Milàn #2
There’s clutter everywhere. Pages from books tacked on the fridge.
Somebody’s started painting flowers on a canvas by the window and stopped midway through.
A pair of loafers lie by the couch. A stack of notepads is on the counter, precariously tilting to the right.
The air smells of cinnamon buns and oranges.
Sunlight streams through the windows and paints everything soft yellow and cheerful.
In the kitchen I find Aiden parked at the table, a laptop open in front of him, a deep frown of concentration on his face as he types furiously.
I tap the top of Aiden’s head, and he jumps. For as long as I’ve known my brother, he’s always had the inhuman ability to concentrate so hard the rest of the world completely disappears.
He blinks and frowns for a few seconds before his expression clears. Back among the living.
“You made it.” He gets up. A tall, wiry guy in perfectly pressed khakis and a gray crew-neck sweater.
He looks tired. If there have been any arrangements to be made, you can bet your ass Aiden’s been taking them all on his shoulders.
His need to be a hundred percent dependable and trustworthy is its own kind of addiction.
You can see where we both took completely opposing stands in life, both inspired by Gerard. Where he gave promises and then, without fail, broke his word, Aiden gives his word and keeps it no matter what, and I avoid making promises at all costs, so I won’t have to worry about keeping them.
I don’t take a seat. That’d be its own kind of promise. A promise that I intend to stay. At least for a bit.
“So.” I hold my arms out. “You requested, and here I am. What’s this about?”
“Gerard’s dead,” Aiden says again, as if I’ve somehow forgotten the catalyst of my visit over the course of the last thirty-six hours.
“Yeah. I got that.” And then, because it seems like something one should know about their father, I ask, “What happened?”
“His heart stopped beating.” Francesca starts wringing her hands. “It was always too big for this world.”
I do my best not to roll my eyes.
“The New York Times published a lovely eulogy,” she continues. “Called it the end of an era.” She blinks, quickly wipes a tear away from under her eye, and looks out the window. “It really is.”
“Right.” My clipped tone hardly leaves room for any other sentimental remarks.
“Yes,” Aiden says in a measured voice. “Heart failure. He’ll be remembered.”
And he will be. No doubt about that. A career spanning two decades. Eleven Grand Slam titles. Once considered the greatest tennis player of all time. A shitty husband, and an even shittier father. Quite a legacy.
“The funeral?” I ask, because that’s the only death-related thing I can think of to say, and I feel like I should say something.
“He left explicit instructions not to hold one. No memorial services either. Nothing. He wants his remains cremated, and he wants us to spread his ashes among”—Aiden consults his laptop screen for a second. One of his many to-do lists, I’d bet—“the fields of Maplewood Manor.”
I blink. “What the fuck is a Maplewood Manor?”
“This here,” Francesca says, like it’s common knowledge.
“Since when?”
“He renamed it a while back,” she explains. “Said the name came to him in a dream.”
I stare at her for a moment. “Great. One problem. There are no fields here.”
“Perhaps he meant the vegetable patch?” Aiden shrugs.
“He wants to be fertilizer?” I ask.
Somebody snorts.
I turn around and find a pair of eyes on me.
A boy. A strange, skinny kid with eyes too big for his face, shaggy hair way past the point of could-use-a-haircut, and an edge of nerves in the fingers that keep plucking at the couch cushions.
I turn back toward Aiden. “Who’s the kid?”
Aiden glances at the boy, then at me. “Right,” he says, all business. “He’s the main reason we’re here.”
He doesn’t say anything else, and I’m tired and impatient.
“Well? Lay it on me.”
“He’s Gerard’s,” Aiden says.
I whip my head toward the boy again. Not sure why.
I think I’m looking for something familiar in his face.
A clear sign he’s another one of Gerard’s lost boys.
There should be some kind of familial resemblance there, shouldn’t there?
A genetic arrow that points from him to me, proving he’s one of us.
There’s nothing. Dirty blond hair to Aiden’s and my dark brown.
Slate gray eyes to my green and Aiden’s whiskey brown.
Soft features to our angles. He’s pale and skinny, hovering on the edge of a growth spurt but not quite there yet.
His T-shirt is worn, his jeans are too short and have multiple rips in them.
This boy doesn’t look anything like me. Or Aiden. Or Gerard, for that matter.
I can’t even begin to guess how old he is. Somewhere around twelve, maybe? Fourteen at the most, I’d say, but my experience with kids is extremely limited, so for all I know this is what eight looks like nowadays.
I glance toward Aiden. “We sure about that?”
He gives a short nod. “There’s proof.”
I scrub my palms over my face and try to think. I’m not successful. “Okay. So he’s Gerard’s kid. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Rory?” Francesca says loudly and sends us a disapproving look. “You want to come outside with me?”
The boy ignores her, instead opting to keep his guarded gaze on me and Aiden. I don’t blame him. If I were him I’d want to check out the hand I’ve been dealt as soon as the deck of cards comes out.
“He has nobody,” Aiden says. “At least, nobody capable of taking care of him. Just us.”
I start to laugh out loud when it hits. When the meaning and intention behind those words registers.
“That’s a joke, right?” I say, already on edge. “You can’t actually be thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
Aiden’s whiskey brown eyes drill into mine, mining for a sign of conscience. It’ll be a disappointing mission, but he has hope, even after multiple failed attempts, bless his heart.
“What the fuck, Aiden?” He has to know whatever he’s suggesting is idiotic.
“He doesn’t have anybody,” Aiden repeats calmly.
“Since when are you a bleeding heart?”
“This is not about being a bleeding heart. It’s about doing the right thing, and you know it.”
“Fuck the right thing!” I drag my hand through my hair roughly. “You can’t take on a random kid just because you feel sorry for him.”
“Yes, I can,” he says, irritatingly calmly. “But it’d be a hell of a lot easier if I had some help.”
I gape at him. Out of the two of us, he’s even less fit to be a father figure than I am.
He eyes me back, an unreadable look on his face.
“You know fuck all about kids,” I say.
“I once knew fuck all about any number of things. I learned.”
“This isn’t your nerd shit. It’s real life.”
I’ve hurt his feelings. He doesn’t show it, but I know.
I unclench my jaw and try to curb my tendency to lash out. Curb my temper, even if the simmer of it underneath my skin is comforting because it’s familiar. Unwelcome, but comforting nonetheless.
“There are options,” I say, as calmly as I can. “Better options than whatever it is you’ve cooked up in your head.”
“You can’t run away from every problem that crops up.”
“Watch me,” I snap. “I have a life. I can’t just drop everything and… What? Permanently stay in Virginia? This house? Thanks, but no, thanks. I’d rather sit my naked ass in a fire ant nest.”
I’m faintly aware of the kid’s eyes moving between me and Aiden, and that this is not a conversation we should have in front of him.
“I was thinking more along the lines of staying in New York, actually,” Aiden says.
“Go fuck yourself. I have a life,” I repeat.
“You do? Since when? Because last time I checked, you don’t do anything, just fuck around from country to country without any purpose or goals.”
He’s not wrong. I’d like to think I have goals, but when the fuck was even the last time I woke up with anything at all scheduled for the day? Six months? Nine? I had a dentist appointment sometime last August. Does that count?
I guess we’ll count that as payback for the nerd shit comment from earlier.
To his credit, Aiden doesn’t look especially regretful. Good for him. Being an asshole every once in a while is good for the soul.
He takes a breath.
“I have a life too, you know. Sometimes you have to make adjustments and do the right thing. It’s been a while for you, I know, but perhaps you can take a stab at what that right thing in this situation is?”
My temper is back full force.
“Oh, shut up with this condescending do-gooder bullshit.” I look around the room wildly.
I can almost feel the walls closing in. This house…
This place is a cage. It’s always been a cage.
I can’t walk away from all of this fast enough.
I really can’t. The door that leads outside lets out a loud squeak as I tear it open, then slams shut with the glass panes rattling.
And he’s still coming after me, because Aiden’s never been that good at taking hints, and he’s doggedly determined at the best of times.
“You accepted me,” he calls out. “That sucked, didn’t it? Finding out Gerard had a second family. And then he chose us over you. But you were still okay with me after the dust settled.”
That’s an interesting interpretation of events, because as I remember things, Aiden stalked me until he wore me down. I would’ve gladly gone on without ever hearing a word about him again, but Aiden seemed to be weirdly enamored with the idea of having a brother.
He’s never understood that being a lone wolf isn’t something to dislike. He just had to pummel me into submission.
“It could be something good,” he says. “Like us two. It’s been nice. Having somebody to… lean on.”
This specific kind of vulnerability is extra grating today when I feel so raw myself.
I turn around on my heel and stride back to him. “You want me to punch you? What exactly is the point of this walk down memory lane?”