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“Mr. Ryan?” the realtor asked, eyeing me politely.
“Oh! No, not me. Him.” As I pointed toward Pick, I realized we’d probably have the same surname if my mother had never abandoned him.
No, scratch that. We wouldn’t, because I wouldn’t exist if she hadn’t abandoned him. She would’ve been too busy raising a baby she actually loved and never would’ve met my worthless, drug-dealing father. They wouldn’t have started their unhealthy...whatever it was they’d had, and I never would’ve come along.
She’d probably still be alive today too.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I glanced across the pristine yard while Pick and the realtor introduced themselves, and I tried not to feel guilty about being alive while my mom was not. She’d been the one to make all the decisions that had led to her demise; I was just a product of them.
I repeated that to myself a lot. Not that it ever made me feel better. But what could I do now? What was done, was done.
“And this is my brot
her, Asher.”
Jolted by the label, I turned back to the conversation at hand and sent the realtor guy a tense smile. “Hey.”
He introduced himself as Brian and then led us into the house, immediately explaining every feature.
It smelled...homey. I liked it.
I wanted it.
“As you can see, the trim is a beveled oak stained with—”
“Where’s the back door?” Pick cut in, obviously not at all concerned about the trim.
“Uh... The, uh...it’s this way,” a puzzled Brian answered. As he showed Pick where, I paused to take in the oak trim, deciding, yeah, I even liked that. Having beveled trim was nice. If I ever had my own house, I’d fancy trim the fuck out of it.
Then I turned to follow the other two toward the back.
The three of us crowded out the exit and into a yard that had me drooling, envisioning barbecues and luaus, swimming pools, maybe a trampoline next to a kid’s swing set.
But Pick set his hands on his hips and frowned. “Nope.” He turned back toward the house, telling Brian, “Sorry, but this isn’t it.”
The realtor and I shared a confused glance before I called, “Wait. What? You seriously don’t like this?” I splayed my hand out to encompass the lush, spacious yard, completely confused. This yard was the freaking bomb diggity. My new brother was completely whack.
Pick paused to shrug. “It’s nice, sure. But...it’s not the place I’m looking for.”
Jesus, no wonder Eva didn’t want to house hunt with him anymore.
When he started back toward the back door, I shook my head. “Don’t you want to see the rest of the inside?”
“Don’t have to. This isn’t it.”
“Well, I want to see it,” I insisted.
Pausing again to glance back at me, Pick did another one of his creepy stare things, where he looked inside you and dug around in your head, pulling up all your deepest, most-achiest desires. Finally, he nodded as if he understood. “Okay.”
So we checked out the rest of the empty rooms in the house. Brian had long ago given up on feeding us details as he wrote something in a notebook in the front room—probably that his client was impossible to please—and we finished the tour ourselves.
“You’re totally insane if you don’t like this place,” I murmured as we entered the last bedroom.
“Oh, I love it,” Pick corrected. “It’s just not the right place.”
I had no idea how this couldn’t be the right place. It was fucking awesome. “I’d give my left nut to live in a house like this.”
I busied myself by examining the white crown molding lining the ceiling, but I could still feel my brother’s gaze on me.
