Chapter 28
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A t least four times each year, I’m at this airport.
Navigating my way through and getting back on the road as quickly as possible has become a science. Leave my house thirty minutes before the plane is due to land, giving myself an extra ten minutes on days which are heavier in traffic, and arrive twenty-five minutes after touch down.
It’s never failed me once, and today is no exception. I arrive at the terminal’s exit just as a flood of people spill out of the automatic doors.
Flagging me down with two fingers in the air is my little brother, as if he doesn’t stand out among everyone else here like a sore thumb.
In his usual fashion, he’s dressed in an unzipped hoodie that sits on top of a loose black t-shirt, a pair of matching black jeans that are far too skinny for a grown man to wear – complete with ripped knees, and a pair of hi-top Chucks I’m not sure that he ever takes off.
The only luggage he has with him is a backpack – get in and out of here as quickly as possible.
“Where’s your bride?” I ask as he climbs into the car, grasping his hand in a quick shake.
“Booked out for two weeks. Mind if I smoke in here?” He asks, reaching into his worn, silver-Sharpie-covered backpack, presumably for a pack of cigarettes.
“Yes I do,” I tell him. “We’ll be at the house soon enough.”
“Still have that creepy fucking room?”
“Yes,” I laugh, “but it’s locked and your room is on the other end of the hall.”
“Whatever happened to good old-fashioned P-in-V with the lights off?” He asks, forcing a laugh out of me.
His feet are thrown onto my dashboard as he reaches for the lever at the side of his seat and pushes it into a deep recline, crossing his arms over his chest when he’s finished.
“Will you behave yourself tonight?” I ask him. “It’s important to Mom…which means it’s also important to Ham.”
“That’s the only reason I even come,” he says, turning his head toward me. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I assure him with a squeeze to his shoulder.
Reaching behind him, he pulls his hood over his head and turns his face toward the window, presumably to take his usual post-flight nap. I know he doesn’t like coming out here; this isn’t his home anymore, and he doesn’t feel secure here.
He’s here for our brother, not for the appearances which we’re expected to uphold.
I don’t blame him for that; I think if I were in his position, I would feel the same way that he does. Being performatively welcomed into your parents’ lives twice each year and ignored for the other three hundred and sixty-three days has to bring with it things that I should be thankful not to understand.
“Right over here,” the man in front of us instructs, following with a few shutters of the camera in his hand. “Perfect. A little closer together.”
My father’s arm tightens around my shoulders as he pulls me closer to him with a wide smile, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“Smile, son, it’s your mother’s birthday,” he orders through his grin, and I comply, offering a perfectly-respectable smile to the camera as the shutter sounds again.
Graham is beaming from his position between our mother and sister. I try not to let it bother me that Tripp was placed the farthest from our parents once again, but it does, almost as much as it bothers me that every year, we have to put on this dreadful fucking performance.
As we break from each other, my father pulls the photographer aside; likely to make sure that the photos will be posted at the right time, with the right captions.
“Is it fucked up to say I hope he’s not here for next year’s?” Tripp asks as he steps into place next to me.
“Yes, Tripp,” I tell him, adjusting my tie, “that’s ‘fucked up.’ But I understand it.”
“She’s afraid of him.”
“Yes,” I nod.
“Still just as guilty,” he mumbles.
“I know.”
With a hand on his shoulder, we walk into the restaurant together, where a large table at the center of the room waits for us – just like it does every year.
It’s hard to bite my tongue at my father’s hypocrisy: pridefulness is a mortal sin that we should never indulge in, unless of course, it comes to Jefferson Montgomery’s public image and receiving preferential treatment because of it.
Don’t even get me started on his greed.
We sit at the table, each of us in the same spots that we sit in every year. We eat the same food, drink the same beverages, and reveal the same two-tier, vanilla-on-vanilla cake that we do every year.
Graham prays for our mother’s health and happiness like he does every year, and he silently prays to himself like he does every year; a prayer that he sends up for myself and our older brother, one that he’ll never tell me the details of, but will always offer me a smile and a subtle nod as if to say ‘message delivered.’
“Brody, sweetheart,” my mother calls, reaching across the table to take hold of my hand. “I was speaking to Mrs. Taylor and she told me that her Hannah is still single. I thought I might get the two of you in contact.”
“Oh,” I blink. “I appreciate that, but no thank you.”
“What?” Edie says from her place beside me, her brow furrowing. “I thought for sure, you were finally looking.”
Finally looking.
Again, I bite my tongue, not wanting to wound my sister by pointing out her husband’s wedding band still wrapped around her thumb. The constant reminder of her loss and the reason that she, herself, hasn’t been able to move on from the past.
I suppose it’s her own form of self-torment.
She and I seem to have that in common.
“I think two failed marriages is more than enough,” my father comments snidely from the head of the table.
“You are right as always.” As I pull my water to my lips, I add, “Should I find myself standing at the altar for a third time, I certainly pray that it won’t be in your lifetime.”
“What did you just say to me?” As he glowers at me, Tripp sputters and chokes on his beer, turning behind me as he coughs through a fit of laughter. Our father’s fiery gaze turns onto him. “Don’t be disgusting.”
“Mind your heart, Father,” I remind him, leaning back in my chair with a smile.
Add this to your list, Isla, I think to myself.
Playing is one thing. Pushing boundaries is all fun and games, until someone winds up seated at this table next to me. What the public sees is so far removed from the festering, toxic reality that lies beneath this family’s pretty porcelain mask.
My first wife should be thankful that our marriage ended as quickly as it did and that she was able to miss out on this night and all of the others like it. My second wasn’t so lucky.
I hate to admit it, but maybe the old man is right; maybe I shouldn’t take that chance again.