“So we just say, ‘Hey, we’re dating’, and move on?” I ask as I pace the floor in Brandon’s living room.
“Eh, um, not quite like that I’d hope.”
I look over at him, leaning forward on the couch, with his elbows resting on his knees, and a pensive look on his handsome face. We’re three weeks away from Christmas, and today we’re telling his brothers, and then next week we’re telling our families that we’re dating. To say my nerves are through the roof is an understatement. The holidays are supposed to be a joyful time, and here we are about to ruin it.
When I talked to my therapist last week and this morning, she said the fear of rejection will likely cause me to spiral more than the possibility of acceptance. I’ve talked with Brandon about how this may cause a backslope, and he’s reassured me that he’s with me through it all.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—I’m nervous. Okay, they’re your brothers and…” I clamp my mouth shut because this is not how I intended to do this.
“Yes…?”
Here it goes. “And, I love you.”
If it’s possible for a man to get bashful, I just noticed that look on his face. I think I was waiting for the right time to tell Brandon I loved him, but when is any time the right time?
“I love you too,” he tells me, patting the spot on the couch next to him. “I don’t care how my brothers react,” he begins, and I arch an eyebrow in asuremovement, which he backtracks, “okay, I do care. But whether they react positively or negatively, it’s not going to stop me from loving you or choosing to be with you. Because if it comes down to you or my family, I choose you.”
I’ve gone my whole life without being a first choice and hearing it from Brandon reinforces the love I feel for him is real. I reach my hand up, lightly caressing his cheek, and I lean in with the intent to kiss him, because telling someone you love them and then being told that they choose you, a kiss is the natural next step. But a knock on the door, signaling his brothers’ arrival, sends us both on high alert.
“We’ll be okay,” he says and kisses me on the tip of my nose before getting up and answering the door.
My heart beats like I just sprinted the final quarter mile in a marathon. I put my hair up and take it down, repeating that in the three minutes it takes for Brandon to open the door and hear him and his brothers talking in the foyer.
“What is so important that you needed us here to tell us?” The question is asked steps from the living room, and suddenly, I want to throw up. The ring on my thumb gets rotated more than my tires have in the last month as I wait for them to appear.
“Just go into the living room and I will tell you,” Brandon says, and I know him well enough to tell when he’s frustrated. Like now.
Ford is the first to see me standing at the end of the couch, twisting my hands in front of me. Followed by Evan, Malcolm, and Brandon bringing up the rear.
“What is she doing here?” Malcolm asks with venom.
Okay.Ouch.
“Watch it,” Brandon barks.
Seeing the Hayes brothers in the light of day makes me realize they’re still healing. Yes, it may look different for everyone, but their shock and anger at seeing me, one of the root causes of their pain, is proof of that.
“How long?” Ford, the youngest and who looks the most like Brandon, asks. Evan and Malcolm turn their heads to Ford, who looks back at them. “What? We can all assume that’s why she’s here.”
Brandon gives me the go-ahead to tell them. “About six months.”
“What?” and “How!” and so many profanities are thrown out that it’s hard to make sense of it. Did I know they would react this way? Yes. Is it upsetting they’re acting this way? Yes.
“How could you?” Malcolm spits at Brandon.
“How could I, what?” Brandon throws back. It’s no secret they butt heads, Brandon has told me, and I can see it so clearly now. When we were younger, I couldn’t, mainly because I kept to myself and Brandon spent time with the older kids. But on the rare occasion when I was forced to “mingle with kids my own age”, these boys were it.
“So what are we, your testers?” Evan asks. I think he might be the most accepting. It’s hard to look at him because he looks so much like James that he’s a reminder of what they lost. Maybe that’s how they feel when they look at me.
Brandon comes to stand between us like his brothers areprepared to launch at me. “Yeah, basically. We don’t want to hide anymore. And I don’t want any secrets between us.”
“Seems like you should’ve kept this one in the vault,” Malcolm snarls.
“Malcolm,” Brandon sighs, seemingly over his brother's attitude.
“She’s a Taylor,” he says, like it makes a difference.
“I can’t change my last name any more than you can change how much you loathe your brother,” I speak up, tired of the hate being spewed, and stand next to Brandon. “You can hate me and who my brother was, but it doesn’t change the fact that Brandon and I fought against everything to be together. You think he and I went into this easily? We didn’t. So you can hate my brother for taking yours away, but be lucky you still have each other. I’m alone now. Don’t you see that?”
