Gramps comes charging around the corner of the far hall. He’s not much taller than Grandma, though his gut is rounder than I remember, testing the seams of his argyle sweater vest. He’s got me in an embrace before I can even say hello. This is far more physical affection than I’m used to or, frankly, comfortable with.
“Picture time!” Grandma’s fiddling with her camcorder again like Mom didn’t send her the newest iPhone when it came out earlier this year. “Oh darn. I never figured out how to work the timer on this thing. Hector! Oh, he’s outside chopping wood. Be right back!” She dashes off, leaving me in the dust of confusion.
I ask Gramps a question I’m not sure I want to know the answer to: “Who’s Hector?”
“A former student of mine. His family hit a patch of financial hardship sometime last year. He doesn’t talk about it a lot, but before the start of the fall semester, he sent me an email letting me know that he may not be able to return to classes due to the cost of room and board. You should know, he’s immensely bright, so his tuition is largely covered by scholarships,” Gramps explains, as if I asked for a full biography with sources cited. “If a bed and some food were all he needed to continue his college education, then Grandma and I decided we’d scrape together a bed and some food for the boy. That’s all there is to it.” He beams at me. “It’s the Wind River way.”
The Wind River way sounds worlds apart from what I left back in Manhattan: high-exposure fundraising events and large-sum donations tactfully boasted about by publicists. Those are expected. Housing the displaced and downtrodden for the holidays is unheard of. And for good reason.
What if this Hector is an ax-wielding murderer? I want to ask how well they know him, but recalling how many years it’s been since my last visit, I suppose I could ask them the same question about me.
“You look different,” Gramps says after a bit of studied silence. “You eating?”
“I’m eating.” I tug my coat self-consciously away from my center. It wouldn’t be a visit with family without them poking at your sore spots. The very same spots you obsess over in every single candid photo taken of you and scrutinized on numerous gossip sites.
“Traffic bad?”
“I was asleep most of the ride.” Alas, I was up late last night, trying to argue my way out of this. When Mom realized I had packed next to nothing, she and Oksana, our au-pair-turned-housekeeper, erratically stuffed my belongings into the closest luggage they could find. They rolled me out of bed and into the car this morning with barely a wave.
A slap on the wrist is usually what I get for overstepping my spending limit. Something’s different about this time, and I just want to know what it is.
My thought is interrupted when the mysterious Hector arrives wearing a corduroy jacket over a red-checked flannel that complements the sweaty, appealing flush on the crests of his cheeks. He’s got tan skin and long, black hair that unfurls from beneath his modest knit beanie.
“Hector, this is our grandson, Matthew,” Grandma says, overly chipper.
“I know who he is,” Hector says, clipped, expression unmovable.
Classic stranger, thinking they know me just because they’ve seen my pictures online and read about my family too many times. Nothing irks me more than preconceived notions about who I am.
Grandma and Gramps are preoccupied again, bumbling with a jammed button on the camcorder. Hector extends a hand anyway as he looks me over with striking emerald-and-gold eyes. “Nice pants.”
His voice—decadent and gliding with a low timbre that’s in sharp contrast with his untrimmed facial scruff and rustic wardrobe choices—rings like a compliment, but his smirk and slight chuckle make the statement land with a sting.
Instantly, an insulted heat races down my neck. “Thank you, but my eyes are up here,” I shoot back, calling his attention away from the front of my waterlogged, pink-painted crackle jeans with the zippers on the thighs. I was being rushed this morning and grabbed the pair nearest the front of my walk-in closet.
Do they not match my sweater? Should I have paired them with different boots?
Wait, no. What does that matter? I shouldn’t be receiving passive-aggressive fashion critiques from a guy wearing shabby, holey denim that could’ve been retired two years ago. Or better yet, never purchased from some tragic bargain bin to begin with.
I meet his hand, grip so strong he knows I’m not here to play games. “They were a gift from a prominent global designer. Pieces like this are entirely en vogue.” I narrow my eyes. “In case you missed the memo. Looks like I arrived just in time. You could use the inspiration.”
I watch his thick throat as he swallows a balk. My gaze lands upon three distinct brown birthmarks orbiting his Adam’s apple. A tiny, unique constellation. Mesmerizing in an obnoxious way. “I’m good. Not really my style,” he says. “I prefer clothes that are more…practical.” By practical, I’m certain he means less flashy, less flamboyant, and moretraditionally masculine. Every sentiment I’ve had hurled at me in countless comment sections since the dawn of time. Screw this guy and his scratchy-looking flannel.
“I didn’t realize ‘practical’ meant drab.” I’m all smiles, while harshly shaking his hand.
“And I didn’t realize ‘fashionable’ meant blinding.” He matches my smile, giving me one last hearty shake. At full volume—in an amiable show for my grandparents who are listening once again—he says, “It’s good to meet you, dude.” Though it doesn’t soundgoodat all.
“Good to meet you too,dude.” His lip twitches, but not with pleasure, at the way I echo him. His firm glare grows more unreadable. It’s infuriating. Agitating.
I pull my hand away first, which I never, ever do, as a rule. But I can’t help it. The way he hasn’t so much as rolled out the welcome wagon for me is disarming. The relentless prickling on my scalp confirms it.
“Shall we take the picture?” Gramps asks.
Grandma and Gramps usher me in front of the doorway, which is strung up with strands of golden tinsel. I attempt to look as happy as possible for the picture, which I’m sure will be on Facebook within the hour. I’m not looking forward to having to discreetly untag myself.
“Say ‘Best Christmas Ever!’” Hector announces with a dash of irony as the camcorder fires off and my annoyed curiosity about him fires up.
When the photo shoot finishes, a timer rings from somewhere in the kitchen. Grandma asks Gramps for help with her chicken, leaving Hector and me alone in the foyer. He clicks through the seventeen different pictures he took, not even acknowledging my presence.
