Chapter One
Savannah
Different Orchard
“Happy birthday, dearest daddio…. Happy birthday to you!” my older brothers chant, adding falsettos I wouldn’t dare attempt, but they have that white-man confidence and know no shame.
“Best stick to your day jobs.” Dad shakes his head at them, but he hasn’t stopped smiling since Dallas and Clayton showed up this morning.
The conversation resumes as my dad cuts the cake, and it’s hard for me to get a word in. Not that anyone intentionally cuts me off or leaves me out, but my loud, boisterous, and sometimes obnoxious brothers didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree. I, however, am from an entirely different orchard; I’m quiet. I listen.
“Savannah, did I tell you about the time I fell off a platform at the factory?” My grandfather nudges me after my third attempt to contribute to a story is thwarted by someone else’s excitement. “Twenty feet down and landed flat on my back.”
“You definitely did not.”
My grandfather, who says he’s too old for shouting, likes to sit beside me and share life lessons instead of competing to be heard when everyone talks over each other.
“How are you still standing?”
“I’m tough,” he teases before admitting, “Judo.”
“Isn’t Judo fighting?” I saw my brothers compete in it when we were younger. My dad felt it was important we learn to defend ourselves, but I opted for Krav Maga and Kickboxing, where you don’t have to roll around on the floor with your opponent.
“It also teaches you how to fall properly. Saved me from—oh, that was a bad call if I ever saw one,” my grandfather abandons me mid-sentence to join the discussion on Dallas’ last game. As a quarterback. In the NFL.
“The ref was clearly blind, but that last pass you made was perfection,” Dad praises. They ultimately won the game, but it was close.
“It’s okay, they’re not gushing about me either,” Clayton says with a wink.
Did I forget to mention he was the MLB’s rookie of the year, and is currently a contender for the Cy Young Award?
I roll my eyes, but it really doesn’t bother me. While my athletic skills leave much to be desired, I grew up watching my brothers play. Football, basketball, baseball, soccer…I’m pretty sure they tried out every sport, and to this day, I absolutely love cheering them on.
Unfortunately for Clay, as supportive as our family is of him, they live and breathe football.
“Oh, shush, you know how proud we are of you. And it has nothing to do with winning the World Cup,” Mom tells him, but he just shakes his head.
“World Series,” everyone else reminds her.
“Are you still upset we had to switch to brunch?” I ask my dad, since he made quite the fuss when I invented a study group to pull this off.
“Best surprise birthday present ever,” he assures me. “You staying for supper too?”
I’m about to say I can’t, but Mom swoops in to convince me.
“I can get a second cake, since calories don’t count on birthdays.” She winks.
“She has to drive us back to the airport,” Clay points out.
“None of you are staying?” Mom asks, looking between us.
“We’re playing in Tampa tomorrow; all I could manage was a layover.” Dallas gives her a tight smile, like it pains him to go. He’s a terrible actor, so she knows he means it. We grew up exceedingly close, with Dallas even choosing a college less than an hour away so he could still make it to Sunday dinners.
“I have postseason meetings back in Boston, but I’ll be back for Thanksgiving,” Clay reassures her.
Mom makes a face, like she doesn’t know how she’ll survive so long without them. Dallas getting drafted has been an adjustment, which makes sense, since she still hasn’t given up on finding Clay a team closer to home. Dad kisses her forehead and tells her to be happy she got to see them at all.
“I’ll be back next Sunday,” I promise, ever reliable, and Mom sighs in relief.
