Chapter 4

“Hello, Vivian, how are you doing today?” Gerry inquired as the girl shifted from foot to foot.

“Fine,” she mumbled in response, finding it difficult to look at the man who was her father. Instead, she snuck peeks at him every so often, not caring if he noticed.

A gentle hand placed itself on her shoulder, and Vivian looked over to see Charles giving her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t I introduce you,” he offered, to which she nodded. “Excellent. Vivian, I would like you to meet Samuel Devreaux, your biological father.”

Unable to avoid it any longer, Vivian looked at her father, who took a step closer, but stopped. She could see the muscles in his neck tighten, as well as those near his eyes as if he was as unsure as she on how to proceed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice calm and deeper than she’d expected from someone of his stature. It was a nice voice, one people would enjoy hearing narrate their favourite novel, with a light accent to his words she couldn’t quite place.

“You too,” she replied after a moment, clasping her hands behind her back so she could ball them into fists without anyone seeing. It was only once her nails dug into her palm, causing a mild sharp pain that Vivian could feel herself begin to calm.

Some people fidgeted, picked at things, tapped their fingers, played with their hair when anxious or dealing with stressful situations. Vivian’s habit was to dig her nails into the palm of her hand, because it was something she could do without anyone noticing; even just using her thumbnail, pushing it into the bend of her index finger was sometimes enough to help keep her racing mind from veering too far into the bad thoughts.

The silence that fell was awkward and Charles soon cleared his throat before speaking. “Why don’t we leave the two of you to talk for a little while, eh? We’ll be just outside the door if you need anything.”

Vivian could tell he was talking to her more so than Samuel, but it didn’t matter where they were in the building it wouldn’t put an end to this awkward atmosphere. “Alright,” was all she could think of saying in response.

The two women gave Vivian a reassuring smile before leaving the room while Charles squeezed her shoulder yet again. “He doesn’t bite, I promise,” he whispered into her ear, causing a smile to tug at her lips as the lawyer followed the women out of the room, closing the door as he left.

Vivian turned her attention back to her father, who stood with his hands in his pockets, regarding her thoughtfully. “Why don’t we have a seat?” He offered, pulling one of his hands out and motioning it to the chairs around the table.

“Alright,” she agreed, pulling out the closest chair and sitting in it. Finding out it was a chair that could spin annoyed her, as it meant she couldn’t tuck her feet up or risk slowly turning away from her father, which would be rude. Instead she planted her feet firmly on the ground and tried not to slouch as Samuel pulled out a nearby chair and took a seat.

“Are you as nervous as I am?” He asked after a moment of silence had passed between them.

His question caught her by surprise, not thinking he would be the type to say such things out loud. “Probably more,” she admitted, feeling a bit more at ease knowing they both felt the same.

“Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

Again she hadn’t expected him to offer her the choice on where the conversation would go; Vivian had expected him to ask about her as a person, not offer the chance for her to learn who he was first.

Looking away from him, Vivian frowned as she thought over the hundreds of questions she’d amassed since learning her biological father wanted to meet her. “What… are my brothers like?” She finally settled on, feeling heat rise to her cheeks at saying the word ‘brothers’, because they were truly her brothers by blood and not just a concept that meant adjusting to whatever kids were already living in her next foster home.

“That’s a hard question to answer,” Samuel sighed a little as he leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Sebastian, the eldest, is like me in a lot of ways. Stubborn, forthright, firm in his own beliefs… but he’s also over protective of his younger brothers, much to their frustration.” A smile crossed his face, causing crows feet to form at the edges of his eyes. “Gabriel is more open; he’s a bit of a jokester, laid back, but a decent person. He’s not much for the spotlight, but he’ll suck it up if you’ve incentivized him enough.

“Lastly there is the youngest, Laurent, who is… a spitfire.” Samuel laughed a little as he stopped stroking his beard and clasped his hands together, setting them on the table. “He’s about to start his final year of high school and acts like any cocky kid his age does. I tell myself he means well, but sometimes it’s hard to remember when he acts out and gives me more greys than I’ve already got.”

Vivian nodded a little, wondering in what sort of ways Laurent acted out but decided not to ask for the time being.

“Do you know anything about me?” He suddenly asked, giving her a questioning look that had Vivian averting her gaze again. “I’m sure you’ve at least done a web search since learning about us?”

“I haven’t, actually,” she told him with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Oh?” There was surprise in his voice, causing Vivian to glance his way. “Why not?”

Letting out a sigh, Vivian shrugged again. “People say lots of things about others all the time; some true, some lies. How can I know if what’s there is true or not? I’d rather start with a blank slate than with other people’s opinions in my head.” What she had heard about him had come through word of mouth, and that was after finding out they were related.

She could feel his gaze on her still and it made her uncomfortable, if only because Vivian didn’t enjoy being the focus of anyone’s attention. “That’s a mature way of seeing things,” he finally said, causing a blush to rush into her cheeks.

Pursing her lips, Vivian looked at her father, meeting his gaze. “I guess so.” It was her deflecting the compliment — she assumed it was a compliment anyway — and she was aware of it, but being called mature wasn’t something she enjoyed thinking about.

Maturity came with age; what she had came from experience, and experiences made certain things hard to forget, to break free. She wished wholeheartedly she could be an immature sixteen year old, unapologetically a teenager without a care in the world outside of friends, school, and parties, but such thinking was wishful at best, delusional at worst.