The Naturals | O.S

Boyfriends Brother

KATHLEEN

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Kathy," Michael murmurs, taking my hand in his. He squeezes gently, offering me a coy smile. "Baby, it'll be alright."

He's said that to me about forty seven times, but that doesn't make this any less stressful.

"This is your family," I quip. "One wrong move and everything could go to shit."

"Host family," he corrects. "Of sorts. And they'll love you, trust me. Especially Sloane. Sloane loves everybody."

Michael takes a right turn down a desolate paved road, nothing but green grass for miles. From what I recall, Michael lives with a few other classmates in an old home on the outskirts of Quantico. Being so close to the military base out here means that houses are few and far between; though he says there are a few neighbours nearby.

"They'll treat you a lot better than my father would," he adds. "Or, more human, anyway. But lucky you." He twists to face me. "Thatcher Townsend is far far away."

"Yes," I breathe. "And where is that, again?"

Michael gives me a tilted look, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk. I sigh, pressing my lips into a thin line. Thatcher —and all that comes with him— is a topic Michael has not been too keen to speak about. I understand, obviously. Telling Michael about my own parents was not an easy feat; but trying to wrangle anything more than 'he was a very angry guy' out of him is nearly impossible.

"Never mind," I murmur disappointedly.

I've been able to deduce enough about Michaels father on my own, and I have a fairly clear picture of him in my mind— but I would have hoped for a little more compliancy on Michaels end.

But when have things ever been that transparent.

"Don't worry about him," he replies. "He's not important."

Thatcher Townsend; the key to figuring out the inner workings of my boyfriends mind and motives— he's not important.

"What is important," he continues. "Is preparing yourself for the others."

I decide to ignore the surreptitious topic change. "Your siblings?"

He throws a pair of finger quotes up in the air, but nods. "Sloane is like a Jack-in-the-box. Her energy is never ending— especially when she has coffee." He gives me a side long look. "Never give Sloane coffee."

I laugh. "Noted."

"Lia can be a little... standoffish," he grants. "Bitter. She might try to exert her dominance over you, or corner you with unnecessary questions. Ignore it."

"Reminds me of a sister I had in Illinois," I joke.

Michael grants me a smile. "And Dean is just..." A sigh wracks his shoulders, and he mindlessly thrums a pattern along the steering wheel. "Dean."

"Dean is Dean?"

"He's not much of a talker, so, don't feel bad if he doesn't engage very much."

"He's reserved," I murmur, absentmindedly picking at the interior stitching of the car door. "So, a fire cracker, a snapping turtle, and a recluse. I can work with that."

Michael laughs, the sound rumbling from deep in his stomach. "I like that analogy."

A house flits past my window, and then another, on Michaels side. Not long after, he's pulling the Porsche into a long cobbled driveway. I gawk at the old Victorian exterior. The house is so much larger than I pictured. A mansion— like the ones you might see in movies, or old newspapers. Not in person.