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Loosely, my arms wrapped around his back. I peeked at the birthday cake on the table behind him. He wore expensive aftershave, the one Owen, and I snuck into countless times. His black hair was cut short. Not long like me and Owen’s.
I should say something nice. Instead, I stepped back. “Thought you’d be out of town…still.”
He placed his hand on my cheek. “Your mom said she’d get you home today so we could spend time together as a family.
Family? What the fuck was he talking about? We hadn’t been a real family in years.
Biting my tongue seemed best. Not sure when we’d have another family moment. Maybe in the year two thousand twenty. The doorbell chimed.
“I’ll get it,” Owen yelled.
“I understand you and Hayden had quite the weekend.”
Thatcher wore a short sleeve navy golf shirt and khaki shorts.
“Yeah, we had a blast.”
Today was my actual birthday. Hayden wanted us to have an epic Saturday night. We were having fun until Vicky returned. I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight when I knew she was home.
“Food’s here!” Owen announced from behind.
I turned and the aroma of shrimp fried rice flew up my nose.
“My favorite.”
Dad smacked my back. “I know. Have a seat son.”
He grabbed a bag from Owen and placed it on the table.
“Laura, have a seat,” he smiled.
What if he was leaving us? I knew it. He had another family.
My mother grabbed my hand. I peered at her. “It’s like old times.” A bright smile lit up her gorgeous tanned oval face.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
I could see what my dad saw in my mom. She was vibrant and enjoyed basking in the sun when she wasn’t drinking. Maybe if he sent my mother to rehab, we could go back to the way things were.
My father became agitated easily. I could as well. Probably inherited that trait. My parents enrolled me in martial arts to channel my pent-up aggression. Shit, my aggression was mainly pointed toward my dad. Because he was never there. It happened gradually. He worked from home for several years, but I guess he grew tired of Owen and me asking to play catch. He began working from a state-of-the-art building in downtown Atlanta.
Dad sat next to mom. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. I tried not to stare, but it was difficult.
Thatcher hadn’t displayed affection toward my mother in years. Honestly, I hadn’t been home too much. Maybe they made up, and I wasn’t aware.
“Owen, how’s Harvard?”
“Good. I look forward to the fall semester.”
“Excuse me.” I held my finger in the air.
“Owen, I know you and Vicky attend the same school. Have you ever tried to talk to her?”
He laughed. “What?”
“Answer, the question.”
He glanced around the table, then his eyes landed on me. “No, I never tried to talk to your girlfriend. I know you’ve got it bad for her. What the heck kind of brother would I be if I tried to put the moves on your girl?”
