Page 24 of These Secret Years

“I think they’re sleeping.”

“I’m glad you brought them with you,” my dad pipes up as he dumps a bag of charcoal into the grill. “We’re gonna turn the three of you into a machine.”

I appreciate that he says that. It’s better than him shoving me into med school. In that respect, I’m also really glad the twins are here.

“I have a few new houses for you,” my mom says.

The bouncing conversational ball is a feature of home I’ve missed.

“Yeah?”

“All staged. If you’ll just give them a little dust and diffuse for me, I won’t ask any questions.”

I laugh. “No one’s buying?”

“They’re all overpriced out on the lake. Honestly, I think one of them is haunted.”

“But you staged it?” Kat asks.

“Well, I had to do something with it to make it look like it was at least possible to live there.”

It used to be that this quirky hobby of mine was a secret. When my mom discovered I’d been sneaking into the houses she had on the market at night using her realtor codes, she was pissed. It led to a conversation I’ll never not be able to stop cringing when I think about it. I remember her calling me her “soft boy”. I was sixteen at the time, 6’2, and a starter on the varsity football team. To have my mom call me soft because she found out I was playing house in strange homes rather than sneaking out to party with my friends wasn’t exactly confidence-building for me.

In her defense, I’d been crying at the time, a blubbering mess trying to explain why I liked imagining myself in these other places with these other lives. I’d done a poor job of it because I couldn’t really wrap my head around it back then, but I understand it better now.

I’ve known for a long time what my life was going to look like. I’ve also known I have choices. No one ever forced me into playing football. I was a daddy’s boy, in awe of my father, his success and his huge life. I wanted what he had. I still do. It’s a goal and a passion.

But, as my dad always manages to point out, I’m not some meathead with no options. I’ve always been good at school. I graduated in the top five percent of my high school class and didn’t take easy courses. I love to read and learn. I love to write papers and figure out a complex math problem. But I’ve always known where my life was headed, and I’ve always understood on some level that I’d be giving up something important to pursue this NFL dream.

The empty houses are all other lives. Other possibilities. Like stories about me that won’t ever get written.

Dillon finds his way to the porch, his dark red hair sticking up in the back like he was sleeping hard on it. He’s wearing a 49ers t-shirt, black shorts, and white Crocs. He holds out his fist for a bump as he moves to plop down next to me. His massive weight hitting the couch causes my sister to bounce. She snorts a laugh and asks Dillion which one he is. He tells her and then explains how to tell him apart from his brother. “I’m better looking, I have longer hair, and more freckles.”

I agree on all counts. While not at all my type, Dillon does have a slight edge in the looks department, and it might be because of the freckles, but I think it has more to do with the fact that he talks and smiles more than Derek. He’s the more confident one, and it’s mainly in the way he holds himself. Higher head, thrown back shoulders, like he’s making no apologies for how big he is. Derek tends to hunch and frown. They’re both sweet and lovable as hell, but yeah. Dillon’s got more swagger.

“Who’s older?” Kat asks.

“Derek,” he and I say at the same time.

“It’s not subtle,” I add. “Is Kora coming to dinner?”

“She’s on call tonight, so probably not.”

My oldest sister Kora is an OB/GYN. She married a guy named Jonathan she met in med school. He’s an anesthesiologist. They’ve got two kids, two nannies, and four dogs. They live half an hour away, closer to the hospital where they both practice.

“Do people here need their lawns mowed or anything?” Dillon asks.

Mom is turning on the string lights that hang in the arbor overhead. “Are you looking for work?”

“Just something to do during the day besides sit on our asses.”

I look out at the lawn with our huge, heated pool and the broad expanse of lawn trimmed down specifically for our arrival. “No one cares if you sit on your asses all summer,” I inform him. “Plus, there’s a pool.”

“We get bored easy.”

“I have plenty for you to do,” my mom says. “I have a house for sale that’s completely overgrown. It might take weeks to clear the grounds.”

“Do you have equipment, or should we get our own?” Dillon asks Mom.