Page 3 of The Incredible Ordinary

You can see where we both took completely opposing stands in life, both inspired by Gerard. Where he gave promises and then, without fail, broke his word, Aiden gives his word and keeps it no matter what, and I avoid making promises at all costs, so I won’t have to worry about keeping them.

I don’t take a seat. That’d be its own kind of promise. A promise that I intend to stay. At least for a bit.

“So.” I hold my arms out. “You requested, and here I am. What’s this about?”

“Gerard’s dead,” Aiden says again, as if I’ve somehow forgotten the catalyst of my visit over the course of the last thirty-six hours.

“Yeah. I got that.” And then, because it seems like something one should know about their father, I ask, “What happened?”

“His heart stopped beating.” Francesca starts wringing her hands. “It was always too big for this world.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes.

“TheNew York Timespublished a lovely eulogy,” she continues. “Called it the end of an era.” She blinks, quickly wipes a tear away from under her eye, and looks out the window. “It really is.”

“Right.” My clipped tone hardly leaves room for any other sentimental remarks.

“Yes,” Aiden says in a measured voice. “Heart failure. He’ll be remembered.”

And he will be. No doubt about that. A career spanning two decades. Eleven Grand Slam titles. Once considered the greatest tennis player of all time. A shitty husband, and an even shittier father. Quite a legacy.

“The funeral?” I ask, because that’s the only death-related thing I can think of to say, and I feel like I should saysomething.

“He left explicit instructions not to hold one. No memorial services either. Nothing. He wants his remains cremated, and he wants us to spread his ashes among”—Aiden consults his laptop screen for a second. One of his many to-do lists, I’d bet—“the fields of Maplewood Manor.”

I blink. “What the fuck is a Maplewood Manor?”

“This here,” Francesca says, like it’s common knowledge.

“Since when?”

“He renamed it a while back,” she explains. “Said the name came to him in a dream.”

I stare at her for a moment. “Great. One problem. There are no fields here.”

“Perhaps he meant the vegetable patch?” Aiden shrugs.

“He wants to be fertilizer?” I ask.

Somebody snorts.

I turn around and find a pair of eyes on me.

A boy. A strange, skinny kid with eyes too big for his face, shaggy hair way past the point of could-use-a-haircut, and anedge of nerves in the fingers that keep plucking at the couch cushions.

I turn back toward Aiden. “Who’s the kid?”

Aiden glances at the boy, then at me. “Right,” he says, all business. “He’s the main reason we’re here.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and I’m tired and impatient.

“Well? Lay it on me.”

“He’s Gerard’s,” Aiden says.

I whip my head toward the boy again. Not sure why. I think I’m looking for something familiar in his face. A clear sign he’s another one of Gerard’s lost boys. There should be some kind of familial resemblance there, shouldn’t there? A genetic arrow that points from him to me, proving he’s one of us.

There’s nothing. Dirty blond hair to Aiden’s and my dark brown. Slate gray eyes to my green and Aiden’s whiskey brown. Soft features to our angles. He’s pale and skinny, hovering on the edge of a growth spurt but not quite there yet. His T-shirt is worn, his jeans are too short and have multiple rips in them. This boy doesn’t look anything like me. Or Aiden. Or Gerard, for that matter.