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I have to tell him.
But I can't.
The way he looks at his sister—it's like she's tearing his heart out of his chest and stomping it with her heeled boots.
If I tell him, he'll leave.
And he'll never touch me or kiss me or hold me again.
I'll never see his smile, hear his laugh, watch his dark eyes fill up with joy.
My coffee shop music is the only sound in the car. It's soft music, but it's still too loud. Too emotional. Too everything.
I press my lips together.
I stare out the window, watching fancy stores blur together. Then over-sized houses.
We slow.
Park in the driveway of a massive Spanish style house in that neighborhood just north of Santa Monica Boulevard.
Roses line the brick walkway. The lawn is lush. Green. The beige and tan paint is perfect.
Walker turns the car off and slides his keys into his pocket. His eyes find mine. They beg for understanding, comfort, honesty. "Help me with her."
I nod even though he doesn't need my help. He can carry me, no problem, and his sister is a lot slimmer. Though, she is taller. So it might even out.
He gets out of his car.
I follow suit.
I watch him open the door for his sister, undo her seatbelt, sling her arm over his shoulder.
"I'm okay." She pulls her arm to her side. Stumbles up the walkway.
Walker jogs to meet her. He pulls out his keys, unlocks the front door, steps inside.
She follows.
Then I do.
The inside of the house is just as beautiful. The foyer is a big, airy room with a winding staircase. Skylights let in the glow of the stars. They're dull the way they always are in the city, but they're beautiful all the same.
I follow them up the stairs, to the room at the end of the hallway.
It's a girl's bedroom. And I mean a girl. It looks like it belongs to a thirteen-year-old. The sheets and bedspread are pink. The wallpaper is ball gowns and tiaras. The bed is a white four poster thing with sheer lace hanging off the top railing.
It's the perfect place for a princess.
No wonder his sister is this fucked up.
He treats her like a child. Their parents probably do too.
I don't blame him—she's acting like a child, misbehaving for attention—but still.
She needs help. More than this.
He motions to the bed.
