Gina Wilkins - Make-Believe Mistletoe

Deciding a change of subject was in order, he tried to remember the name of Tim's girlfriend, who he had met at a very stilted and uncomfortable Thanksgiving dinner with his father's family. “So how's…Jessica?”

“Jennifer. She's history.”

Studying Tim's morose expression, Banner asked, “Did you dump the girlfriend along with law school?”

“Actually, she dumped me. She really wanted to marry a lawyer.”

Banner winced. “Uh, sorry.”

“Don't be. It stung a bit, but I couldn't have spent the rest of my life pretending to be something I'm not just to try to keep her happy. And to be honest, it didn't hurt as badly as it probably should have. So maybe she and I weren't right for each other, after all.”

Because Banner could identify all too well with those sentiments, he studied his half brother from a new perspective. Truth be told, he had never paid a lot of attention to Tim.

Banner had been nearly eight when the boy was born, and he had already become aware of the estrangement from his father's family. He still remembered hearing his father bragging about his “boy” and knowing that Richard hadn't been referring to him. Just as he remembered the way his perpetually nervous stepmother had hovered nearby every time Banner had attempted any interaction with baby Tim, as if she feared he would do something to harm the younger boy. As Banner had gotten older, choosing to spend even less time with his father, the rift had grown wider, until he'd hardly known his paternal half siblings.

Banner had thought of Tim as brilliant, social, ambitious, driven-all the adjectives their father valued so highly, which Banner could simply never apply to himself. It had never occurred to Banner that Tim could have more in common with him than with their old man.

Which, he reminded himself, was not necessarily a good thing. He would hate to see young Tim end up living alone, isolated from his family, feeling as if he had failed at every relationship he had attempted. And Tim didn't even seem to have a passion he wanted to pursue, the way Banner had always enjoyed his woodworking.

The extent of his concern about Tim rather surprised him. He wouldn't have expected to care what the kid chose to do with his life.

Because he didn't know how to express his misgivings, he said only, “You can crash here as long as you need a place to stay. But your parents are going to hate it. They'll probably figure out a way to blame me for corrupting you. Accuse me of being a bad influence or something, not that I had anything to do with your choices.”

“Maybe more than you think,” Tim murmured.

Banner was almost relieved when his dog interrupted the conversation before he had to pursue that particular comment. With a big, noisy yawn, the animal rose from his rug, stretched dramatically, then wandered over to Banner. The dog butted the hand that had been resting on Banner's knee, an unsubtle hint that he wanted a head rub.

“No offense,” Tim said, “but that is the ugliest dog I've ever seen.”

“No offense taken. I'm not blind.”

“What breed is he?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Tilting his head a bit, Tim eyed the dog curiously. “I'm figuring there are at least ten breeds involved, maybe a little goat and cow thrown in.”

That made Banner chuckle. “Anything's possible, I guess.”

Tim patted his leg, calling the dog to his side. Reaching out to rub the dog's long, shaggy ears, he asked, “What's his name?”

“Hulk.”

Grinning down at the goofy, good-natured animal, Tim said, “I like him.”

“So do I.”

Their gazes met over the dog's head. Banner looked away first, reaching hastily for the remote control. “We're missing the bowl games. What teams do you like?”

“I'll watch any game that involves a ball and cheerleaders,” Tim replied.

Thumbing on the power button and raising the volume loud enough to preclude any more meaningful dialogue, Banner rose. “We need snacks. I've got cheese puffs, pretzels, popcorn, beer and sodas.”

Tim's attention was already fixed on the screen. “All of the above sounds good.”

Nodding, Banner headed off in search of junk food, relieved that the only conversation required from him for the rest of the afternoon would consist of phrases like “Nice catch” or “Bad call.”

Lucy was hit with an immediate sense of familiarity when she walked into Banner's living room a bit later that afternoon. Having grown up in a household with her uncle and two male cousins, she was well acquainted with the sounds of football on the TV and grunts of satisfaction or disgust from the guys sprawled on the furniture. The smells of beer, popcorn and cheese puffs made her smile with nostalgia.

“Who's winning?” she asked, crossing the room and plopping down on the couch beside Banner.

“It's tied at fourteen.” Banner draped an arm around her, almost absentmindedly, and she snuggled contentedly into his side. “Did you find any champagne?”

“Sparkling grape juice. You might have told me this is a dry county.”

He chuckled. “You were so insistent on going yourself, I figured you knew what you were doing.”

Quite cheerfully she punched him in the side. “Thanks a lot.”

With a faint “oomph,” he shifted his position, gave her a look, then turned his attention back to the TV in time to watch a long spiraling pass fall right into the hands of a defensive player. “Son of a-”

“What was he thinking?” Tim complained loudly. “Didn't he see that sea of opposing color surrounding his receiver?”

“I think he saw those two human tanks coming right at his head,” Lucy answered, reaching for a handful of popcorn. “I'd have gotten rid of that ball, myself.”

Banner and Tim got into a heated discussion on whether an intentional grounding penalty would have been better or worse than a sack in that play. Delighted that the brothers were communicating in such a basic, male-bonding sort of way, Lucy settled in to watch the rest of the game.

One game had ended and they were engrossed in another when Banner's telephone rang. He looked immediately at Tim, who was looking back at him with a rueful expression. It seemed that both of them had the same premonition about who was calling.

“Ten-to-one that's Dad,” Tim muttered.

“Sucker bet,” Banner replied, standing to reach for the phone. Maybe they would both be wrong and it would be for Lucy, he thought hopefully.

No such luck.

“Hello, Richard.” His father spoke with his usual brusque lack of warmth.

“Sir.” Having decided years earlier that Dad was too familiar a term to describe his relationship with his father,

Banner had settled for the more formal appellation. Richard, Sr., had never protested.

“I don't suppose you've heard from your brother today.” “He's been here all day.” Banner didn't think Tim had wanted his whereabouts kept secret or he would have said so.

After a momentary pause, Richard sighed. “I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Do you want to talk to him?” Banner asked a bit hopefully.

“No. I've said all I know to say to him. But maybe you'll have more luck. You are trying to talk him into going back to school, aren't you?”

“No.”

His father's voice chilled several degrees. “Why the hell not?”

Aware that both Tim and Lucy were listening, though they seemed to be watching the game, Banner replied, “Tim's old enough to make his own decisions.”

“I should have expected you to take that attitude.”

“What attitude is that, sir?” Banner inquired coolly.

“You're frittering your own life away, and now you seem to be encouraging your brother to do the same. I don't know what made me think you would show any responsibility or loyalty to this family now, when you never have before.”