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She leans in to kiss his cheek, and the way my dad flaps is comical.
‘She’s European, Pop. They can’t help kissing everyone.’
‘Well, lucky for you, son; that’s all I’ll say. Come on, Becky.’
As she follows him to the truck, where he uncharacteristically holds open the rear door for her, Becky socks my arm with her fist. It really doesn’t hurt all that much, but I feel the intent.
When we’re in and belted up, I cast a glance from the front passenger seat to see Becky wedged between Annalise and Timmy. The sight of her knees pulled up to her chest tickles me.
‘Now then, is Becky short for Rebecca?’ my dad asks.
‘It is.’
‘And does Rebecca have a last name?’
‘Fletcher. Rebecca Fletcher.’
‘He’s an ex-cop,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll run a search for you on the database as soon as we get back.’
‘Very Jack Byrnes. You’ll find me squeaky clean, Bill, I promise.’
I snort at her reference toMeet the Fockers. My dad really is a bit Robert De Niro, without the suave and the paycheck.
‘How old are you?’ Annalise fires.
‘I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?’
‘Nearly five.’
‘So four then?’ Becky teases.
‘No. Nearly five.’
She wisely concedes the point.
* * *
The sun has set by the time we reach the house. A gentle, pink glow is cast against the clouds. Despite all my efforts, I’ve never been able to convince my parents to let me help them find a bigger, better place. They live in the same three-bedroom house we lived in when I was growing up. It’s just another white house among the many white houses on the street. Except the tree on the front lawn of my parents’ house is decorated with twinkling tea lights. Its leaves rustle in the light breeze coming in off the bay behind us, cool but not chilling.
There’s definitely something warm, nostalgic even, about the place, but that doesn’t stop my sudden strike of nervousness as we pull into the driveway. This is not what Becky would expect of a hotshot attorney from the city. High-rises and big, expensive apartments, like mine: that’s what she’d expect.
What was I thinking, bringing her here?
No. We’re friends, I remind myself. With friends, anything goes.
I step out of the truck as quickly as I can, in a bid to open the rear door, but Timmy beats me to it, jumping down to the driveway. I’m left lingering by the door, waiting for Becky’s reaction as she slides out of the backseat. She swivels, taking in everything about the house. She says nothing. She just gives me a slow, soft smile.
Still feeling anxious, I scoot by her. ‘I’ll get the bags.’
‘Oh wait.’ She unzips her bag and takes out a plastic container. ‘Bribes,’ she whispers.
We follow the others, at a slower pace than the hyper kids, straight through the house to the kitchen. Not without Becky taking in the multitude of family pictures hanging on the walls. I may need to do a sweep and approve these before she sees my plump, early teenage years.
I silently curse my mom for having an obsession with hanging pictures of Millie, Jake and me.
In the kitchen, Becky is folded straight into my mother’s arms. ‘You must be Becky. Let me see you. Oh my. Gorgeous.’
Becky’s cheeks flush pink. For a sassy, witty woman, she’s easily affected by a compliment. It’s charming.
