THE BUTCHER ON THE BUS
Thebutcher-on-the-busphenomenonrefersto how the human brain struggles to recognize a familiar face when they are in an unfamiliar context. So even though the two men yelling out “Surprise! Happy birthday, Drew!” from either side of Monika are the two people I love most in the world, their presence is so unexpected that I instinctively scream in terror.
Scott’s eyebrows shoot up, his face clear as day now that my eyes have adjusted, thanks to my fight or flight instincts being activated.
“Dang, Sis, I know it’s been a while, but you seriously forgot what we look like already?”
Scott has one hand wrapped around a fistful of balloon strings and is balancing a cake box in the other, and I frown at the sight of both of them. His smile was optimistic a second ago, but now there is worry around his eyes that vaguely reminds me of when someone proposes to their partner but isn’t one hundred percent sure they will say yes.
In the strained silence, I consider running. With their hands full and the element of surprise, I can probably make it. I don’t, though, because he’s right.
Sort of.
While I’d never forget what my own brother looks like, I am struck by how much’s changed in a year. His shaggy brown hair is cut short and styled, making him look less like a perpetual college student and more like the tech guru that he is. He has also let some stubble grow, which makes his narrow jaw appear stronger.
I subconsciously smooth down my own hair in response to his pulled-together appearance. My roots are the same brown as Scott’s, if you can even call them roots, since they have grown out at least ten inches, but the bottom half is a damaged mess of blonde. Since I was called in last minute to cover for Chad, I didn’t have time to do more than throw it in a bun.
At least it will hide the fact that I haven’t gotten a haircut since before I last saw them.
It’s more than just his hair and other subtle changes to the way he looks, though. There’s something different in the way he holds himself too, like he has fought a battle this past year and came out the other side with a new purpose. It’s a battle I know nothing about, because we haven’t spoken since my birthday last year, when I made it clear that I didn’t want to celebrate, and he forced it on me anyway.
I guess some things never change.
After my thorough once-over of Scott, I shift my eyes to Gabe, my brother-in-law. While the same height as Scott, Gabe is twice as broad. His big brown eyes are assessing me right back, and I half expect him to look disappointed, but he just blinks at me in wonder.
I glance down at my outfit to try and see what he sees. My cardigan, white T-shirt, and jeans are pretty boring, but fittedenough to signal that I am eating and exercising regularly. That must be it. He is happy to see that I’ve kept my promises.
My emotions cycle between mad, relieved, and terrified for their safety. I am thankful that they made it here in one piece, but the fear of what danger might befall them for risking being in proximity to me today keeps my adrenaline pumping. If I had known they were coming, I would have begged them not to or at least demanded that they travel out here on any other day.
Scott’s tentative smile falls as he waits for my response. Right, I guess it’s my turn to talk.
“I’m not sure what to say,” I admit, when the silence becomes unbearable.
“Well, it’s not every day your little sister turns twenty-eight,” Scott says, as if that is some important milestone. “Isn’t that considered over the hill?”
A chuckle escapes my lips before I have a chance to stop it, even though I am pissed at them. The happiness, the surprise, and a thousand other emotions that I am fighting against bubble up to the surface with the sound. “That’s forty, dumbass.”
“Okay, so maybe not over the hill, but the hilltop is on the horizon.”
“Are you falling down the other side then? Since you are so much older—”
“Careful,” he says, looking only slightly wounded and holding up the cake box so that I can read the label. “I drove thirty miles out of the way to pick this up for you, but I am not opposed to putting it back in the car and eating it all myself.”
The box from Porto’s can only contain one thing, my favorite cake in the world, their famous tiramisu.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He shrugs, then takes a step towards the door. On instinct, I lunge forward to stop him, and he grins at me with a look that can only be described as triumphant. He opens his arms wide ininvitation as best he can with both hands full of party supplies, but before I step into his embrace, I glance up at the ceiling to make sure that no lights are swaying or poised to fall on top of our heads. When I’m certain that the coast is clear, I take the chance that my aching heart cannot resist and fall into his arms.
“You like hugs now?” I ask, my voice muffled against his soft cashmere sweater.
“No,” he says, but tightens his grip around me when I try to pull away.
We stay there for a moment, and I use the time to thank God that Scott and I are so different. He always sees the best in people. I’ve only seen him mad at someone a handful of times, the more recent times unfortunately directed at me, but he is just as quick to forgive as he is to anger, as evidenced by his coming all this way to surprise me.
“My turn,” Gabe says, and Scott gives me one last squeeze before letting me go. Unlike Scott, Gabe’s love language is physical touch, and his hugs are a thing of legend. I scrub the tears off my cheeks as he works to release the multiple bags draped over his arms to give me a proper hug. “Oh,Drew.” His glassy eyes reflect mine. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too,” I say, and melt beneath his enormous arms. I’ve heard studies that say hugs from a loved one can have healing powers. This one makes me a believer.
