The Desire Variable | Rewrite

⸻ THIRTY-SEVEN ⸻

As Kate and I walk to my parents' porch, I'm reminded of the hours I spent playing in the front yard with Tyler and her. Various toys used to be scattered all over the lawn, but those times are long gone. In the backyard, there's a small pool where we spent entire summers, living off barbecues and lemonades.

I use the dragon door knocker my dad installed against my mom's will three years ago. It's always strange to be a guest in what feels like my own house. Some activity happens inside, and soon enough, the door opens wide, revealing my mom's familiar silhouette.

Isabella Walker, born Hernández, isn't precisely a coquettish woman, but she takes care of herself, trying not to let the time passing become too obvious. She's slightly plump, despite minding what she eats and race-walking with her friends three times a week. She dyes her hair to hide the growing number of white strands in it, and sometimes, like now, when her roots are too visible but she doesn't have time to take care of it, she wears a headband to maintain the illusion.

As unfeminist as it may sound, she was put on this earth to care for kids, always warm, compassionate, and sensible. That's why she's so good at teaching, and it explains why at the end of every year, her students pitch in to offer her a thank-you gift. She can be strict, but I couldn't have asked for a better mother.

And I'm a terrible daughter for not coming back sooner.

But she doesn't mind, engulfing us both in a tight and motherly hug.

"I'm so happy you're here, my girls," she says, kissing each of us. The affectionate reunion lingers for a few seconds, and she eventually releases us before inviting us inside.

We follow her to the dining room, where Tyler and dad are just finished setting the table.

Thanks to our video calls, I know Tyler has been growing a scruff, almost a beard, by now, so the sight doesn't shock me too much. Still, it's odd to see him with so much facial hair. He's tall, has our father's green eyes, and our mother's brown carnation. But we share the curly dark hair, straight nose, and generous lips. People often tell us that we look a lot like each other. It was a terrible insult during childhood, but now, we're both glad whenever someone points it out. It's hard to be objective since his ugly mug has graced my life from the very beginning, but it's my understanding that he's a handsome devil. Add to this the fact that he's an artist with a hearing impairment, and you have an irresistible combination for women. All he has to do is snap his fingers for ten of them to rush to fulfill his every need. Somehow, people expect him to be sweet, loving, and caring. But it doesn't work like that. Ty was destined to be a man-whore, deaf artist or not.

My father lets Ty continue and comes to me.

"Hi, peanut," he greets me, giving me a tight hug and a quick kiss on top of my head.

"Hi, Dad."

As Kate gets the same treatment, I lovingly look at my dad.

Michael Walker is tall and—to my mother's great envy—lean without even trying. For as long as I can remember, my dad wore the same model of rimless glasses and variations of the same blueish short-sleeved button-ups and beige pants. While his fast metabolism might help him age well, his receding hairline isn't. For years, my mom has been trying to get him to buzz cut it all, insisting he would look like Bruce Willis, but he hangs on to what he has left with tenacity. Tyler and I don't want to get involved in this debate because we both know there's no way he'd ever look like the Die Hard actor.