“There, food and drink. Now take your friend and get out.” Simon’s whisper and his added poke rocked me from my spot, cracked the frost, and broke my eye contact with New Guy.
Simon was usually nice, but in a kitchen full of his friends, he wanted me out of sight. He was the middle ground between Dad, who thought he protected me by speaking over me, and our sunshine Mom, who had named us after her favorite song and the band’s lead singer. To her, lecturing my class was a great idea: “Stuttering isn’t the same for everyone. For some, it’s the plosive consonants like P, B, M. For others, like our Rio, it’s words that begin with velar plosives and laryngeal sounds that originate in the throat—like K, C, G, and even A, O,E. Some stutterers repeat syllables, but for our Rio, it just takes longer to utter them.” They both meant well.
“Who’s that new guy?” Ruby asked Simon, unfazed even while he was pretty much shoving us across the kitchen like unwanted pests.
“His name is None. None of your business,” Simon replied.
The new guy looked at us again when we passed by him. “Owen,” he said with a smile, his head towering above his friends.
I flashed an embarrassed smile at him and went upstairs with Ruby.
Halfway to my room, I realized: Owen started with a velar sound.
I LATER SAW THAT SMILEdirected at me countless times—when I spoke in school assemblies, in my tenth-grade homecoming dance, in little in-between moments. I searched for it in PR photos, in paper snapshots of him visiting sick kids in hospitals with his team. Surely, he’d offer that same smile to children who needed it most.
But it was never the same one.
I came to think of it as his secret smile—one that belonged only to me.
Now on the doorstep stood a much older Owen. One with tattoos, sharp angles, stubble, and dark circles around his blue eyes; one with broad shoulders under his white shirt and muscular footballer legs showing under his khakicalf-length pants. The perfect mixture of laid-back and stylish. Right out of British Vogue.
But there was no smile on his face. Secret or otherwise.
4
Owen
“IT’S YOUR HOUSE. YOUdon’t have to ring the doorbell,” said the woman whose amber eyes—now framed by delicate lines and not just soft bangs—could still reach deep inside me.
All I could do was give her a stupid, small lopsided grin that half-hid the grimace caused by my throbbing knee.
“Hey,” I managed to say eventually.
A familiar, beloved, and slightly annoyed face appeared next to Rio. “It’s just you? No extras?” my grandfather asked, theatrically sticking his head out and looking from side to side.
In his dark brown pants that surrounded his Santa Claus figure and a buttoned-up shirt and cardigan, my grandfather was now a head shorter than Rio. Three years had shrunk him further.
“Disappointed?” My sardonic smile completed my tone. “Good to see you too, Grandpa.” Knowing that he wasn’t a hugger, I reached out my hand to shake his.
Walter shook my hand, and with a teenagery shrug and frown mumbled, “Well, come in. Don’t stand in thedoorway. You’re letting the air conditioning out.” He then shuffled back inside.
“Hey, Rio.” I finally focused my eyes on her.
She stood silently with a little smile on her face.
“He’s a little cranky these days. It’s not you.” She got a little stuck on the C. It landed in my chest as a warm memory, as if I crossed the threshold of home.
I scoffed. “He’s mad that it’s been a while. Right for being so.”
Rio seemed to hesitate, but then, as if to make up for my grandfather’s welcome, she stepped forward, stood on tiptoes, and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Welcome back home, Owen,” she said against my neck.
Surprised, I left the handle of my suitcase and wrapped my arms around her.
I inhaled. Rio still smelled like strawberries though she didn’t seem to be wearing that godawful lip gloss she used to when we were kids.
She released her hold and stepped back. “We’re still at the threshold.” She chuckled. “I prepared the suite for you. The cleaning service actually did. I’m sorry I haven’t found a place yet. I’m looking.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you’re here and that he has you. With his mood, I’m happy you’re buffering. Please don’t move out on my account.” I limped inside, dragging my luggage behind me. I wanted to add that I might not stay for long or that she probably didn’t plan on living with two invalids instead of one, but I said nothing.
