Duncan is coming home today.
I’ve just turned eighteen. It’s been two years since Thailand.
But even after so long, I feel this silly, childish excitement. I’m eager to meet him again, to talk to him again, even though I don’t know him at all. I’ve only ever met him once, and yet he’s been almost all that I can think about.
I’m also nervous beyond belief. I couldn’t decide what to wear, and in the end I settled for being comfortable. My favorite pair of dark jeans, a light-brown bomber jacket, and my favorite ankle boots.
I cast one last look in the mirror, and don’t like what I see. The ankle boots cut me off at the slimmest part of my legs, and I know I’m not model-thin so they just make me look short and chunky. But they’re my favorite boots, and I’m going to wear them.
Outside, it’s chilly. In Kenilworth, on the north shore of the lake, we get cold winds and the air is wetter. It makes me shiver. I sit outside in the back garden, look out at the huge plot of terraced land with its apple orchard at the back.
People at school always joke that I live in a mansion – I practically do. And all of them know where the money comes from. It’s mob money. It’s dirty money. It’s blood money.
I hate that the suffering of others gives me this luxury. I hate what Dad does, so I try never to indulge. I reject as much of the luxury as I can.
And yet, I still live here because I have to. Sometimes, I wonder why I force myself to pay a penance for Dad’s crimes.
From the back garden I can see the road, a winding, narrow path lined on either side by tall trees that squawk with birds.
I hear the limousine before I see it. Steam and exhaust wafts upward from behind green-brown hedges. My gut tightens, and my heart starts to beat quicker.
For the past two years, Dad has often spoken of Duncan’s harsh training. He was going to make Duncan the best fighter ever, he would tell me.
Sure, he’d start a little later than some of the other young men who got into fighting. He’d be a little older, but his body would be more mature. His mind would be readier.
That’s what Dad says. Duncan’s being incubated.
I spot the limousine making its way slowly around the lazy bends. The windows are tinted, but it’s not like I could see inside from this distance.
Standing up, I draw in breath, release it and it fogs in front of me. I straighten my jacket, check my back, and then wring my hands together. I watch the car trundle slowly around to the front, walk through the house to go and meet them.
The butterflies in my stomach are starting to flap their wings. The hurricane will hit me square in the gut.
Dad told me I had to meet them at the door. Dad told me I had to welcome my adoptive brother into our family.
But I am excited to see him, and I feel bad about that. Feel guilty about it. I shouldn’t… anticipate it so much.
After all, he’s my foster brother. He’s part of the family now.
But I want to see his eyes… those crystal eyes. So clear, so blue, and yet… there’s turmoil in them. Anger.
Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’ve just thought up this story in my head these past two years. Spun a narrative around him, built him up.
But I swear, when I saw him in Thailand, there was something behind those eyes.
I walk out of the front door, and watch as the limousine crunches gravel all the way up the driveway. It rounds the fountain out front, which has two cherubs with feathered wings squirting water out of their mouths.
The limousine engine stops, and black exhaust no longer belches out of the back. I hold my breath, wait for the door to open, but it doesn’t.
Frank steps out, waddles around the front of the car. He smiles at me, gives me a small wave, and I wave back, glad to see him.
He goes to the passenger side door, and opens it. Out steps Dad. He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he turns around and continues talking into the car. I don’t know what he’s saying, and I don’t care. I’m eagerly trying to look past him, trying to glimpse Duncan.
I see a head of neatly trimmed dark hair. Then, from inside the car, I see those eyes. They seem to shine, reflect the waning sunlight. I’m taken aback. They’re sharper than ever, and again I’m reminded of a wolf’s eyes, and when he climbs out of the car, I gasp.
He’s grown… so much. He towers over Dad, and Dad is an even six-feet, and his shoulders are so broad he makes Dad look small. And I would never have described Dad as being small.
Duncan looks at me, and as I drag my eyes up his body to meet his again, I’m jolted, shocked by electricity. It’s a zap that forces me to instantly break eye-contact, look at a spot above his head instead, and I feel that hurricane acutely now.
He’s so good looking. His jaw looks cut from steel, and his lips are full, generous, untouched by the last of the winter dryness. His cheek bones are high, giving him an angled, almost pretty look.
I see a smudge of pink. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. I’m taken back in time to Thailand. He did that then, too. It must be a habit.
He’s wearing jeans like me, with black boots, a white t-shirt, and a faded leather jacket. He looks… great, if in a timeless way.
“Deidre, come here,” Dad says, beckoning me impatiently with his hand. His gold watch catches the setting sun, beams it straight into my eye. I feel like it’s a spotlight. Everybody is watching.
I chew on my lower lip, walk toward them, take my steps carefully. Knowing me, I’ll probably trip on nothing and make an ass of myself.
My eyes are on the ground, but Duncan’s eyes are on me… I know it. I feel it. They sear me.
“I think an introduction is in order. This is Duncan Malone.”
I look up, and sure enough Duncan is looking right at me, nowhere else. Not at the big house behind him, probably bigger than any he’s ever seen. Not at the fountain, or the gardens that you can spy from the front. He’s looking right at me.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is just a shaky whisper.
He puts out a hand; I see the beginnings of his tattoos on his wrists. I slip my hand into his and shake it. He makes me feel physically tiny. His palms are soft, hot to the touch, as if he’s been holding them against a fire.
It’s just like when we shook hands in Thailand. I think it’s so absurd, that we’re shaking hands again. I want to grin, laugh even, but in front of Dad I’m a nervous wreck. I don’t know how he expects me to behave.
And Dad has many expectations for me.
“Duncan,” he says. “This is Deidre Marino, my daughter.”
“We’ve met,” Duncan says, not turning to Dad. “I remember.”
“Oh, yes,” Dad murmurs. That memory has obviously escaped him.
Now I smile at Duncan, and when he returns it, it only makes mine grow wider.
God, Thailand two years ago! We stood together and watched Dad make an ass of himself. Watched Dad bully the village people, argue over money.
My smile fades.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Duncan’s eyes don’t leave mine. I feel like he’s looking straight through me, like he can see exactly what I’m thinking, see how attractive I find him… how drawn to him I am. How nervous I am.
“You look great, Dee.”
I laugh at the out-of-place compliment, but the tension only grows thicker. I can feel my cheeks burning.
I only catch it a moment later that he called me Dee. Nobody has called me that, not even at school.
“Thanks.”
My heart is racing so quickly, and I tug my hand from Duncan’s, watch as his long fingers close around empty air.
Dad is oblivious to our exchange. He claps Duncan on the back, grips his neck and guides him around me. I watch as they walk into the house.
Dad is announcing that he’ll give Duncan the grand tour, that this is his house now, too. I hear him saying something about them leaving for a trip tomorrow, but I can’t make it out.
But as they climb the steps up to the front door, Duncan turns over his shoulder and looks at me, and I look at him. We don’t break eye-contact until he disappears inside the house.
When he’s finally gone, I lean against the side of the car, fold my arms across my chest, and chew on my lower lip.
“Don’t worry, Deidre,” Frank says, walking up to me with wide duck-steps. “He hasn’t forgotten you.”
I blink, crease my brow. “What?”
“He’s just trying to be good to Duncan, you know? Show him the ropes. Welcome him into his home.”
I smile at Frank. He’s got some heart, but I’m grateful that he’s missed the mark by a mile.
“Thanks, Frank,” I tell him. “It’s cold out. Come inside for a cup of coffee or something?”
He purses his lips, shakes his head. “Oh, no, I’ll wait out here.”
“You can come in, you know.”
“If your father wants me inside, then I’ll come inside.”
“But it’s cold.”
“Deidre, you’re old enough to understand.” He implores me with his eyes not to make this any more difficult.
“Dad’s the boss,” I say.
“That’s right,” Frank replies. “And he hasn’t invited me in.”
“Right,” I say, nodding my head.
“You go in, though, honey. Don’t catch a cold.”
“See you, Frank,” I say, sighing.
I wonder what life is going to be like, now, living with Duncan.