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“Must be nice being Daddy’s favorite,” Jesse grumbles under his breath as we turn onto Paxton Ave., the main road separating Silver Springs’ wealthy and the rest of us peasants.
Normally, I’d be over the moon about my brother sparing me a long walk, so I’ve been pretending like I’m not terrified of him telling my dads their daughter is a big, fat liar.
“I’m the favorite?” I scoff. “Please. Dad sold part of the restaurant so you could go to college. If anyone’s Dad’s favorite, it’s you.”
“Favorite bad decision, maybe,” Jesse mutters, his voice so weak I almost don’t hear him.
His words take a moment to sink in.
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
Jesse flicks his head to look at me at a red light.
“When you say they should’ve never adopted you,” I elaborate, “you really believe that.”
Silence sits between us like a wall we can’t knock down. Jesse holds my gaze for a second as though he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
“I’m just saying they might’ve thought twice if they’d known the shit they were getting into.”
There it is.
For as long as I can remember, Jesse’s felt unworthy.
When he was a kid, he’d look at my dads like they’d moved heaven and earth the day they took him home. Like he didn’t understand how they could possibly choose him.
People said he was too old, that families wanted babies. Not teenagers with trauma coursing through their veins. But my parents disagreed. And Jesse’s spent every day since then trying to prove them wrong.
Jesse pumps the gas as soon as the light turns green. He’s pulling up to Finn’s driveway less than a minute later. I squeeze my phone into a firm grip to calm my nerves.
If he sees Finn, it’s over.
Please don’t be home.
Please don’t be home.
Please don’t be…
Fuck. My. Life.
“What the hell?” I hear my brother whisper to himself as he comes to a full stop in the driveway. Two cars—one black, one red—are parked by the stone water fountain.
I’m guessing Finn has a friend over?
“Thanks for the ride.” I grab the door handle, prepared to make a run for it, but Jesse locks me in from the inside with one click of a button.
“Whose cars are those?” Jesse squints. “I thought you said you were the only one there?”
Make up a story, Dia. Anything.
“Oh, that. It’s just the gardener. And the maid. They come every Sunday.”
Jesse’s attention drifts between me and the cars.
“But you’re alone the rest of the time?” he asks.
“That I am.” The lie aches in my throat.
He nods, not completely sold but not nearly as unsure as he was a moment ago. I can almost taste success. Visualize Jesse driving far, far away from here, allowing me to keep this job and continue to save up for a car.
