Page 2 of The Incredible Ordinary

There’s a new back patio. A bicycle has been stranded in the overgrown grass. One of the upstairs windows is ajar, a piece of white curtain flapping in the wind. There’s patio furniture strewn all over the backyard. A chair here and a table there, like somebody dragged the chair and a good book under a tree to read in peace, then abandoned it when something more interesting came along. Par for the course when it comes to Gerard.

There’s also a messy vegetable patch that looks like another half-finished, overgrown, abandoned project. I’m sensing a theme here.

I glance away from the mayhem that is the messy backyard and concentrate on the forest behind it. At least nothing has changed there.

“There you are.”

Francesca’s voice makes me turn around. I watch her approach. My father’s housekeeper looks the same as always. Long, dark brown hair and dark eyes with laughter lines etched in the corners. She’s a bit paler than usual, but otherwise not much has changed in the fifteen years I last saw her.

Francesca’s smile widens as she stops in front of me. She opens her arms. And I just stare, dumbfounded. Does she expect…?

She does.

She goes in for the hug.

I’m too stunned to do anything but stand still, arms awkwardly by my sides as Francesca wraps herself around me and squeezes. Seconds tick by. Seconds that feel like hours untilFrancesca tightens her arms around me once more before letting go. She takes a step back, still clutching my forearms, and just looks at me.

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s good to see you,” she says. “I still can’t believe you’re a grown-up. I’m so happy you’re here. It’s been too long.”

I search for words.

There are very few, none of them appropriate for the occasion.

“It’s interesting to be back,” I say as diplomatically as I can.

Francesca doesn’t seem to be bothered by my inability to be warm and affectionate with her. She’s still smiling softly like I’m the prodigal son.

“This has always been your home, Milàn,” she says.

“No, it hasn’t.”

Francesca frowns and opens her mouth like she wants to reassure me she meant what she said, even though it’s the last thing I want—more lies.

I don’t know what else to say. I haven’t been back in Virginia in over a decade, and I only saw my father sporadically when we happened to be in the same city by some divine intervention. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of lunches Gerard set up for those short visits. I’d need even fewer fingers to count the appointments he kept. Awkward affairs where neither of us knew what to say, both of us sitting stiffly, making small talk. Gerard never asked anything substantial about my life, and I avoided inquiries about Gerard at all costs. I didn’t need to ask. He’d tell me anyway. Gerard, after all, was always Gerard’s favorite topic.

We were effectively strangers, my father and I, and we had been for the better part of my life. He’d get a hankering to play Dad every once in a while, so Mom—though, to her credit, reluctantly—shipped me over to Gerard’s place. The shine ofhaving a son would wear off in a few weeks, and back home I went.

And now he’s gone, and the grief and sadness I’m probably supposed to feel just aren’t there. I don’t expect them to make an appearance.

“He’d be so happy you came.” Francesca’s smile is a touch tremulous. She’s always been blind to Gerard’s many, many shortcomings. Out of all the people in Gerard’s life, most of whom he treated like they were disposable—present company included—Francesca is the one constant who’s always been there. Between all the wives, mistresses, assistants, and employees that have come and gone over the years, she managed to stick by him. Kudos to her. I hope he remembered to include her in the will.

Francesca hooks her arm through mine and starts steering me toward the house. “Come, come. Aiden is already inside. Let’s get you settled in, and I’ll find you something to eat.”

“I’m not staying,” I say quickly. So quickly she stops.

“Nonsense. You’ve got a lot to discuss. There are arrangements you need to make. Decisions. There’s plenty of room. Besides, important decisions cannot be made on an empty stomach. Come now. We’ll go inside and see what’s what.”

She starts moving again, and I stand still without saying a word. Soon enough I’m being marched through the elegant French doors and through the house. Inside, more changes greet me. The meticulous household my mother used during the summers to entertain her and Gerard’s numerous friends and acquaintances is nowhere to be found. In its place is chaos.

There’s clutter everywhere. Pages from books tacked on the fridge. Somebody’s started painting flowers on a canvas by the window and stopped midway through. A pair of loafers lie by the couch. A stack of notepads is on the counter, precariously tilting to the right. The air smells of cinnamon buns and oranges.Sunlight streams through the windows and paints everything soft yellow and cheerful.

In the kitchen I find Aiden parked at the table, a laptop open in front of him, a deep frown of concentration on his face as he types furiously.

I tap the top of Aiden’s head, and he jumps. For as long as I’ve known my brother, he’s always had the inhuman ability to concentrate so hard the rest of the world completely disappears.

He blinks and frowns for a few seconds before his expression clears. Back among the living.

“You made it.” He gets up. A tall, wiry guy in perfectly pressed khakis and a gray crew-neck sweater. He looks tired. If there have been any arrangements to be made, you can bet your ass Aiden’s been taking them all on his shoulders. His need to be a hundred percent dependable and trustworthy is its own kind of addiction.