Willow #2
Dirty blonde hair, now cut short on his head—I’m assuming to keep the curls at bay, because grown men are weird about having curls, according to my brothers.
Light blue eyes now that he’s removed his sunglasses.
So, that is one point in the “not a douche” category.
He has a beard, cut close to his angular jaw, and I can barely make out the birthmark on his neck that peeks out.
All of these features I’ve seen in the few pictures that my mother had of him as a baby.
All of these I see staring back at me when I look in the mirror every day.
It’s still jarring to see them on someone that I’ve never met.
According to my mom, they all come from our sperm donor, but I can live my life happily without verifying that.
I know that there are two sides to every story, but there’s no way for even me, the queen of rationalization and denial, to make my sperm donor sound like anything but a horrible person.
Besides the features that Mom mentioned, there’s no denying we look so alike that we could be twins.
I guess we both took after the sperm donor.
But Jackson must’ve taken after him in the build aspect, easily coming in at 6'1”, with broad shoulders and huge arms, bringing the whole “brick wall” look together.
Luckily for me, I am not easily intimidated by giants.
Being surrounded by a dad and brothers who are all well over 6'0” gets you over the height thing real fast. He is wearing his cut with the patch I recognize immediately, and I’ll file that a way to deal with later.
His cut says “Smoke,” and that he’s part of the Lost Knights Motorcycle Club.
He slowly nears the table, because I guess my long-lost brother has to take fucking forever to walk anywhere—cool guy strut included. Luckily for me, it’s giving me time to form words in my head, to figure out a way to complete this task.
My mom's wish was that I give him the boxes of things she’s collected and letters she’d written for him in the last twenty-four years.
That was it. No instructions or hints on how she wanted this to go, and no script with exactly what to say, which would have been nice.
Would it really have been that hard to give me an opening statement and some witty dialogue?
Instead, she decided to send her daughter, who shouldn’t be allowed to speak to strangers in any important, life-altering situations, to take care of it.
I’m the one who’ll feel awkward, then panic and blurt out an inappropriate sex joke, followed by a nervous laugh.
Or at least that’s what has happened more than once, so now I have to bring written notes to all important speaking events.
I’m more of a “blend into the background” kind of girl, and I like it there.
It’s less pressure and comes with less staring.
Even in my businesses, only a few people know that I’m the boss.
I blame it on being sick for so long and only being around my family.
Mom was always the mediator, the peacekeeper.
I’m going to have to wing it and hopefully not embarrass Mom too much.
The first step is to try and calm the fuck down.
He finally makes it over to the table after taking his time on the short walk from the door.
Clearly he has nothing better to do today.
I take a deep, steadying breath to try and push down my irritation, and give him a smile that I hope doesn’t give away how nervous I am.
I stick out my hand for a handshake and start to introduce myself, because, you know, manners.
“Thank you for meeting me today! My name is—"
“Yeah, I’m not going to lie. I really don’t wanna be here, and this place is out of my way.
So can we just get this shit over with?” His tone is bored.
He looks bored. Completely ignoring my hand, he takes a seat in one of the available chairs across from me.
So, this is nice. He’s an asshole. Great.
“Sure.” My mind is a battleground that I’m caught in. My head’s trying to find ways to make this less awkward, but my body’s having a natural reaction to his dick-ish attitude, and it makes my fingers dance nervously over the blade tucked under my dress.
“So, I called to give you some things from your—"
He cuts me off again. “Yeah, my mother. I don't know why the bitch couldn’t call me herself, but she never did follow through. So now she sent some little girl to deal with me. Let’s get this over with so I can get back to my shit.”
Don’t stab him. Don’t stab him. Don’t stab him. The words are my mantra as I try to ignore the “little girl” comment. It’s not my fault I’m aging gracefully and shit! I try to remind myself that Mom warned me that my father and his whore raised him. Who knows what they told him over the years?
Well, my mom never did say “whore.” She was too classy for that.
It was in the subtext. But one thing’s for sure: even if Mom informed this twat-waffle that we are related in the things she left him, I’m not claiming him as my brother.
I have enough of those, and I deal with their moodiness and bad days all the time.
I don’t need another brother’s bullshit, especially because he’s been speaking for less than a minute and has already insulted Mom.
His few sentences felt like a knife being shoved in my gut, only worse, because I have been stabbed before, and the feelings that followed were rage and the need to survive.
The only feeling that followed his words was an emptiness that I don’t think will ever leave me.