Page 83 of Dangerously
We don’t even get a chance to ring the doorbell before the front door is swinging open. “Fallon!” Farrah leaps into my arms and nearly knocks us both down the stairs.
I’m stupefied for a second, but it quickly fades away as I hug my sister back, finding the surrealist comfort in her arms. “Hi.”
She lets go and steps back, taking a good, long look at me. It’s as if she's in awe. The last time she saw me, she was only three years old.
“I can't believe you’re here. Standing in front of me. I’m so excited. I’ve been waiting all morning. I made them put out an entire breakfast spread.” She drags me into the house talking a mile a minute. “I have so many things I want to ask you. So much we need to talk about.”
“Jesus, Farrah, take a breath.” I smile at her. She is so beautiful. More so than the pictures I’ve seen online. Her hair is so long and golden blonde, and her blue eyes are so bright. So filled with excitement and a zest for life. I don’t know what comes over me. A sudden swell of uncontrollable emotion begins to choke me. I cough to cover it up. To pretend it isn't there.
“Oh no, do you need some water?” Farrah is immediately attentive.
“No,” I sniff, trying my fucking hardest not to burst into tears. “I’m fine. Just too much of Mommy’s perfume in the air.”
“Yeah,” Farrah agrees, waving her hand in front of her face likepew. “She does love her Chanel No5.”
“Some things never change.” I get caught up staring at her. I thought walking inside this house was going to destroy me, but with Farrah here, all those horrid memories don’t even seem to exist. It’s like she’s my shield.
“Sorry.” Farrah has more manners than me at the moment and remembers our other guests. “Farrah,” she introduces herself. “Fallon’s sister.” She says it with such pride. I’ve always been ashamed of myself. I never wanted her to associate her familial relation with someone like me. Someone disgusting and broken. I never wanted to soil her image. But she doesn't seem to share my sentiments.That’s because she doesn't know,my shitty subconscious reminds me.
And she never will, I promise myself.
“I’m sorry.” I snap out of my haze. “This is Declan, March, and baby Aisling.”
“I’m the boyfriend,” Declan declares. I roll my eyes.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I’m the best friend,” March identifies himself.
“That’s true.”
“And Aisling? Is she yours?” Farrah asks me, and I nearly break out in hysterics.
“Ah, no,” I set the record straight real fast. “She’s Declan’s.”
“But Aisling loves her like a mother,” Declan feels compelled to add that little tidbit.
I purse my lips and glare at him. Not cool. I haven’t committed to being anyone’s mother. I’m barely recognizing Declan as my boyfriend. One thing at a time.
“Aww, that’s so sweet. Did you guys meet in Africa?” Farrah is as equally nosey as she is confused. As far as she knew, I was off in some remote part of the world teaching young, third-world children how to read and write.
“Africa?” Declan repeats. He has no freakin’ idea.
“Ah, no. I’ve been back in the States for a little while. We met in New Orleans,” I explain on the fly.
“How long?” She sounds hurt.
“Just a few months. It was a love-at-first-sight kind of thing.”I roll on with the half-ass bullshit.
“Oh, how romantic.” She leans in closer to me. “And oh, he’s really hot.”
I can’t stop myself from smiling. “I know. You should see him with his shirt off,” I whisper.
“Ahem.” March interrupts us with a beaming expression. “I’m all about girl talk, but can we do it over coffee? This queen needs his caffeine.”
“Of course! How rude of me. This way. Everything is waiting.” Farrah leads us through the herringbone-floored foyer and into the morning room encased in windows. The room looks out over the expansive backyard and a breathtaking view of Long Island Sound. This was always my favorite part of the house. Especially in the summer, when we would open the walls to the terrace and sit outside all night.
“This is amazing.” March is thoroughly impressed. It’s hard not to be.
