the table for me?
Pigs are going to start flying next.
It’s basically the most delicious homecooked meal I think I’ve ever had. I originally took smaller portions because there was no way the mashed potatoes could taste that good without loads of butter and cream in them, but I soon decided to ignore every warning my mother has ever given me about carbs and them sticking to my hips when I found out just how great the food tasted.
I ate fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and salad, had a second serving, and honestly probably would have had a third if it weren’t for the fact that Brett’s mom mentioned apple pie. I had that served hot with vanilla ice cream.
Seriously! Homemade apple pie. Who even makes that anymore?
No wonder it’s an American classic.
I could happily sit in this kitchen forever in a food coma, but the second I’ve put my spoon down and finished my dessert, Brett is reminding me why I’m actually here and is ordering me into the living room to start studying.
He leads me back in and completely ignores the small desk in the corner which is littered with books (another thing I liked about that meal is that we just ate in the kitchen, surrounded by the mess of the cooking and the heat from the stove, and we laughed and we joked and conversation flowed), and instead dumps his books onto the small coffee table in front of the TV.
I reluctantly grab my own books and slump down next to him.
He glances over at me.
“Ready?”
“I’m so full,” I moan. I am. I could take a nap right now.
“That’s because you ate everything in sight.”
“I know,” I moan back. “I’m going to be the size of a whale tomorrow, but it was worth every calorie.”
He rolls his eyes. “You and your calories.”
“It was so good.”
“She’s a good cook.”
“She should do it for a living. People would pay good money for that.”
He lau
ghs and reaches for a textbook. “Come on. We have to do at least a little bit.”
I groan but dutifully sit up straighter and attempt to at least look like I’m listening to him and what he’s trying to show me.
After about thirty minutes and my third yawn, he finally drops his pen.
“You’re not even listening to me.”
“I am.” I pause. “Well, I’m trying to.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t really look annoyed.
“It’s your mom’s fault,” I tell him. “I can’t believe how good that food was.”
“You sound like you’ve never eaten before.”
“I haven’t eaten like that since I was a little kid and we went to my grandma’s house.”
“Your mom doesn’t cook the food from when she was younger?”
I snort. My mom doesn’t cook period. “Our housekeeper sometimes makes food for us, but mostly we eat out or get takeout.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Must be nice.”
I roll my eyes. “Go ahead and judge me.” I say it because I know he won’t, not really. He just seems to have this strange fascination with money and has to comment on it the second you mention anything even slightly related to it. “We also have a cleaner and a gardener.”
He grins at me. “Okay now you’re just showing off.”
I grin right back at him.
We stare at each other for a couple of seconds and I know it’s my turn to speak, but when I lock eyes with him like this, I completely lose my train of thought.
Right—speak! “Um…so…um where’s your dad?”
“He’s not here.”
Oh no, his dad died and I didn’t know?
“Brett, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
He looks confused for a second and then starts laughing. “Dick.” Now it’s me who’s confused. “He’s not dead, you idiot—he’s deployed.”
Oh.
Brett cracks up again at the look on my face, and I throw my pencil at him. “Shut up.”
“Your face!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
Brett snorts and waves his hand around the room. “The military pictures around the room didn’t give it away?”
He has a very valid point there, and I feel my face blushing. Maybe it’s not so surprising that I’m failing high school after all if I can’t pick up on a few simple clues.
I clear my throat. “So your dad’s in the military?”
“Yes, Sherlock.”
Sarcastic ass.
“How long’s he been a soldier for?”
He shrugs. “Since I was four or five.”
“Really?” I don’t know why I’m so surprised; I guess I just assumed anyone in the military had been in it for years, not chosen to join after they had a family so that they would be away from them. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Sorry, it’s none of my business.”
He rolls his eyes. “Are you asking why he joined the army?”
“Well…I dunno, I’m guessing you and your mom don’t get along with your dad very well if he chose to move away and be apart from you.”
He stares at me for a second then bursts out laughing all over again.
“What?!”
“You’re really firing on all cylinders tonight aren’t you?”
“Huh?”
Brett’s smiling at me again. “He lost his job working for a security company and couldn’t find any other work. A couple of his buddies are in the military, so he signed up. He hates being away, but it’s a steady income, and he’s been in so long now that he might as well see it through.”
I blink at him. Wow. I can’t imagine how tough that must have been to sign up knowing you’d be leaving your family behind.
“Do you get along with your dad?” I ask tentatively.
“Yeah, he’s awesome.” I’m surprised by the pure conviction and lack of hesitation in his voice. “I miss him a lot. It’s worse for my mom though. She misses him like crazy.”
“She does?”
He nods. “They’re so embarrassing when they’re together. They’re always holding hands and kissing.”
“They are?!” I couldn’t be more perplexed by the thought of two parents being that crazy in love if I tried. It’s a million miles away from my own parents.
“Yeah, it’s pretty nauseating.”
“How often does he go away for?”
He shrugs. “It depends. Sometimes it’s just six months. One time when I was twelve, it was a year.”
“A year?!”
He chuckles. “Yeah.” He pauses for a moment. “That sucked. I really missed him.”
I feel like that should make me sad, but it doesn’t. I think it’s awesome that he has someone he misses so much when he’s away. He’s lucky.
“This is random,” I start, sitting up straighter and getting excited that I finally have someone to discuss this with who might actually get where I’m coming from. “But have you ever seen those videos online where the soldiers come back and surprise their families? Like at football games and stuff?”
A smirk flickers across his mouth.
“Have you seen them?”
He eyes me for a second. “Yeah I’ve seen them.”
“Don’t they make you so happy and sad all at the same time?”
He laughs out loud. “I guess.” He pauses as though he’s trying to decide something. Eventually… “They did it to me once.”
He looks back at me and sees he has my rapt attention.
“It was Christmas, back when I was eight or nine,” he explains. “He’d been away for nine months and was supposed to be home for it, but then his orders were changed. Christmas morning I’m sitting there opening my presents, and he just comes strolling in through the door.”
“Oh my god!”
He laughs. “Yeah, I should have known really—my grandparents and my cousins and aunts and uncles were all there, which they never usually would be.”
“Did you cry?”
He pulls a face. “Me? Cry? No.”
Oh.
He laughs at the look on my face. “I’m joking. I sobbed like a baby and wouldn’t leave his side for the rest of the day. I even tried to follow him into the shower.”
I chuckle at that. For some reason that little tidbit absolutely delights me.
“It was the best Christmas ever.”
“You must miss him a lot.”
He nods. “I do. I’m hoping he’ll retire in a couple of years, especially since I’ll be away at college. I don’t want my mom here on her own.”
What a lovely, lovely guy. Most guys our age wouldn’t think twice about leaving their mothers to go off and party in college.
“He must be really proud of you.”
Brett shrugs modestly. “I guess.”
From the way his mom spoke about him and how close he seems to be to his dad, I’d say his ‘I guess’ is a complete understatement. My guess would be that he’s very, very proud of his son.
“That must be nice.” I say it without thinking. “Him being proud of you.”
His eyes meet mine. “Yeah, but I’m proud of him too—fighting for our country.”
I nod. “Oh for sure, it’s a really noble profession.”
He laughs. “Yeah, one that pays shockingly badly.”
I laugh. “Is it bad?”
He waves his hand around. “We’re hardly rolling in it.”
“You know it’s not all about money, Brett.”
“Coming from the girl who has it.”
He’s got me there. I don’t know what it’s like to struggle and to have to contribute to the bills, and I also don’t know what it’s like to come from a loving family. Right now, in this house, I know which scenario I’d pick.
“I always watch those videos online,” I admit, shifting in my seat and changing the subject before I reveal something about my home situation that really should stay hidden. “Like I’ve spent hour
s watching them before.”
He snickers. “You have?”
“Uh-huh. They always make me cry.”
He flashes me a wide grin. “Who would have thought Abigail Baker was such a complete softie?”
I shake my head but can’t hide my smile. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone my secret.”
“No, seriously…you’re not who I thought you were.”
I shrug. “I’m who I wanted everyone to think I was.”
His eyes meet mine. “No. No, you’re not her—not at all.”
I swallow as his eyes meet mine. Does he mean he can actually see through the facade I wear? This one where I pretend to be confident and happy and detached and uninterested? Does Brett actually see me for what I am?
I really hope he does.
He winks at me. “I’m going to tell all my friends that Abigail Baker cries at those cheesy military reunion videos.”
“They are not cheesy!”
“Oh, they are.”
“No, they’re emotional moments captured on film.”
“Okay, okay,” he replies indulgently. “Tell me about your favorite ones.”
“Well there might have been this one I may have watched a couple of times,” I tell him, pushing my textbook away and getting more into the story. “It’s this one where this soldier has just come back and is surprising his daughter in her high school. She’s not a little kid,” I explain seriously. “Most of the videos are of young kids being reunited with their parents, but this kid is only like a year younger than us.” I look at him expectantly and he nods again, knowing I’m awaiting a response and a sign that he’s actually listening to me. “Anyway, he walks into her cafeteria, and whoever made the video must have had a couple of cameras on her and her dad and must have known how to edit because you see everything. He’s walking toward her and she doesn’t notice at first, she’s just talking to her friend, and then suddenly she looks up and she’s so shocked for just a second. Then she’s out of her seat and running toward him, and she just launches herself at him, bursting into tears at seeing him.”
I blink rapidly, trying to control my emotions. Even thinking about it is starting to make me feel emotional.